by Molly Molloy
Riley
I wake up after the most blissful sleep with the sound of water slapping at the wall. When I pull back the long drapes it's to the view from a movie. A Sensurround panoramic floor-to-ceiling image of life in the sixteenth century. My room is directly over the Grand Canal and the high water stretches in front of me like a superhighway, boats and gondolas plying up and down against the rough tide. The Rialto Bridge rises across the expanse at the far end of my real life painting. There's not a single jarring note to haul me out of my fantasy back into the real world.
OhmiGod, I'm in a palazzo overlooking the Grand Canal. On the opposite bank, across the wide tossing expanse, a line of ornate palaces, the very same ones I'd longed to venture inside but only gawped at from the vaporetto boat bus. Now those people are looking out at me. Or would be if they could see me as they ogle the fantastic skyline and wish they could peep inside just one of the fairytale palazzos.
I wander downstairs. Hopefully it's not out of line to beg a cup of glorious Italian coffee and maybe even a pastry before heading out. Every room I peep into is equally opulent, with the same picture postcard view and finally I discover the dining room.
It's empty but with a line of solid silver chafers laid out in a line on the massive wooden buffet. Seriously, every stick of furniture in this house must have required an army of servants to move into position. Must be why they haven't redecorated in centuries.
“Good morning sleepy head.”
I leap out of my reverie and spin around to face Mark standing at my shoulder. The heat immediately busts into my core from his proximity.
“You're looking for coffee I expect.”
“If it's not too presumptuous before I head out to the airport again.”
“Mi casa es su casa.”
“You can hardly refer to this as a house,” I say, feeling the heat in me rise as he hands me a cup of intense dark espresso and his fingers brush against mine.
I haven't seen a saucer in years, never mind a solid gold one. The longing to feel more of him, for any part of his body to connect with mine is unbearable.
“Every room's the size of a football pitch.”
I have to leave here soon and be away from this crazy hunger for a man I met last night. He only offered me a bed out of the kindness of strangers in a moment of need. Better to not start harboring fantasies of being a princess safe in his magical castle. I must remember I have a boring and now lonely life waiting for me in desert-dry Las Vegas.
“It's my home.”
“Of course, I just mean it's so incredible.” Shut up. You're only digging a deeper hole for your awkwardness. Another flush rises into my breasts and I pray my hot host doesn't notice.
“Could I use the internet? My phone's service is out.”
“The storm has kicked out everything,” he says. I swallow hard trying to control the strange tingling rising through me. The things he does to me, almost effervescent in his beauty and confidence.
“Is Josh up yet?” I mumble, again aware of my less than perfect body. “Maybe we can head out to the airport together.”
“Josh left hours ago,” he snaps, suddenly angered. “I dropped him at the airport this morning.”
“Oh.” It seems rude to ask why hadn't they woken me to go with them, especially when I've irritated him.
“You were fast asleep,” Mark says, his voice softens. “So exhausted from everything you went through it seemed cruel not to let you slumber. But the storm's risen and the boats aren't crossing the lagoon.”
“But I need to get my flight.” Now what? No internet, no access to the airport. Was I to be a waif in the frozen alleys?
“Do you? You already missed it though.” His eyes delve into me, roaming across my face and down my neck so intently I almost feel his fingers touching me there, the curve where my neck meets my collarbone, across my chest, down to my-
I have to stop this. It's time to leave, I can fantasize about Mark expertly caressing my body when I get back to my cramped and messy one bedroom apartment. First I have to find another flight.
And then stop quivering from my closeness to the most gorgeous man ever. No guys ever pay me the slightest mind, not being exactly Vegas material- not skinny enough, no enhanced boobs, no fake eyelashes.
“I really cannot thank you enough for taking me in, a stray in the storm. If you're ever in Vegas – . Well, we've got our own version of a Venetian Palazzo you might find amusing.”
Was that enough of an offer? Let him know I'm definitely interested if he ever comes to my town, without acting all desperate. He could get a girl in five seconds in Vegas, without even having to pay her.
“No. You can't possibly leave now. Have you looked outside at the weather? When Siberia sends out a storm it lasts for days. No flights are leaving.”
“But you said Josh flew back to London this morning,” I counter.
My job is seriously going to be at risk if I just don't show up even if it is my daily dream to ditch it. I'd already been playing it risky with all the personal days taken due to feeling like a pile of you know what.
“Josh left with a friend of mine, a Formula One driver who demanded a car from his sponsor to out race the storm across Europe.”
“Oh. Wow.” It occurs they could have stashed me in the trunk, but what am I thinking? I'm not that girl that race car drivers pick up and no one owes me a free ride around the world. I'm lucky to be staying in a palace on the Grand Canal instead of the cheapest room at the Best Western airport.
“Don't worry, I won't let you freeze on the back streets like a beautiful little match girl. You're more than welcome to stay here until the weather lifts. In fact I insist on it.”
Something about the way he says insist makes me believe he isn't only extending polite hospitality. He really is compelling. His voice more a sultry command than an invitation.
“I don't know,” I mumble.
“Please. You can't know how much pleasure it gives me to be able to rescue you.”
“I mean I hardly know you.” I can't keep up this resistance.
“You know my son. He'll be back next weekend. Assuming the flights out of London are all caught up.”
Do I know his son? Not enough to feel that this is a friend situation. But then how did anyone ever make friends without being strangers first? And let's be frank, there isn't a better place in the whole wide world to wait out a snowstorm from the tundra than where I'm currently standing.
Next weekend? No, no, no. Stop dreaming and acting irresponsible. You have a job to get back to, a- okay, not much else is waiting for me. Mark's eyes scan across me intently, making a rash of goosebumps rise across my arms. Suddenly my head is nodding, silently agreeing to his command proposal.
There's an entire room dedicated to books, the library of floor to high ceiling shelves filled with ancient tomes, bound in leather with gold tooled titles. It's strange to hold a book in my hand after becoming accustomed to an E-reader. Amazing how quickly we forget what we swore we'd never let go of. I stretch out on a chaise lounge and between pages, look up at the domed ceiling, painted with a garden of peacocks and naked nymphs.
Mark is gone all day and the housekeeper brings me an insalata tricolore and pasta al oglio which is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. How do Italians manage to make plain boiled pasta taste so spectacular?
I would go out to walk the alleys again and stop at a pasticceria - one of the ubiquitous bars where a crowd stands at the counter with an espresso and a delicious small cake selected from the dizzying array lined up behind the bar. But the weather makes it impossible so I remain holed up in front of the fire in the museum style library.
That evening and the next we eat alone, just the two of us in the huge dining room, four course meals of exquisite taste and simplicity. It's uncanny how I feel I've known Mark forever and have lived in his palazzo in another life. I'm so immediately comfortable with being an actual princess. I like watching him talk, his movi
e star good looks and his worldly knowledge of almost everything. What can have happened to Josh's mother that she'd let all this slip away?
“I love a woman who enjoys food. It's so sensual watching her eat,” Mark says. He insists on serving me and when the desserts arrive he feeds me a taste of each on the end of a spoon.
He's right. Food must be sensual from the way every meal leaves me throbbing between my thighs. When I get back to my room, I press my fingers over my mound, through the damp fabric, trying to work the hunger out of my folds. I have to leave before I fall completely over the edge for a man I can never have. He's far beyond me, enjoying a little game with a stranger while the weather stinks.
Chapter SIX
When my phone service comes back intermittently, I call the airline and rebook my flight home for next available. I've trespassed on Mark's good nature long enough.
“No you can't possibly leave on Thursday,” he informs me. “Josh is coming for the weekend and he'll be so disappointed if you're gone.”
He will? He'd been very flirtatious in the alley but surely he has a personal bevy of model girls his own age to play with in London. His type has to know every woman is under his enticement. In reality, I'm barely on his radar.
“I have to get back to my job,” I say for the umpteenth time. Half-hearted and still afraid to counter Mark's wishes.
He looks at me oddly. No doubt the concept of being the slave to an evil employer your entire life is alien to him. I envy him that freedom more than all the palaces in the world.
“You can leave Sunday,” he insists.
“Then I'll have to go straight to the office with jet lag,” I say.
“You're young, surely you can handle a little jet lag. Stay here for another few days.” My hand is encased within his two large palms and it’s strangely impossible to refuse him. He's so enigmatic, beguiling me with his forceful charm and truthfully, I'm a little scared of seeing the rage shiver across his features if I decline his demands.
“So- it's decided.”
He pours me another glass of the aromatic Brunello wine into a heavy crystal glass etched with cherubs and stuff. I'm terrified of lifting any cup or glass in the palazzo- all priceless antiquities I'm sure to smash.
He hands me the glass but doesn't let go when my fingers collide with his around the bowl. We stand in the center of the enormous room with our eyes frozen into each other, fingers nuzzled and breath quickening.
Then his face is close enough that his warm breath strokes my lips and they plump up in eagerness for more. It's so long since I'd felt a man's firm kiss. After that alluring connection in the streets or Carnival, I want his mouth on mine, devouring me, making me his once and for all. That kiss beneath the big black cloak inspired all my imaginings.
I've dreamed of Mark two nights running.
He comes into my room and pulls back the heavy pure silk covers while I sleep. He gently slips the satin and lace peignoir off my shoulder and reveals my breast. Do nipples get hard when you're asleep? I have no idea but mine are raging pellets of lust. He grazes his palm across the bullet peak and bends his head to lick and pull it between his soft but insistent lips.
He frees the other breast and stands back to admire the plump flesh after kissing both into a fever of hunger. In the dream I'm avid for his expert fingers to tug and twist the rage of need out of those eager peaks but he believes me to be sleeping so too much aggression is hardly on the cards.
Instead he pulls the slinky fabric up over my thighs to reveal my bare naked slit. I feign disturbance at the cool air assaulting my wetness and open my legs a little.
Even in my dream I flush livid with my wanton behavior but it's too delicious, how he examines every part of me with such intense longing. He tenderly places his fingertips on my lips and pulls them apart, revealing my vulva, pounding and flexing with greedy desire.
Oh my god does he know I'm faking sleep? I have no idea what my body is capable of in slumber, but in my dream I'm dripping wet and begging for him to slither his fingers across my folds. As though reading my mind, he arcs one fingertip along the length of the ridge then snatches it back when my shudder.
Waiting until he's satisfied that I'm still asleep, in my dream I'm pretending to be, he teases the length of the ridge on the other side, then circles around my entrance, waiting for the quiver to pass before stroking back along the clit itself.
When he reaches the nub I think I might cry out with the waves of excitement barreling around my core, but with another wriggle I'm able to bite down on my lip briefly and open my legs wider at the same time.
He rolls his fingers in tantalizing circles around that triangle nub standing up in my spread folds then corkscrews a finger inside me. He holds it still there until I shudder and my convulsions clasp at his finger, trying to drag him in further.
Oh my god it's so divine and decadent how he waits with his finger buried deep while I calm and fall back to pseudo sleep. He pulls out almost all the way then brings a second finger to meet the first at the entrance before pushing both inside.
He strokes the walls of my tunnel in and out until he's sure I won't wake then pushes a third deep into me and I almost come, dripping all over his hand. The pressure pools, gathering behind my pulled open vulva and I'm mindless with the need to fall over the edge.
Will he take me? Will he push his cock inside me while I sleep, hoping to ravage me before I come around? My mind pleads with him. As though I can communicate my intense desire across the sub-conscious world.
His three fingers saw in and out, grazing across the spot halfway along the length that makes me delirious with insatiable need to let go of everything I'm holding on to and have been holding on to too long. His thumb presses on my clit and I begin to writhe, letting my moans come wildly as though in a delicious erotic dream.
Please fuck me. Shove your cock inside me and fuck me hard. I promise I'll stay fast asleep if that's what you need but I need you now.
But his insistent fingers are too clever. My body gathers at the edge and throws itself over before I can prevent it. I scream with full force, knowing I can indulge every sense because it isn't really me. I let go with wild abandon, thrashing and bucking my body as wave after wave of bliss crashes against my edges then recedes.
Oh my god. That was a climax. Every man before now is like a teenager in comparison to this absolute fucking genius. Mark carefully puts my slinky nightgown back in place, leaving my soaking thighs as reminder or proof of my sexy dream when I wake. I roll over and fall into the deepest most relaxed sleep I've had in- ever.
I shouldn't stay here any longer. It's purely indulgent when I know the cubicle is waiting and will always be there like a chain at my ankle. I have to get back to my life and make a new one somehow. Because that's how it feels. That I have no life remaining, it's been torpedoed to shrapnel and I have to start all over again.
I don't even know that I'll stay in Las Vegas now. Everything reminds me of Dwayne and my miserable failure as a married woman. A woman who was joined with a man and building a life with him. A life he had no intention of living. That never really existed at all. It was a total facade. My husband wore a mask every single day instead of once a year.
Maybe I'm tempted to stay with very little pressure on Mark's part because he gives me a place to hide.
“What are you afraid of?” he'd asked me when I demurred, saying we were total strangers.
What am I afraid of? In truth, maybe just about everything. Every decision I've ever made was taken out of fear. I got married because I was afraid- of being alone, of managing life without someone else. Now I have to learn to do things because I want to, not because I'm scared.
Being in Venice is a dream. A dream of life. I've woken out of a nightmare into a dream and although it can't continue, I just want it to be my life a little longer.
Chapter SEVEN
Josh & Mark
When we're three together again on the weekend, we go out o
n the town. We put Riley between us, looking gorgeous in the perfectly fitting clothes we bought for her, clinging to that divine welcoming body and walk along the calli.
“I feel so secure between you two powerful, strong hunks,” she says. “At least I'm sure there's no chance of me tipping into the drink now.”
“You'll never fall again with us to hold you, baby,” he says, tugging her closer to him.
I twine her arm through mine so I can feel the press of the side of her fabulous full breast into me while we walk between the bars and restaurants off the tourist trail.
He watches through narrowed eyes as I feed her a forkful of calamari, stewed until tender soft. Her ecstatic swoon as the full flavor of meaty ocean bursts across her tongue.
His entire body reads ownership of her. But not this time, no, not this one. I'm not sharing Riley with him. She's mine. And I want to keep it that way.
Last night at dinner, too cold to go out, we dined at home. La Signora Bonomo, our cook for years since childhood, brought in the special dish of sliced organs. Dripping in blood red sauce, she set his favorite meal before him and waited for his compliments. He drowned her in his effusive remarks, that flow as fast as the canal on high tide.
When she tottered out, her full chest puffed up with pleasure, he grabbed the dish and pulled it close. After devouring a huge spoonful, he insisted on feeding it to us with the tiny salad fork, as though it was the greatest delicacy on the planet. Which in some ways it is.
I declined. I was never eating that particular dish again. Too many years of it had turned my stomach. Especially now that Riley had come into our lives.
“Too much garlic,” I told Riley. Anything to stop her from taking the offered morsel between her lips.
“It smells divine. I don't mind if you guys don't,” she said, flirtatiously, looking back and forth between us.
Divine was hardly the appropriate fucking word. My stomach flipped watching her lick her lips with the tip of her inciting tongue. Then open them up again, just enough to pull the flesh into her delectable mouth.
