Lorenzo stood and I hurt at the sight of him. He’s everything.
He gently turned me over and pushed my skirt up to my waist. Leaning over me, he put his arm across my chest, and I held on to him, feeling his other hand undoing his pants. Hearing the belt let go. I could feel him unbuttoning, unzipping against my backside, which was pressed against his groin.
His mouth whispered against my ear, all in Italian, and in my frenzy, I don’t know all of what he was saying. It was coming too quickly, and gruffly rolling from deep inside him, but I know it was about us, the moment, what he felt. What he’s felt for a while, a reflection of my own wanting heart.
I pulled my hair to one side, and he knew to turn his whispering into wet kisses, along my ear, behind it, down my neck, and at the height of my euphoria, he guided the head of his shaft into me. Ripples of pleasure made my legs tremble. He’s thicker than Noah was, forcing my passage to accommodate, to stretch.
As he began to move, my folds became slicker and slicker.
I wanted him to hold my waist and bury himself. I’ve never been had this way, bent over and possessed.
He took his arm away and held my skirt, using it to pull me back into his thrust. His hands run down my legs, over my lower back, into my hair.
When he stopped to turn me around, I fell against his chest. He lifted me, then knelt again, laying me under him on the floor.
He quickly shoved himself in again, too long away and ground his hips, pinning me to the tiles.
I licked his neck, needing a taste. I wanted to engage all my senses, fill them all up with Lorenzo. He moaned my name as I licked up around his ear, holding his jaw as he pushed himself in and out.
Wanting his pants off completely, he stopped to stand, but I came up on my knees and held both his wrists before he could push them down.
“Wait,” my throat was sore. Hoarse from the sounds he made me scream. “I want,” I let go of his wrists and held the open sides of his fly.
“What do you want?” he whispered encouragingly. “Tell me.”
I decided to show him, letting my mouth and nose brush along his length. I kissed the tip, holding his shaft still. He’s warm, heavy, hard as granite, but the skin is soft, throbbing in my grasp.
A lick to the underside made a hum come from his chest, and feeling brave, I opened my mouth and sucked the head, applying a firmer hold.
I took more of him into my mouth, and his hands wound in my hair. His stomach and chest muscles go taut, contracting over toned plains of flesh. He looked like the Neptune sculpture come to life, a work of art, the standard for attractive, for masculinity.
He tugged my hair until I stopped and came down to kneel with me.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he kissed me, not minding that my lips were just wrapped around his cock. “You did everything right,” he said.
“I’ve never—”
He quaked under my hands.
I let him bring me along as he sits back against the island. He hooked my leg across him, and I realized that straddling him, I would be on top, even if he’s sitting up. He would never bore me, never selfishly put his hands on me.
“I’ve never done any of this before,” I whispered as though someone would hear me.
He squeezed my hips, pressing me back down on his erection. It’s new, the jolt of endorphins. “God, Lydia, when you say that…” he pressed me down harder. I see now, that my inexperience wasn’t a turn off to him. He wanted to be the one, the one to take me deeper into my own nature, and I wanted it too. “Do what feels good,” he rocked my pelvis, showing me how to move. “Use me,” he pleaded, putting my hands on his shoulders. “Ride,” he reached behind me with one hand and undid my bra. “You’re beautiful. Jesus,” he took my straps down, looking at my chest. “Lydia, don’t stop.”
I realize I was controlling the pace. That I was rolling and grinding into him, and that he was just as spelled by the sensations as I was.
“Look at me,” he brought my chin up, then let his hands fall to my breasts, rolling the tips between his rough fingers. “God, you’re beautiful,” his head rested in my neck. “Those eyes.”
He held my back, forcing our chests together, smashing my breasts against his skin. He kissed away the tears falling from my eyes. Tears of contentment that almost frightened me.
I held his face, moving my thumb over the dimple in his chin. “It’s just us now.”
“Only us.”
My next climax shook the walls. My passage spasmed, tightening around him.
And when it was done, there was nothing left of the old me. I shed her like a snake’s skin and collapsed against Lorenzo.
LORENZO
Lydia and I had a last cup of coffee at my father’s window, at the table that held so much history.
Only this time, we sat side by side, her leaning against my chest. I couldn’t ignore the pain of losing this building, and knowing that Lydia felt it too, made it easier to bear.
But sometimes no matter how hard we try, we lose things.
And sometimes we find new things.
I’m a DiGregorio, I’ll start over from nothing, and make it into something. It’s what we do. And just like my ancestors, I have the support I need from friends and family.
Looking down at Lydia, I knew she had my back. She had it in ways Ruby never did. That’s why I gave it up in the first place.
When Lydia spoke to me outside her house after the accident, she said I would always love Ruby and this place more than her. It triggered something. Because it wasn’t true.
So, I let it all go.
But she brought it all back.
We didn’t have easy love. We earned one another’s affections, and above all…trust.
LYDIA
THREE YEARS LATER
I woke in our apartment to the foulest smelling breath. Kendrick was curled on Lorenzo’s pillow, making a sorry excuse for a meow, breathing a stench into my face.
My eyes watered as I reached to pet him. He purred, falling asleep with each scratch behind his ears. I heard Lorenzo shake his food dish in the kitchen, and Kendrick went down his pet stairs, from the bed to the floor, before waddling out of the room.
I curled, finding Lorenzo’s scent in the sheets. Our bedroom reflects the rustic flair of Tuscany. He gives me free rein to decorate. Sunset colors, old iron headboard, fresh plants and flowers, the sweet smell of rosemary from the garden on our tiny terrace. Both doors to it are open, letting a warm breeze into the room.
I ran a hand through my hair before I stood and followed the rich aroma of fresh coffee, out of our room, down the hall, past the little kitchen, down the stairs, and into the restaurant below us. Lorenzo was putting on the speakers behind the hostess stand.
I pulled the thin strap of my very short nightgown up my shoulder and went to sit at our table. He has the latest McAdam’s book I’m reading, already there on my side, and the newspaper on his side.
“Cibo Degli Dei is in the paper,” I said as Lorenzo came to sit.
In the new location, we have a window, a much bigger window, with a table that serves as our new spot for coffee in the morning.
“Critics?” he asked, pouring for both of us.
“Yep,” I spread the paper on the table. “Wanna listen?”
He shook his head. “Critics just like to hear themselves. I know my food is good.”
I brushed my foot up his leg under the table. “Shhh.”
“Mmm,” he ignored me, sipping his coffee.
“Can I read it now?”
He rolled his eyes, then rattled off in angry Italian.
“Hush!” I snapped.
“No, I don’t need to hear it. How many stars?” He scooted back and held my foot, using his amazing hands to massage me.
I read on. “Cibo Degli Dei is—"
“How many stars did this fucker give me?”
I sent him a flat look. “Can I finish?”
“No.”
I smiled. “Four and a half stars.”
“Very good.”
I grinned, proud of him.
I decorated the place with his mother and sisters. It’s almost an exact replica of the one in Little Italy. After getting things kicked off, into our second year, we received an anonymous check in the mail, to be put toward the new restaurant. But nameless or not, we both knew who it was from.
Ruby.
Living above the new place, we can pour ourselves into the business, and the work has paid off, this review proves that.
“You did it,” I told him.
“We did it,” he corrected. His hands traveled up my calf, behind my knee. “Come here,” he demanded in Italian.
I came to straddle him, caressing his fine jaw, throat, shoulders. I kissed his dimpled chin, the scar by his brow, his nose, loving every single part of him.
He moved his hands up my body, feeling me over the thin silk my body is encased in.
He held both my hands, palm to palm, I admire the difference in size and the promise rings we wear.
Lorenzo and I, we’re taking our time. We didn’t want to rush from one marriage to the next. We swore ourselves to one another, but not on paper.
I don’t know if we’ll ever be lucky enough to have children. We aren’t trying, but we aren’t careful. In the end, I have tons of nieces and nephews inherited from Lorenzo’s siblings, and though we aren’t running headfirst into matrimony, we both kind of know it will happen.
After all, DiGregorio men, always meet their future wives at Cibo Degli Dei…
RUBY
I gave Noah a healthy boy. The year he was born, was the happiest of my life. Noah and I married as soon as the divorces were final, built a family, and loved with a passion that burned until it consumed us.
But flames leave ashes.
I found a way to fight my demons, but it was for our son, not Noah. All the troubles from our previous marriages came home to roost.
“Who just called you?”
“Where are you going?”
“Why are you asking me that?”
“What caused you to be late?”
Our guilt morphed into mistrust and our mistrust devoured whatever was beautiful.
I unbuckled my seatbelt from the back of my father’s car and stepped out. Noah lives in a very small apartment he shares with his friend Lark. After the divorce with Lydia, they repaired their friendship.
I feel my world brighten as my two-year-old son Aiden comes running out of Noah’s apartment building, his Paw Patrol backpack bobbing behind him. The weekend is over, and therefore his time with his father.
“Hello, my beautiful boy,” I knelt in my skirt to grab him up in a hug.
My dad came out of the car and bent to speak to the driver as Noah walked out and toward us.
I felt the blood slow in my veins, despite our irreversible damage, I see him and my chest caves.
“He was at the carnival,” Noah tells me.
I stood and held Aiden’s hand. “That sounds fun.”
Noah handed me Aiden’s other bag full of things, and I took it, trying to remain strong.
“We, we, we, saw a, a,” Aiden makes a circle with his finger, not knowing the word.
“Ferris wheel,” Noah told him.
“How exciting,” I squeezed Aiden’s hand and wink down at him.
“And lookit,” Aiden held up a balloon animal.
“Is that a horse?” I asked with animation. “What a nice little pony.”
Aiden held it tighter.
Noah’s was looking at me when I brought up my eyes. I know the look. Physically, we could pick up where we left off. It would be simple. Slipping into a well-fitted suit. But after… it’s the after we have no ability to make work. In the end, we don’t and will never trust one another.
“You look good,” he told to me, putting his hands in his back pockets.
I nodded with a small smile. “So do you.”
“Come, Ruby,” my dad called from where he stood by the car. He’s was holding open the door, waiting for us to join him.
I smiled again at Noah. “We need to—”
“Yeah,” he stepped back. “Go ahead.”
“Aiden, say bye, bye,” I encourage. “Say bye to daddy.”
And I realize at that moment, this was the very thing Noah said he didn’t want. For his child to have a split home. We created the very future he feared.
Noah hunkered down, the emotion raw in his eyes, having to say goodbye, and hugged Aiden.
“Ruby,” my father called again.
Kissing the side of his head, Noah stood and nodded to us.
I lead Aiden back to the car and my father instantly doted, having fallen deeply in love with his grandchild the instant they first saw one another.
“There’s my boy,” my dad messed Aiden’s hair and took his balloon animal. “What’s this?”
“It’s my, it’s my—”
“Leave it, Aiden, we’ll find you a better one. Would you like that? We can hire a real clown for your birthday, doesn’t that sound fun?”
Even with my back to Noah, I can feel the pain my father is inflicting and shut my eyes as Aiden lets my dad take the balloon horse.
Walking to the car, I refuse to look back at Noah as Aiden climbs into the back of the car, then my dad. I get in last, shutting the door and trying to breathe around my feelings.
“Mommy,” Aiden pulls my sleeve and shows me the contents of his backpack.
Driving away, I ground myself in my mind with the method Lorenzo used to use. Focusing on the moment I’m in, I release all the rest.
~Bonus Chapter~
LORENZO
TUSCANY, EIGHT MONTHS LATER
My Uncle that inherited my Nonno’s Villa, insisted on meeting Lydia. He paid our way to Italy as an Easter gift.
Our cat Kendrick was not fond of flying. I didn’t really think his old heart could handle the fright, but he doesn’t take well to being separated from Lydia, and our family is too terrified of him to babysit.
Lydia fell hard for the villa. The stone called to her, the sunbaked walls, the fresh scents of Earth and vines.
We walked the many rows of the vineyard, where I told her stories from the time I lived here.
We explored, we ate, we danced. She belongs here. Her spirit is bound to the culture, soaking it all in like a sponge. Even her Italian has improved, becoming more fluent.
As the sun sets on our fourth night in Tuscany, I walk the halls of the villa, looking for Lydia.
The bedroom is behind a pair of tall double doors. Opening them, I find our room empty. Except for Kendrick, who lies on my pillow, eyes narrowed. When we let him out of the carrier, my uncle’s maid thought we brought an evil spirit from America.
I shut the doors again, seeing Lydia wasn’t in here.
The dining room, a spacious room that opens to the center where the only ceiling is the sky, is empty. The chandelier of iron swings gently in a subtle wind above the long wooden table.
I circle the outside and find that where the structure parts, a small path that is part stone and equal parts garden, she is sitting on a rocky half wall. There, she plucks at an instrument. With the night setting in, my uncle and his wife have prepared the open space for supper. The rickety old table off to her left is laden with foods and the strung lights that line the rooftops and dip between the walls are lit.
“What did you find?” I asked, coming to stand by her.
“I found a really old little guitar that has your name scratched into the back.”
I moved to sit behind her, straddling the short wall. She put her back against me and showed me where my name was. “It’s not a guitar, it’s a chitarra.” I moved her hair to one side. It was longer now, to her shoulder blades. I rested my chin on her shoulder and helped her position it correctly. “And I put my name there when I was seven, with a pocketknife. After I found out that it was an antique.”
; She gasped. “You did not!”
“I did, and my Nonno had a heart attack.”
“I bet he did.”
“No, a real heart attack. It was pretty bad.”
“Oh, God.”
“He lived long after, but it was a family joke for a while.”
Lydia let go to let me tune it, stroking my arms and knuckles while I worked.
“Play me a song,” she said.
I tried to remember the notes while I kept on tuning.
“Can we live here?” she asked in a whisper while the maid put out the plates and remaining dishes behind us.
“I’ll do whatever you want. Except put pineapple on your pizza.”
She laughed until a snort happened, making me laugh too. “It’s just blasphemous,” she turned to rub her nose against my cheek.
“It is.”
“And we can’t leave the restaurant forever.” She traced the veins in my arm when I finished tuning. “But I love it here.”
I brought up the fallen strap of her dress, gliding it along her soft skin. She displays it for me daily through free and becoming clothes. Clothes that she likes, clothes that reflect the sensual and untamed woman within.
Tonight, her dress is bright yellow, stopping far above the knee, and the straps she likes. In one dress pocket, she’s collected a few sprigs of herbs, and in the other, stones from the pond. She wears no bra, and it turns me on to know it. Because I was there when she woke up naked, and I was there when she bathed. I watched her put this on, and tonight, I’ll remove it. Slowly.
I strummed a tune on the chitarra.
Lydia relaxed in my arms, listening while the sun moved lower in the sky. The maid brought us wine, and when she left, Lydia sipped hers before asking, “Is your uncle rich?”
“He’s comfortable.”
“Why didn’t you…”
“I was not going to ask him for money to go toward my father’s restaurant. My Uncle hated my father.”
“Really?”
“My mother was supposed to marry my uncle’s best friend. She was in America only for the summer. She fell in love and didn’t return right away.”
“She was engaged?”
The Affair (The Relationship Quo Series Book 5) Page 31