by Cat Porter
“Here’s Liana,” I said.
“Yes,” Adri let out a breath. “Last week she opened the new wing at the children’s cancer hospital.”
“Were you there?”
“Of course.” Adri pointed to another gossip mag on the lower rack, and there she was on the cover looking radiant, beaming in a pale pink suit, her hair pulled up, standing next to her mother and another woman. “Me, Mum, and the Prime Minister’s wife.”
This was the European heiress.
“Impressive, Lovely,” I murmured.
“My mother’s done a lot to get that hospital open and running. Used to be you’d have to send your child to America or the UK to get proper treatment. And if you didn’t have the money…well. The state pediatric hospital for cancer treatment has excellent doctors, but the facilities? Quite behind modern standards. It was a labour of love for Mum. She had another child after me, before Marko. A girl. Leukemia took my sister’s life before she was even two years old.”
“That’s awful, I’m sorry,” I said.
“This project is very important to our family.”
“Well done, Mum.”
“Yes, I admire her tenacity very much. She certainly didn’t let the impossible get her down. Bureaucracy is a fierce monster in Greece, unfortunately.”
“Hey, isn’t this Niko?” I pointed to another gossip rag. He’d been snapped rushing down a street with an older platinum blonde woman at his side, his cute boyish features tightened into harsh lines.
“Yes.” Adrian rolled her eyes. “He’s been seeing a married chat show hostess.”
“Really?”
“Well, she’s separated but not yet divorced from her husband, and it’s quite the controversy. I guess their dirty little secret has finally been revealed.”
I let out a sharp laugh.
“You didn’t like him, did you?” she asked.
“I didn’t like his arm around you, or the way he looked at you—”
“I’ve known him since kindergarten. We went to the same private school until we were eighteen.”
“No touching in all that time?”
Her eyes lit up. “No.”
“No tongue tangoing? No exchange of bodily fluids?” I persisted.
She pressed her lips to mine, her grin teasing my scowl. “Not even once. We should’ve though. He would’ve been a perfect first kiss, first sexual experience.”
“And what makes you say that?” I said, my tone acidic.
She let out a laugh. “He’s a good bloke. Truly a kind, thoughtful person. Unlike my first who was a right arsehole.”
“Who is this bastard and what did he do to my Lovely?”
“Tsk tsk, not a bastard. A prince.”
“A real royal prince?”
“Very real, quite royal—a cross of Hapsburg, some Bavarian, a bit of Dane…”
“What did this bastard, mutt of a prince do?”
“Lavished me with attention, gifts, whispered words of desire and obsession in French, seduced me and laughed that it was my first time, and then got irritated that he had to deal with my virginity. More extravagant words of desire and obsession followed over the next few days, and then he got back on his plane and flew north never to be heard from again. I didn’t expect a full out relationship, but not a vanishing act. He’d gotten what he wanted or rather what suited him at the time, and he was done.”
“Bastard.”
She shrugged, lingering at a tiny grocery store with local goods.
“Hey,” I brushed her shoulder with my lips and her gaze darted up at me. “You deserved so much more. So much better.”
Her mouth curved in a shy, small smile, her teeth tugging on her bottom lip. A warmth seeped through me, the desire to make it better for her pulling on me like some primal mating call. Adri was easy to please in bed, a pleasure to surprise, and she appreciated everything I did for her. From the very first, she’d let me guide her, and then she flew. She wanted to experience, and she knew I could take her there. Had any man ever taken his time with her? Been unselfish with her? Stupid, stupid bastards.
I kissed her softly. Yeah, I wanted to make it really good for her. I liked having goals.
The thick fragrance of green botanicals and piquant spices, dried teas filled air. Hand labeled jars of oregano, thyme, jams, raw honey, bundled dried bouquets of bay leaves, mint, and mountain tea lined shelves outside and in.
“My favorite.” Adri held up a glass jar of astonishingly huge capers. “Freshly harvested.”
“Amazing.” I picked up a jar filled with chunky white flakes trimmed with a thick blue ribbon. “Is this salt?”
“Sea salt.”
“Huh. Of course, it is.”
“It’s good.”
“I’ll bet. My mother would get a kick out of this,” I murmured. I bought two jars.
“Do you need a gift for your father too?”
“The only thing my father wants me to bring home is Gennaro Aliberti’s consent.”
“Ah, yes.”
We continued walking through town.
“Do you like working with your father?” she asked.
“More like for him. It’s complicated between us.”
“I understand complicated,” she said. “Is he fatherly at least?”
“No. No, he’s not.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry.”
I shook off her sympathy. “It is what it is.”
Again, that brittle grin that understood what I was saying. “So you’ve been patient and responsible, proving yourself—”
“Over and over again.”
“But something is lacking for you?”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“And you came to Greece in order to score points?”
“I came to fix his Gennaro problem.”
“You’re good at fixing, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Very.”
“I wouldn’t want to cross any of the Alibertis.”
“You’re aware of what the Alibertis do for a living back in Napoli?” I asked her.
“Of course I know who they are. Who doesn’t? But Alessio is not a part of their organization. He’s put a lot of hard work into his own business, and he’s created something unique and sought after. He’s his own success.”
His own success.
A Fortinbras to my Hamlet.
I’d read how Alessio had taken his mother’s hole in the wall fashion accessories store in a shitty neighborhood in Naples and turned it into a chic, trendy, and very tony brand of his own. Granted, most probably with his father’s drug money to start and Luca’s ongoing protection, but he made it a success. With his own good looks, swagger, and playboy reputation, Alessio had only pushed his exclusive jewelry further, embodying the brand himself—tough, tattooed, raw street Italo-masculinity all wrapped up in Gucci and Prada and Dolce & Gabbana. The party in Mykonos had just made that very clear for all to see and taste.
“Even if you do bring home Gennaro’s acceptance, do you think your father will be grateful or will he belittle your success, just to spite you? Just because he can?” she asked.
“You sound like you’ve had experience with a difficult daddy.”
“Hmm. Alessio’s is, so’s mine.”
I put my arm around her shoulders and brought her close. “Yeah, mine too.”
We ordered two freddo espressos at the Hermes Café. Sitting under a grove of thick trees in the center of the cobblestone paved town, watching the locals greet one another as they went to the bakery, the butcher, the shops. A modern, square, white building to our left with a large bronze plaque caught my attention. I read the bronze sign.
“The island has an archeological museum?” I gestured at the building.
“Yes, there are several museums here in fact.” Adri nibbled on the thin cinnamon cookie that came with the coffees. “Would you like to go?”
“Yes, actually. I would. You?”
Her eyes brightened as she wiped
the crumbs from her fingers. “I’d love to. I haven’t been since I was in high school. Quite shameful.”
“Shameful?”
She only grinned at me. Something was up.
I paid our bill at the café, and we went to the museum. As I paid our admission fee, I did a double take at the plaque over the attendant’s desk. Adri’s family name hung on the wall. I raised an eyebrow at her, tilting my head.
“My parents’ foundation donated the money for the museum and renovated the building,” she said.
I took her hand, and we entered the galleries. Sculptures from the Archaic period all the way to the Roman era filled the exhibition space. Small painted earthenware bowls and vases from over thousands of years ago with the early geometric patterns up through the more graceful design elements of later periods. And all of it found right here, on this island.
“Different from a big city museum?” she asked.
“Very satisfying on another level,” I murmured. Erin would really enjoy this.
“There’s also a contemporary art museum here.”
“Let’s go.”
We walked on to the Contemporary Art Museum. A special exhibition of Georges Braque, a buddy of Picasso’s and fellow Cubism creator, was on display—“Georges Braque: Order & Emotion.”
Jesus, first I had Dionysus at my heels, now Braque.
We lingered in the last gallery in front of a painting of a pair of birds floating in a white space. Flat and simple. There was something delightful yet sad about it all at once. The birds soared free side by side in the flat space, but they seemed separate. Alone.
An ache creeped up my insides and curled tightly there. I wasn’t going to think about how me and Adri would have to leave the island soon. We’d been here three days now, and I knew I had to get back to my reality and get her back to hers. Not yet. Not yet. I threaded my fingers in Adri’s and she squeezed my hand, pressing against my side, and my chest eased.
We left the museum, both of us immediately adjusting our sunglasses over our eyes. The Greek sun was intense. We joined the flow of the afternoon crowd on the cobblestone main road, my gaze darting left and right.
There he is.
Brown leather jacket man, now wearing a denim jacket sat at a café at three o’clock texting on his phone.
I threw an arm over Adri’s shoulders pulling her in close. “Is it too late for the beach now? I want to get wet with you.”
“Of course not,” she said, her tone bright. “On an island, beach-ing happens any time of day or night. Like drinking and eating.”
And fucking, Lovely. And fucking. Day and night. Night and day.
35
Adriana
Two more days passed. Two glorious days.
And in that time we’d gotten into a routine. Our rituals of the day. A day that wasn’t marked by time’s necessities, but by our wants, our appetites. Our moods. And our moods focused on each other.
When he had demanded of me in the kitchen that afternoon my skin had set on fire, my lungs crushed together at the hard tone in his voice. I’d gotten on my knees before him gladly. It hadn’t only been a submission to him, but to this deep attraction and need between us. I wanted to explore it. I wanted to experience, live it. I wanted him so badly. More than anything I’d ever wanted before.
He was methodical and studious and that only made my response that much more intense. He was always mindful of how hard to push and when, and encouraging. I trusted him. The more I trusted, the more I enjoyed what we had. His sensuality knew no bounds, his focus, his care, and it was thrilling. There was no dissembling between us. That glint in his eye when we fucked provoked me, was adamant that I ask for what I wanted, that I remain present with him and what we were doing. That I feel.
And I felt. Oh how I felt.
What I didn’t feel was my old friend shame, and that alone was a revelation, a first. I stopped second guessing myself. There was no sense of tomorrow and no time to waste, and we both knew this. It made us greedy, voracious.
But I knew it wasn’t just our chemistry or his technical mastery. Alessio was a very skilled and caring lover, but this, with Turo, was another dimension, another level. He and I had a need to reach each other, to soothe, to instigate, to challenge each other. All of it twisted and shaped with unrelenting desire and delicate trust.
An explosive molotov cocktail of our very own.
This one didn’t destroy or scar, it fed me, energized me. Satisfied me in a new way.
We’d start each day early with a quick, cold swim at the base of the castle, then have a Greek coffee at Hermes, stop off at the bakery for my favorite cinnamon spiced cookies and pastéli, a sesame seed, nut, and honey bar I’d made Turo try and had become his favorite on the go snack. We’d get in the jeep and hit different beaches. Zorgos, Copper, Korthi. Each beach had a different personality. One had strong high waves and wind, another was a sheltered cove with easy rolling waters and caves in the rocks. One was quiet, the other had a crowded beach bar. At Korthi we swam out to the huge rock formation which stood upright in the water, a towering natural sculpture of stone in the middle of the cove.
The island’s artwork.
“This is crazy,” Turo said, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the huge geological formation which resembled a giant figure in motion pushing through the water.
“They called it the Píthima tis Griás, or the ‘Old Lady’s Leap’,” I explained. “Legend has it that an old woman jumped from the cliffs and was preserved in stone by the gods.”
“Greece.” He pulled me in his arms and kissed me as we floated in the water.
In the afternoons, we’d choose a tavérna and eat our main meal of the day—seafood or roast meat depending on our mood, along with boiled greens soaked in lemon juice and olive oil, a salad or roast vegetables with a side of the local cheese Turo loved. And wine. Always wine.
The simplicity of the flavors, yet their richness astonished him over and over again. And through his curiosity and enjoyment and articulation of that appreciation, I found mine again. For food, for my island homeland. For the finer details of my every day. I’d been spending holidays on Greek islands all my life. Yet this time, this trip, here now with Turo, had set me spinning like a child’s top.
I was the spinning top, I was the delighted child laughing and applauding. Wanting more, wanting it to never end.
Insatiable.
He liked surprising me. A tactic, I think, to keep me off my guard, shock my system.
We got back from lunch at Korthi, and I’d hung our beach towels on the terrace, emptied the beach bag, and took a shower. I wrapped a thick, white towel around me and inhaled the scent of my favorite fig and orange shower gel in the steam. I grabbed my tub of body cream.
And that’s when I saw him.
He stood there naked by the bed, and I stilled. He’d been waiting, and he was hard and ready to fuck, his jaw set in that brittle way that sent a shiver straight through me. His face an unreadable mask of cool, of patience, and that heavy feeling settled in my tummy, pulling on me. As inevitable as gravity, as powerful. I believed that if Turo really wanted something, his patience was relentless and endless, and I loved that. It made me breathless, made my heart gallop in my chest, made me, thankfully, stop thinking.
Like right now.
“Turo?” I breathed.
He ripped the towel from me and pushed me back against the wall, his eyes flaring into mine. Wanting, yet revealing nothing.
A moment. Another. My flesh heated. Deep breaths. I licked my lips.
Kiss me, kiss me.
His hand passed over my collarbone, around my neck, and he bent, his lips touching mine in a wholly unexpected tender kiss, shocking my system. I melted rapidly in his hold, my body plastering itself against his warmth, a hard, hard wall of warmth that pressed me against the cold wall. The kiss was almost delicate, a hot, silky touch brushing, nuzzling. Gentle.
Ha. Gentle for now.
/> His tongue invaded my mouth and grew demanding, and I gave in. I loved giving in to him. He grabbed a condom packet, ripped it with his teeth, that flash of white ripping at me, and he suited up quickly. I hitched my legs one at a time over his hips with his support and slid a hand between us, taking his hard length in hand, stroking him, guiding him inside me.
He nudged in, and that high octane fuel that was Turo lit every particle of my being on fire.
He slid in slowly.
Dragged his hard length out, slowly.
Rocked in. Slowly.
Out.
Oh, here it comes.
He rammed his cock inside me in one swift move, and I cried out sharply, my head knocking back. He bit my upper chest in reply, and I hissed on the sting. Holding me in his excruciating grip, he thrust and thrust and thrust. Harder and swifter with my every cry.
Every day, every night. In the middle of the night. First thing in the morning. The afternoon, like now. Whenever Mr. DeMarco pleased, and however he liked. And he pleased and I liked, very, very much.
Turo’s guerrilla fucking tactics were a strategic success on my battlefield. He was determined to overwhelm me, to obliterate any trace left of the ‘fake it’ response from my very bones after two years of my having perfected it, hiding behind it. In his conquest of me, I was compelled to feel every blast, every sting, every burn. No shame, no analyzing, or deciding. No morning after regrets or doubts. Only us feeding off each other. Pure sensation.
He moved us to the bed, but my limbs were no better than rubber. Lifting me up by the hips and sliding one arm between my breasts, he cuffed my neck, holding me up and thrust in quick, harsh movements. The old iron bed squeaked and jerked in complaint. I wanted to look at him very badly, but I couldn’t squirm or turn my head even a fraction. Instead, I squeezed him inside me and slammed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust.
He let out a low, long grunt, and my heart jumped in my chest. He liked that, and I liked that he did. I liked that he wanted me over and over again, that his desire for me seemed bottomless. A hunger I never knew I possessed had taken hold of me. A hunger he knew how to satisfy. He’d made that happen, my conjurer, my conqueror.