I want to fuck him right now, feel every inch of him inside, devour him until I have nothing left to give.
But this damn cage is too small for it to be comfortable, and the idea of rocking it back and forth makes that vertigo and panic come back.
No worries, though.
I pull away slightly, giving him a wicked smile, and then I drop to my knees.
“Grace,” he murmurs, desire caught in his throat, making him hoarse.
I say nothing. I barely fit, but luckily my legs are short. The metal bottom of the cage digs into my knees, and the soles of my shoes are jammed flush against the sides. But I have room to do what I need to do.
I reach up and start to unzip his fly, until I see his black briefs.
He helps by reaching inside them and pulling out his cock.
God, it looks formidable in this light, especially after not seeing it for days.
I take hold of it, feeling it’s weight, his skin feeling like hot velvet. In all my life I never knew I could appreciate a dick like I do his.
I wet my lips and stare up at him with big innocent eyes, and slowly push his tip through my mouth, the salt of his precum sliding over my tongue.
“Fuck,” Claudio growls, his expression turning primal.
A thrill goes through me, that he loves that I’m doing this, that I have this power over him.
Still, this is the first time I’m giving him a blow job. I’m not quite sure what he likes.
I push his cock in and then slowly take it out, my teeth grazing his shaft a little. He plops out of my mouth with a lewd wet noise and I lick my lips as I stare at him.
“How do you like it?” I ask. “Tell me what you want.”
He makes a fist at the base of his cock, eyes boring into mine, and says, “Suck.” He bites his lip in anticipation. “Just suck.”
Okay then. I have to appreciate how direct he is.
I put him back into my mouth, sucking at him, making my lips and fist a solid ring, and he starts pumping his hips into my face, harder and harder.
Things get messy pretty fast. It’s very wet and slippery, his cock almost bobbing out of my mouth a few times, and sometimes my teeth get in the way. But all the while Claudio is watching me, hissing Italian expletives under his breath and groaning out my name. This is by far one of the sexiest and strangest things I’ve ever done. Thank god there is no one in the baskets ahead of us or behind us, and the few that have passed have been empty.
Wait … have they?
I pause, wanting to turn my head to look around, but Claudio grabs my hair, tugging on it, holding me in place. His other hand then slips around the back of my head as he starts pushing my face forward, in time with the pumps of his hips.
“Oh … fuck,” he cries out as he rams his cock through my lips. He stiffens in my hands, and I look up to see his head fall back, his mouth open, face contorted in pleasure. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He shoots straight to the back of my throat, and I swallow it down without a second thought.
His pumping slows, and I regain control of his cock, pulling it from my lips. I wipe my mouth on my shoulder and then carefully try to get to my feet.
Even though I’m all buzzed out from sucking him off, I’m suddenly very aware that the cage is swinging slightly and moving higher up the mountain. All the trees have faded away to bare rock and, good timing, the next cage coming down toward us on the opposite side actually has people in it.
“You,” he says gruffly as he slowly zips himself up with one hand, his other going to my cheek. “How will I ever deserve you?”
“You can start by not making me ride things like this,” I tell him. I look down again, and we’re at least seventy feet in the air now. Okay, so that was a good distraction for the time being, but I’m going to close my eyes for the rest of the ride.
It isn’t until we finally reach the top and have a drink on the patio of what has to be the island’s most isolated bar, that I finally relax.
“Hey,” I tell him, in between sips of my beer. We’ve been sitting here lost in the view, which runs from one end of Elba to the other. We’re truly on top of the world here, a thousand meters above the blue Mediterranean.
Claudio’s leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head and looking blissed out. “Mmm?” he says, face tipped to the sun.
I lean in closer. “There weren’t people in the cages coming down, were there? I mean, when I was sucking you off…”
A tiny smile tugs at his lips.
Noooo.
I reach out and smack him. “Are you serious!?”
He laughs, and I want to pull his aviators off his face and see his eyes. “No, no one saw.”
That’s not quite what I asked.
And judging by the looks we get in the parking lot later, after we take the gondola back down, I’m pretty sure some people saw plenty.
* * *
We took our sweet time getting back to the house. I made Claudio stop by a seaside town, where we were able to stroll, hand-in-hand, like a real couple. It was so nice, so easy, so natural, that I was hit with the inexplicable urge to tell him that I wanted to move here, to live in Italy with him forever. Have a wonderful little place by the sea, just him and me and Vanni. I could write novels in the early morning, watching the sun come up, Vanni and Claudio catching fresh fish for lunch, and we could swim in the ocean at dusk after a few glasses of wine.
I could see that future so clearly that it scared me.
That happiness, it was all there, in sight, and yet not only did I think I wasn’t deserving of a future like that, I knew it was hopeless.
All because of Vanni and Jana.
Maybe Vanni will change his mind. Maybe Jana won’t care.
I’ve entertained these scenarios too. It’s true that Vanni might come around, especially the more he gets to know me, and once he learns I’m not trying to be his mother or replace Jana. And then Jana, well, she might wish me well. And even if she doesn’t, it might not matter enough for her to drop me as a client.
And if she does? If you lose her as an agent?
Well, I better be damn sure I’m making the right choice. I’ve lost so much in my life, the thought of going all in with Claudio and then having it fall apart is too much for me to handle.
I manage to shake those thoughts from my head as we drive inland. It would have been faster to go back around the island the way we came, but I wanted to see what driving over the mountain would be like. Apparently, all it took was a penis for me to overcome my fear of heights.
Who knew?
Eventually, we end up back at his parents’ house, a little later than we had promised. His mother is running around, talking about the reservation and how we won’t make it, while his father doesn’t seem to care and thinks the fish place down at the beach is good enough.
I decide to keep my dress on, changing into nicer sandals, and then we’re all cramming into his father’s classic Porsche 911. The interior is as flawless as Claudio’s is (or was until recently, ahem), but the backseats are tiny. I barely fit myself, while Claudio’s knees are rammed right up against his mother’s seat.
His father also drives like a maniac. I should be used to it by now, from the way that Claudio drives, and everyone else in this country, but his father seems to think he’s a rally driver. We go flying around the corners, Claudio and I rammed up against each other, his mother, praying in Italian and doing the sign of the cross.
The restaurant is about twenty minutes away from the house. We go down a gravel road for a while, rows and rows of olive trees passing us, their leaves twisting to silver in the wind. Finally, we stop in front of what looks like an old country house, albeit with half a dozen cars parked out front.
“Here we are,” his father says, slamming on the brakes so that Claudio and I nearly bonk our heads against the front seats. “Right on time.”
We wait for them to step out of the car, taking their time, and Claudio discreetly reaches
over and gives my hand a squeeze.
There’s a lot more effort getting out of the car than getting into it, but soon we’re entering the restaurant, greeted by a dashing older man who seems to know the Romanos very well.
He leads us to a table in the back of the restaurant, my eyes taking it all in. The restaurant has red tiles, a low white ceiling with dark wood exposed beams. There are rustic touches everywhere, from the antique framed photos on the walls, to the lace curtains, to the hanging sausages near the kitchen.
It’s fairly small too, maybe seven tables, almost all of them occupied.
We sit down, and the waiter brings out a bowl of olives while we look through the menu.
“So, Grace,” his mother says to me after a bottle of red wine is ordered for the table. She folds her hands in front of her and gives me a sweet smile. “I know you are an artist like Claudio and my husband, because you don’t like to talk about your work. But please, what is the name of your series again?”
I finish my sip of wine. “The Sleuths of Stockbridge.”
“In Italian it is I Detective Scozzesi,” Claudio says to her. “I’ve read them all. They’re very good. You would like them.”
My heart does a little flip at that.
“I have not heard of them, but that doesn’t mean anything,” she says. “And if you write these books with another author, where is she?”
I have another sip of wine before I answer that one. “She’s dead.”
Her eyes widen, and she exchanges a look with her husband. “Oh. I am so sorry.”
I just nod. “She died over Christmas. Hit by a drunk driver. Suffice to say, I won’t be continuing the series anymore.”
The two of them lapse into silence, feeling sad. It’s inevitable whenever Robyn is brought up. The tragedy. The unfairness of it all.
“But she is writing a book on her own,” Claudio speaks up. “She won’t let me read it yet, but I believe it is a romance.”
“Oh?” his mother says, raising a single brow, that Romano talent. “I do like romance. Who doesn’t?”
“You’d be surprised,” I tell her.
She stares at me for me to go on.
I sigh. “As an author, you notice it. It’s always overlooked for literary fiction, whatever that means. People always thumb their nose at the genre, even though romance finds its way into every good story, every good movie or TV show.”
“Romance is art,” Claudio says. “No one knows that better than the Italians. Your book will do very well here, Grace.”
If I can finish it. I should be writing right now, instead of vacationing on Elba. But at least things are coming easier. I’m already at forty thousand words, which is a huge accomplishment. Now I’m just waiting for the right time to drop the sex scene. I can’t torture my characters for too long.
Especially when I’m being tortured myself. Every so often, I feel Claudio’s foot under the table, sliding up my calves, reminding me that I can’t have him at the moment.
“So is that why you’re here?” she asks after a moment.
I nod. “Aye. I thought Italy would give me some inspiration.”
“And has it?” asks his father. He eyes his son briefly.
I swallow, trying to keep my cheeks from going hot. Perhaps I can blame the flush on the wine. “It has. It’s, erm, very romantic here.”
“You know,” his mother says, a look of disdain on her face. “Claudio’s ex-wife is an agent. Perhaps you’ve heard of her. Jana Lee? She represents many famous authors. I would suggest she represent you, but that wouldn’t be a good idea.”
Oh fuck. Here it is. Here is the moment.
I look at Claudio, fully expecting him to lie in order to sidestep a landmine, even though I think lying would be a bad idea in itself. What if word comes out down the line that Jana is my agent? All his mother needs to do is look me up on my long-neglected Twitter account and see that she’s proudly listed there.
Claudio lifts his wine glass to his lips. “Actually, that’s how we met. Jana is Grace’s agent.”
I try to keep my face from reacting, even though both of his parents look completely shocked.
“What?” his mother says, looking at the both of us. “She’s your agent?”
I nod. “She’s very good at what she does.”
She makes a face. “I have no doubt. But you must understand, she hasn’t been the best mother to Vanni.”
“Which has nothing to do with Grace,” Claudio says emphatically, pressing his fingers into the table. “And also, I’m his father. I am the judge. If I felt Jana wasn’t being a good mother, or being enough, I would call her on it. Talk it out like adults. We may be exes, but we communicate … well, usually.” I can tell he’s thinking of when Jana neglected to tell him I was using his house. “As it is, I think we’ve worked things out quite well.”
His father shrugs, obviously not caring too much about any of this.
His mother sighs. “Well, then I trust you to know what is right.”
After that, the Jana talk tapers off. I think we’ve escaped the worst of it, and telling the truth wasn’t so bad after all. Topics go back to more neutral affairs.
Then the food comes. Squid ink risotto. Stuffed sardines. Wild boar pasta. Pappardelle with wild mushrooms. I have guguglione, which is a stew of peppers and aubergine, a local dish and the restaurant’s most popular. I am in heaven.
By the end, all of us are in food comas, and we finish with glasses of Amaro, the sunset twinkling through the olive groves just outside our window, a fresh breeze coming in. Claudio’s father is paying the bill, and I’m just about to tell him I’ll be happy to pay my part (knowing he’ll dismiss that), when Claudio’s mother gasps. I look at her. Her eyes are wide and she’s looking over Claudio’s shoulder.
Claudio and I both turn at the same time.
There is a stunning woman in a very expensive looking black dress walking over to us, smiling with supermodel white teeth, and waving.
“Ciao, ciao!” she cries out.
There is a flurry of activity as Claudio and Claudio’s mother get up from their chairs and embrace and kiss this gorgeous woman on the cheek.
I exchange a look with his father but he just shrugs and finishes signing the bill.
A flurry of Italian erupts from all three of them, and then Claudio sits back down.
He leans in close to me. “Old friend,” he whispers.
I give him a pointed look. “Do all your old friends look like supermodels?”
He manages a smile and finishes the rest of his Amaro.
Then his mother sits down.
“Oh, that is Angelina,” she says to me. “Isn’t she gorgeous? Beautiful. Beautiful. You know, they grew up in Cavoli Beach. See, she is with her parents now. She was good friends with Claudio as a child.” She throws her napkin down. “Oh, I wish we could stay and join their table.”
“We are going home,” his father grumbles.
“Angelina and Claudio would make such a good couple, don’t you think?” she asks me.
Oh dear.
I give her a stiff smile, trying to hide my jealousy.
“They’re certainly very attractive.”
His father snorts, shaking his head. “She has been trying for years to set those two up.”
“And Claudio has refused,” she says, pouting. She gives her son a dirty look. “Every time I try and get them together, it’s Claudio that says no.”
The jealousy in my stomach starts to settle.
“Because I am not interested,” he says plainly.
“But how can you not be?”
“Like this,” he says, and then shrugs as an example.
“No, no,” she says, shaking her hands, her bracelets jangling. “You told me once it’s because Vanni wouldn’t approve. But how would you know? How would he know? He’s never met Angelina.”
“I just know,” he says, voice taking on an edge. “And anyway, it doesn’t really matter. In the end, it is
my decision. I don’t have any interest in her.”
“So you’re going to stay single forever?”
Oh, I don’t like this conversation and I don’t like where it’s going.
“Not forever,” he says carefully.
“You are too tied to your art,” she admonishes him with a wave of disappointment, leaning back in her chair. “No time for women. You will die alone.”
“Or perhaps no woman is stupid enough to go out with him,” his father says. “Who wants to come in third place? There is Vanni, there is art, and then there is this poor woman. She will always come in last.”
I bite my tongue. Hard. I don’t want them to know we’re together, especially now, but it’s really hard not to come to Claudio’s defense.
I glance at him. He’s furious, his eyes hard pinpricks as he stares at his father.
“First you say I don’t work hard enough,” Claudio says through gritted teeth. “Then you say I don’t have time for a woman. Which is it? I’ll tell you what it is. Could it be that, until now, I hadn’t found the right woman?”
Fuck.
“What do you mean, until now?” his mother asks.
He stiffens beside me.
Gives me an apologetic glance.
“Me and Grace are together. She is my girlfriend.”
Oh my god. My eyes go wide, my face in flames.
“She is?” his mother asks, looking at me. “Is this true?”
I swallow. Obviously I’m not going to deny it.
But oh my god, how could he tell them this when I specifically told him not to, when I don’t know what we are?!
“Of course it is true,” his father says gruffly, getting out of his seat. “Don’t be so naïve, Nina.”
“I am not naïve,” she protests. “I just … well, well.”
Claudio is watching me, his eyes boring into the side of my face, but I can’t look at him, not right now. Not when he told them that.
We get up and leave the restaurant.
Cram into the back of the car.
As we drive back, Claudio keeps reaching for my hand but…
I keep mine in my lap.
One Hot Italian Summer Page 24