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“Humble,” he answered around a yawn. “I love your ass,” he tacked on, pulling a sideways wink from me and a wiggle of said backside before I darted to the bed. I passed the wine to him, sat down cross-legged, and tore into the delicate wheat crackers and soft goat cheese. I made yummy sounds while he twisted off the cap of the wine bottle and sat up on one elbow to take a drink. I chewed while admiring the way his throat worked. A dribble of wine escaped, trickling down to his chin and under. I bent down to clean it up for him.
“You taste so good.” I sighed, then pecked his wine-painted lips. He smiled warmly before passing me the bottle.
We sat there for several minutes, refueling and rehydrating, our skin close to drying but not able to do so given the creeping humidity. The fan did help a bit, but I was beyond caring if I were sticky. This is a big thing for me because I greatly disliked sweating. Generally, I also find drinking out of a wine bottle uncouth. Cracker crumbs in the bed? Unthinkable! Yet here we were, a couple of bohemian young men, glowing from sex, tossing back cheap wine while dropping tiny bits of cracker to the sheets.
I wiped at the crumbs on his chest after we had destroyed the small box of crackers in one sitting. His dark eyes were heavy, the lashes so thick many would wonder if he were wearing falsies. I left my hand resting on his pectoral, enjoying the in and out of his breath as he studied me with outward admiration.
“You are the prettiest man I have ever seen,” he whispered. I uncurled my legs, then flung one over him, settling my ass on his groin. He smiled up at me, his prick starting to grow under my bare buttocks.
“I think the same about you,” I replied, tracing one dark pink nipple with my index finger. His pectoral twitched. I chuckled, but then grew serious. “I have bad news.”
“Oh?” He arched a brow. “Is it a bad review of my lovemaking?”
“No, God, no! You are a master lovemaker.” He puffed up just a bit. “No, it’s about your competition in Pisa. I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you and Bianca. My great-aunt maneuvered me into going to some stupid organic farming congress in Florence. She’s quite the master manipulator. Heads of state could learn a thing or two from her…”
“That is so bad, sorry. I never think signora to be so manipulator with people. She has been so good to me and my family.”
I blew out a breath, then laid myself out over him. Ugh, no, it was too damn hot for that. I stole a kiss and sat back up, grateful for the meager air that old fan was circulating.
“She’s not always terrible just when it comes to her family.” I took the nearly empty wine bottle, tipped it up, and took a glug. Donvino reached up to thumb away a droplet of zinfandel at the corner of my mouth. I licked the tip of his thumb, making his eyes flare slightly.
“I know of expectations,” he softly said, easing his thumb into my mouth. I ran my tongue over the nail and across the swirls of his pad. “My family has me for them. To marry, have babies, and stop trying to live Papà’s dreams. Your mouth is Venus.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but who cared? My mouth was Venus. Sounded like a compliment to me. I nipped at the digit resting on my lower lip, placed the wine bottle on the bed beside us, and began suckling on his thumb in earnest. His cock began to fatten nicely beneath me, swelling and lengthening.
“You are looking for something else, my tiny rainbow dreamer?” he asked. I nodded. With a move incredibly graceful for a man his size, he rolled me off and then wedged himself between my open legs. He claimed my mouth with kisses that ignited a fire deep inside my belly. Soon he was moving inside me, my cries captured by his lips, the thumping of the bed into the wall surely telling his neighbors below what was going on in the attic. He was gentle this time, taking it slow, moving in long thrusts, his shoulders and back rolling as he found his release. With a shudder, he eased out, kissed my lips, and moved down to swallow my cock. My back bowed off the bed as he worked me with such tenderness and passion that I blew apart within seconds. He swallowed greedily, milking each droplet from me.
“I may…never leave this…bed,” I confided into his armpit as we lay abed the day slowly creeping toward evening.
“I would not mind. You are tiny and do not take much room from me.” He kissed my soggy hair, pulled me close to his side, and whispered lovely little things into the growing dusk. Neither of us was willing to get up to turn on a light. What he was saying was a sleepy mix of English and Italian endearments. Never had I felt so cherished by a lover.
“Then I can sleep here?” I enquired as night settled over the city of flowers. I’d not done such a thing before. Staying over? One didn’t do that with hook-ups. It was wham-bam-and-thank-you-Stan with nameless randoms.
“Yes, please, sleep with me.”
I nestled in tight, even though it was hotter than Satan’s parlor. Donvino moved to his side, rolling back for a second with his cell phone. I glanced up to see him holding it aloft, centering us in the frame. I looked a-fright. A well-loved sight, but a sight, nonetheless. Sated, I smiled dreamily at the camera, the captured image sound floating about on the steamy air.
“Send that to me?” I sleepily asked, my arm resting on his belly, the fan pushing air over my backside.
“Please don’t share online.”
I pressed my lips to the firm muscle over his thumping heart. “I would never.”
“Grazie. I am…someday soon I will tell them.”
“Do not rush on my account. I’m happy to wait for you to be ready and happy enough in your own skin.”
He rolled his head to the side to drop a kiss on my damp brow. “Bellisimo, cosi bello,” he softly repeated. I drifted off with the sound of his heart beating strong and steady under my ear and his words of praise resting in my ear.
Chapter Thirteen
Okay, my great-aunt was right. Venice was a gorgeous place.
I’d been here for a day and already had fallen under its spell. The hotel that was hosting the Modern Italy Organic Farming Congress was spectacular. It sat right on a waterway. My room was on the second floor, and the view of the gondolas slowly moving past was incredibly romantic. Ginerva had been right about that as well. If only Donvino were here. We could be just like the many couples that were being poled down the canal. The bells of a church built in the 1500s had woken me this morning as had the arrival of breakfast delivered by a lovely young man in a black and red uniform.
I had an hour or two before I had to be at the conference room downstairs, so I lingered over my eggs benedict, snapping pictures of myself and sending them to my lover. I took one that was quite scandalous. Wearing only a slinky robe, I bared a shoulder as well as my tiny belly button and giggled madly when I sent it to him. Surely, his big brown eyes would bug out when he opens his messages. He’d not replied yet, but I expected that since today was the day of the rowing competition and he and his cousin were en route to Pisa.
The air off the canal was passable this morning, although there had been a stronger smell late in the day yesterday when I’d arrived. The brackish water seemed to take on an odor as the heat and humidity climbed, or so the desk clerk had told me. He also had gaped at my two trunks as he rang for a bellhop. They were lovely specimens, filled with my necessities. I made a vow as I lingered just inside the open doors of my magnificent room that I would take time to refit my lone trunk. I did have a few pennies to my name now. The influx of working man wages of six hundred euros before taxes was helpful. Nothing like I was used to having in my account, and after a rather rash purchase of a new Mohair Gucci vest that set me back to zero, I’d been doing rather well. I was far from the wealthy playboy who had stepped on that plane to Florence, but I was managing. Not to say it was fun managing, but I was independent. Sort of.
