by Noelle Mack
Another thrill shot through her body and she arched against him, feeling the warm muscles of his encircling arms under the material of his shirt. Sarah wanted to rub her breasts against his chest, but she stopped herself, distracted by the couple next to them.
They were doing a lot more than kissing. The woman was doing what Sarah was only thinking about, her bare breasts spilling out of her bejeweled corset. She rubbed against the man she was with, who was teasing her nipples and nipping at her neck.
Marco didn’t even seem to see them. He was looking down at Sarah as if he was amused by her curiosity. She gave him an awkward smile—and then, damn, she looked at the other couple again. She couldn’t help it.
The corseted woman laughed invitingly when another woman, also in fancy dress, came forward and played freely with the bare breasts so boldly displayed, sucking at both while the man whose teasing hand was pushed away stood up straight to watch. Then the second woman bared her breasts too, rubbing them against the nipples she’d sucked until hers were just as erect.
Sarah blushed. It was impossible not to watch and Marco was getting extremely hard. He pulled her hips to him and pressed his totally erect cock against her belly. Oh, how she wanted him—it just felt so good to not think and not worry. This was Carnival, she was in Venice…you were supposed to dance with the devil, if only to prove you could resist him.
Hah. She really didn’t think that was possible. Sarah clung to Marco as if they were already lying down and he was about to enter her.
Then the other man turned his partner to face him and pulled up the flowing folds of her satin skirt, revealing her naked behind. Sarah wondered if any of these women wore panties. She suddenly felt prim and proper with a thong under her black velvet jeans.
The woman who’d joined the couple fondled the beautiful, feminine ass, stroking and squeezing the soft flesh. The two women were elegant in their abandonment and utter wantonness. The low-cut, full-skirted dresses they wore were ideal for impulsive sexual encounters, then and now. Sarah had the feeling of looking at an old book of erotica come to naughty life. More people rushed over to see, surrounding the trio and, Sarah suspected, joining in.
Marco stroked her cheek, directing her attention back to him. “Is this too much for you?”
“Why do you ask?” she whispered. “Do I look that innocent?”
“Yes.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You are charming. And I would rather be alone with you.”
That wasn’t going to happen here. Sarah glanced in the direction of the trio, but the crowd still surrounded them. There was nothing to see but jostling backs and a welter of costumes, some torn where they had been stepped on or clawed at, some with colors streaked by the rain their wearers had dashed through to get here before the doors closed.
Swelling ever louder, the music seemed almost oppressive, and the heat and hilarity of the guests was overwhelming. Sarah’s gaze moved over the crowd. Dancing in its midst, being an anonymous part of the multiplying craziness had been fun while it lasted. But the sudden appearance of Marco changed the equation. One on one. Him and her. That was what she wanted.
“I have had enough,” he said. “They will go on like this for hours. Carnival does that to people.”
“Guess so,” Sarah said. She could imagine the weary revelers making their way back to their hotels, their makeup sweated off and costumes half ruined. She didn’t want to see that, didn’t want the magic to end.
“Come with me,” he said very quietly. And that was all that he said.
She looked again into his eyes, which held a softness that she didn’t understand. How easy it would be to convince herself that, shazam, he had fallen in love with her at first sight. But all he wanted—all anyone here tonight wanted—was pleasure, given and taken with no strings attached.
And she felt the same way.
Sarah nodded. He took her hand and led her away, taking both their jackets from the chairs at the table. The young waiter was still guarding it, holding his tray like a shield. Sarah noticed a red-fingernailed hand sliding lovingly up the inside of his thigh. He stood there without moving, though. For a faun, he had nerves of steel. Marco grinned at him and gave a wave of dismissal, and the waiter fell backward into the lap of the happy woman who’d captured him at last, tray and all.
Marco helped Sarah into her jacket and slipped his arms into his, adjusting the fit with a shrug of both shoulders.
“Ready?”
“I guess.”
Just getting through the people hanging around the interior entrance to the ballroom proved impossible. The fact that it was a private party didn’t keep the crashers from trying. But at a nod from Marco to the huge men in capes and tricorne hats who were stationed at the door, two came in and cleared the way for them to leave. Sarah thought she heard a couple of the costumed women call Marco’s name, but she couldn’t be sure. It was a common enough name, especially in Venice, so maybe they weren’t talking to him.
Feeling jealous? a little voice asked. Don’t. He doesn’t belong to you and you don’t belong to him. All the same, Sarah wanted him entirely to herself, even if it was just for this one night.
She looked up into the night sky, astonished to see snow-flakes coming down, twirling in the golden light of the antique streetlamps along the Zattere promenade.
“Ah, that is a rare sight in Venice,” Marco said. “It will not last long.” His last words were tinged with sadness, as if he wished he could change that. Sarah chided herself for thinking for a moment that he’d somehow ordered up the romantic scene. The snow outlined the old buildings in white and their delicate architectural detail had the appearance of lace. Between striped mooring posts, the black gondolas waited in the inky water, their sweeping prows rising high, their sides and covered seats touched by the unexpected snow.
Marco looked back to the men at the door, one of whom removed his cape and flung it outward to him, over the heads of the people waiting. No one tried to intercept it, Sarah noticed—everyone here seemed to act as if Marco was somebody, a very important somebody.
He caught the cape with ease, his hand grasping the folds of wool, then quickly wrapped Sarah in it, pulling up the hood so that it framed her face. He turned at the sound of a male voice crying something in Venetian dialect and caught another cape, putting that one over his shoulders and head.
“There. We look like we are from another time,” he said.
“Isn’t that the point of Carnival?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, you might say that.”
They walked through the quiet streets of the Dorsoduro neighborhood, as the snow fell lightly all around them. No one was going to believe this, Sarah thought. She didn’t quite believe it herself. The old walls that hid secret gardens and small courtyards were softened by the white, the cracks in ancient plaster visible only where there was enough light to see.
A small gray cat was following them, staying closer to Marco than to Sarah but away from his feet.
“Friend of yours?” she asked him lightly.
Marco shrugged. “Venice is full of cats.”
True enough. They were as much a part of the city as the pigeons everywhere. Sarah envied the pigeons’ aerial perspective. They couldn’t get lost the way she did, but she didn’t mind getting lost. Every corner she turned held something new to her, meaning something wonderfully old. Someone transported in time from the eighteenth century would have found their way home with ease—and speaking of that, she hadn’t asked Marco where they were going. The your-place-or-mine discussion hadn’t happened yet and she didn’t know where he lived. Probably a palazzo.
She sighed. Her inn was not far away, she was pretty sure of that, but she doubted she could get him past her landlady, who stayed up late knitting. Signora Dolcetti’s large black-and-white cat, as placid as a cow, slept more than the signora did, usually on top of the television, the warmest place in the downstairs apartment. The landlady left her door open and anybody coming or goi
ng had to walk by her.
The thought of being in bed with Marco, warmed all over by his hands on her bare skin, feeling his powerful body over hers, made her tremble. He tightened his grip on Sarah’s hand and stopped in front of a café that she’d been to more than once.
“Shall we go in? You are shivering and we can get you something hot to drink. I am glad he’s still open—I left a book here earlier today.”
“You know this place? And I thought I discovered it. Oh well.”
He laughed and they went in. It was just as well. The grappa was losing its grip on her brain and her natural cautiousness was coming back. Sarah found a table and took off her cloak, accepting the one he slid out of and handed to her, putting them both over the back of a chair. She really was shivering now. The damp and the cold of winter in Venice penetrated everywhere, especially on a night like this.
She rubbed her arms, wishing she’d worn something warmer. The jacket was just long enough to cover her bare belly, but it couldn’t do much about the tiny top that had been just right to dance the night away in. Sarah knew that sooner or later a draft would sneak up her spine and down her low-cut jeans. She perched on a high, wrought-iron chair as Marco strode to the marble counter and said something to the proprietor in a soft voice. Something about the book he’d left there, of course, although Venetian accents weren’t easy to make out and her basic Italian wasn’t that great.
The older man nodded and pulled a book up from under the counter. Even from where she was sitting, Sarah could see it looked old, with marbled-paper covers and a leather spine. Not very many pages.
Probably poetry, she thought. Ding-ding. Warning bell. No matter how cute he was, poets were trouble. But he just couldn’t be a poet and cute really wasn’t the right word for a man of his caliber. Even from the back, Marco was masterful. The black evening suit fit his broad shoulders and tapering torso perfectly and his shoes were undoubtedly custom made. Italian men knew how to dress.
Next question. If it was a book of poetry, that didn’t mean he had written it. The Goddess of Foreign Flings wasn’t going to be a real bitch and stick her with a poet. They were usually broke, moody, and prone to reading poetry aloud—when they weren’t writing their own, which was either bad or baffling.
Clearly, Marco wasn’t broke. The word for him, especially now that she was seeing him in really good light, was well groomed. She could think of a few other words that fit him as well as his hand-tailored clothes. Totally sexy. A little mysterious, but in a good way. And for now, hers.
Make a move, she thought. You have five days left in Venice. But make sure you keep a little distance. And keep your pride. She didn’t want him to think that she was on the prowl, so to speak. He’d paid for ridiculously expensive champagne that they hadn’t even finished; she was going to pay for whatever they ordered here.
Sarah decided she wanted hot chocolate. The way the Europeans made it was insanely good—melting shreds of strong-flavored dark chocolate into light cream, adding sugar and frothing it up into a delicious brew that was nothing like the powdery stuff she had thought was so great when she was a kid. She rummaged through her pockets for money, carefully counting the unfamiliar coins—she had just enough. Sliding off her high, curlicued seat, she went up to the counter.
It felt good to move. Her tight jeans kept her legs warm, so that was a plus. But her H&M designer-knockoff jacket was much too cool to have buttons. She clutched the open front together when Signor Morelli, wearing a paternal expression of concern, noticed that she didn’t have on much underneath it.
Marco only smiled. She wasn’t showing anything he hadn’t already seen. But oh, did she want to hold a cup of something hot. Her hands were freezing. She hadn’t thought to bring gloves to Venice and hadn’t bought any here.
She knew that Signor Morelli would give her a pair if he had one, just out of the kindness of his heart. He’d been awfully nice to her from the first time she’d come in, attracted by the old-fashioned, rather formal décor. There were gilt-framed mirrors, small marble tables, and wrought-iron chairs, with red walls.
The place had been in business since 1777, according to the engraved plaque on the wall outside. That alone had impressed her at the time. There were older houses to the left and right of it and historic palazzos not far away. But so many were sad shadows, their facades crumbling away, beyond restoration. Still, the elegance of the venerable city captivated her, no matter which street or canal she went down. This place wasn’t even in her guidebook—and now that Marco had told her he knew of it, she understood why. Real Venetians came here.
Signor Morelli gave her an inquiring look and Sarah managed to ask for what she wanted—a hot chocolate for Marco and one for her, with whipped cream on both, and to please let her pay the bill—without mangling the Italian words too badly.
Marco seemed to think it was funny that she was treating him, but he didn’t argue. He did decline the whipped cream, though. The proprietor murmured a courteous reply to both of them in heavily accented English as Sarah beamed at him. The real Venetians were not fond of the tourists who swarmed the city’s squares and streets and crowded them off the vaporettos. She seemed to have been accepted, at least by Signor Morelli.
And now…Marco too. A very different kind of man. He was looking at his book, frowning in a thoughtful way. She peeked. It was some kind of poetry, short lines arranged in stanzas. Oh well.
Signor Morelli was taking his time about making the two hot chocolates but she appreciated his care. When he was done, he moved her cup in slow circles under the whipped cream thingie, concentrating on the task. Sarah took the opportunity to give Marco another once-over just in case she’d missed any details.
Oops. He turned to her and gave her a level look. His eyes were just mesmerizing.
“Signorina…” The proprietor’s kindly voice made her jump. She looked back at him, eyes wide, and proffered the coins in her hand. He pushed both cups across the marble counter, adding a slender spoon to her saucer, and rang up the sale on the cash register, an ornately engraved antique.
Sarah thanked him and took her cup. The spoon clattered, betraying her nervousness, and she set the cup back down, trying to get her handbag over her shoulder, struggling with the uncooperative strap.
“May I?” Marco moved to help her without waiting for a reply.
“Ah. My great-nephew is such a gentleman,” Signor Morelli said. “But you must know that already, Signorina Sarah.”
She looked at Marco with surprise. “He’s your uncle?”
“Yes.” Marco smiled slightly as he put the handbag strap in exactly the right place on her shoulder. She imagined he could take a bra strap down just as skillfully. Not that there was anything difficult about bra straps. But he was undoubtedly a master of hooks, too.
“Oh. Why didn’t you tell me that when we came in?”
He gave one of those eloquent shrugs. “We would have gotten around to it sooner or later.”
“True enough.” She looked from Signor Morelli to Marco, not seeing any resemblance that would have tipped her off. It didn’t matter. Knowing someone who knew him took away the last of her uneasiness about leaving a wild party with a stranger. She kept her eyes on him as the proprietor wiped the counter with a towel. “So you’re Marco, um, Morelli?”
He made a typically Italian gesture that meant everything and nothing, but he looked good doing it. “Just Marco.”
“OK. Whatever you say.” She was momentarily distracted by the sight of herself looking awestruck in one of the gilt mirrors. Way to go, she thought wryly. So cosmopolitan. Hurrying here through the snowy night had brought a rosy color to her cheeks and her hair was curling up at the chopped-off ends.
Signor Morelli finished cleaning up and smiled at both of them. Marco picked up both cups of hot chocolate. “Mi permetta.”
Allow me. Sure. Hell yes. He could wait on her hand and foot whenever he so desired, she had no problem with that. “OK. Thanks.” She foll
owed him back to the table where their cloaks were, glad they were the only people in the place.
Signor Morelli smiled benignly and took a newspaper from a doweled rack, returning to a stool behind the counter to read it. He harrumphed softly as he unfolded it, tactfully disappearing into the folds of II Gazzettino.
Sarah settled herself on the chair that Marco pulled out with one hand after he set down her hot chocolate and his without making a sound. He dragged a chair over and sat after she did.
He wasn’t nervous, she thought. But then he didn’t have to be. He was a native of the city, a sophisticated, all-grown-up man who was probably ten years older than her. And she’d ordered hot chocolate for both of them. Gah. But Sarah couldn’t help it if she was a scruffy art student who’d found a cheap flight and beat it out of Brooklyn for the first time in her life. A virgin to Venice, so to speak. Not otherwise.
She picked up the spoon and slipped it into the fluffy little mountain of whipped cream, looking at him and not at her cup, which meant she spooned up a little too much and not all of it went into her mouth. Marco noticed her creamy lips, judging by the devilish expression on his face. She didn’t know what to do but lick them. She couldn’t very well sit there with whipped cream on her mouth. There was something deeply intimate in his gaze, more intimate somehow than their erotic dance together at the party.
So she licked and he looked. Then he smiled, with big, white teeth. Sarah could imagine what he was thinking about. Didn’t bother her a bit.
“It is good, I know,” he said. “My uncle makes excellent hot chocolate. It is a pleasure to watch you enjoy it so much. And it is a pleasure to meet you, I might add.”
Kind of strange to make small talk after she’d been rubbing herself against his cock. But she’d been in stranger situations with men she’d liked a lot less. “Same here. Your uncle’s café is more conducive to conversation than that party.” She wondered what Signor Morelli would have thought of Casanova and his groupies or the women playing so shamelessly with each other. No doubt he’d seen it all in his day.