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He picked her up, carrying her to the bed, where he deposited her. Turning her onto her knees and hands, his eyes roamed her sweet derriere right in front of him. He slipped aside the robe and saw the glory of her body again, and he was overcome.
He climbed up behind her, whispering in her ear how he couldn’t get enough of her. She arched her back, pressing the side of her cheek against him as he spoke dirty things he knew she loved to hear.
And very slowly, he entered her from behind, tiny bits at a time, his shaft engorged and getting more so.
They were so perfect for each other in every way he’d ever dreamed, as if they were each special ordered to match the other. The common and familiar became thrilling. They anticipated every moan and move, every touch, sometimes changing it up to something new and exciting, but in the end, as always, it culminated in their orgasms, carefully curated to come at once, completely satisfied, no matter how long their lovemaking session.
They quickly dressed and left for the party.
Dimitri didn’t look at himself in the mirror. He couldn’t bring himself to.
The gathering was held on a large outdoor patio adjacent to a boutique hotel the family owned at the top of the town. The sweeping view, even better than the one they had at their apartment, showed the whole sea, islands beyond, ships and ferries coming back and forth, and the Italian coastline in the distance.
He was introduced to cousins, one by one. Very little English was spoken.
“Come, come meet Moira’s fellow,” said her mother, introducing him to her sisters, who giggled behind lace fans. The children giggled, one even pointing out his rainbow hair dye, which he deferred to Moira to explain in Italian.
“California men sometimes wear makeup, as you know,” she said to a younger couple in English, who looked at him askance.
“I like this change in him. It makes him more manly,” she said to someone else.
Dimitri’s job was just to look non-threatening, try not to show his internal reactions as she said these things. Her father took her aside, and they had their private conversation as her sisters peppered him with questions he couldn’t understand, thankfully.
She came back at his side and whispered, “It’s all arranged. They know. They’ll be ready.”
“Good work,” he whispered back and kissed her ear. His show of affection was noted by most the party guests.
A long table was spread on the patio, adorned with fresh flowers and carafes of wine and ice water with lemon slices. At the side was an array of other wines, limoncello, and sweet liquors laid out on a table with tiny shot glasses available for use in sampling. Every household, he was told, had their own separate recipe for limoncello, a great source of pride in the family.
Moira’s sister was the second most beautiful woman at the gathering, a ten-year younger version of Moira’s classic beauty, though her eyes were not quite so dark and her skin tone more olive. Her hair was curly, unlike Moira’s long straight strands. Her tight figure was less voluptuous, thin, and she was shorter. She had the attention of several young men around her. Moira’s brother was slightly stand-offish, apparently holding off evaluation until later. But he was polite, nonetheless.
A great cheer and clapping ensued when the Don was introduced. Dimitri could see the wizened old man, probably close to eighty by the look of him, carefully study the whole crowd, accompanied by two guards who made no shame of thefact that they wore M3’s strapped to their torso, as probably was customary.
Moira’s eyes widened with surprise.
“You weren’t expecting this?” he whispered to her back. She’d been leaning in his arms, standing so close her rear end was brushing against his hardness.
“No, it’s an honor. Unexpected honor. He usually does not go unless invited, and I doubt my mother did.”
“Is it a bad sign?” he asked, smoothing two fingers down her arm from her shoulder to her elbow.
“We’ll have to wait to see.”
Just then, before he greeted everyone, the dinner was called to order.
The family gathered around the long table. A secondary table was set up for the children to sit at, since there were more people than expected.
Moira’s father gave up his position at the head of the table to the Don, the notorious head of the Gambini crime family, Sergio Gambini. He brought with him several of his grandsons, all handsome boys in their twenties and above, garnering much attention by the young women of their family. He knew this had significance, though Moira said nothing.
When they were positioned close to the Don, Moira leaned over and introduced him to Dimitri.
The old man squinted. “You dress like a faggot. Are you a faggot?” he said as he winced.
“No, sir—”
Before he could finish, Moira interrupted. “He was noting how colorful some people here look. I just asked him if he wanted to look more like a local is all.”
The Don peered across at her.
