Going Hard (Single Ladies' Travel Agency Book 2)

by Carina Wilder

  “Watch it, man,” I retort.

  “Mi scusi. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “They are nice,” I admit. “Even nicer now than they were then. But yeah, let’s not talk about them. Listen, would you mind if I sent off a quick email before we get down to business?”

  “Sure. Go insane,” Paolo says.

  “Go nuts,” I reply, laughing. He waves me off, chuckling, and leaves the room.

  Quickly I type up a note to Lucy, pointing her towards the link to Gary’s photos. He’s made them public, so assuming that she has a Facebook account she should be able to look at them. Of course she might not want to, given that the party on the beach was so weird for us both. Still, now that we’ve found one another again, it might be good for an amusing look back on more innocent times.

  In addition to the email, I shoot her a quick text, hoping she’ll see it as she wanders around Rome on her own.

  Hey, Loose—thought you might get a laugh out of seeing us seven years ago. Sent you a link in an email.

  I’m looking forward to seeing you later, Sexy.

  Looking forward to eating you.

  Looking forward to putting my giant dill pickle inside you.

  p.s. That last one was a euphemism for my enormous dick.

  p.p.s. I really, really like fucking you.

  p.p.p.s. I hope that’s not rude.

  p.p.p.p.s. I also really, really like eating you out. I’d make you come for a century if you let me.

  p.p.p.p.p.s. I think I’ve definitely entered rude territory. But I’m good with it.

  When I’ve hit send, I pack up my things and steel myself for the trip to the villa. This is not going to be a good day.

  Not until I see my Lucy again.

  Twenty-Three

  Lucy

  I’ve been wandering around Rome like a zombie for three hours, thinking about Dylan and trying not to think about him at the same time. Not to mention the olive skinned, beautiful woman who obviously still wants him. Or the villa where it they’ll be spending the afternoon together.

  I’ve spent years telling myself that I have nothing to be insecure about. That I’m worthy of love, that I’m good enough to be with someone for more than a week. That I don’t have to run away anymore, that it’s okay to give my heart to the right man.

  I thought I was making progress, too. But now I’m wondering if I was deceiving myself, because I’m in full-on panic mode. I know this is the twenty-year-old me talking, feeding into my insecurity. Not the grownup who tells people off and has a backbone made of hard-edged steel.

  Give no fucks.

  The mantra emerges softly from between my lips. Worst case scenario at the end of today: Dylan decides that he doesn’t actually want to be with me. The fact is that I still got to spend last night and this morning with him. He worshipped my body like a fanatic all night, and no one can take that away from me. Not even some Italian vixen with a body that looks like it stepped out of the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

  Besides, it’s a waste of energy to be insecure. I’m supposed to be the woman who gives the fewest fucks imaginable. Resilient, flexible, easy-going Lucy. Not some worried little twit who’s scared of having her heart stomped on.

  A cappuccino in hand, I’m now making my way towards the Forum. It’s one of the most famous sets of ruins in Rome, but I have to admit that I’m really just heading there to be around people. I want to watch unconcerned tourists wander around. Maybe I can focus on their stories instead of on my own, take my mind of Dylan for a little.

  As I walk the curving Roman streets I let my gaze move from this building to that, taking in the sight of laundry hanging over narrow laneways, suspended from strands of twine between two separate apartments. I love that about this place. Everyone seems attached to one another, somehow. Everything is connected.

  Except for me. Right now I’m isolated. Floating on an island somewhere, utterly alone.

  I lean against a stucco wall and sip my cappuccino, watching a young man and woman argue in animated voices and very Italian gestures. She’s wearing little shorts, her legs long, tanned and perfect. He’s the essence of style, his hair gelled just so, his shirt crisp white cotton, hugging his svelte body. He looks like a soccer player.

  I want to yell, “Kiss each other!” at them, because the way they’re going at it, I know they’ll end up in bed together within a matter of minutes. Only lovers can shout with such passion. Only lovers care enough about each other to flail their arms like that.

  He’s defending himself against some sort of accusation. Without even knowing the language, I can tell when a man on the defensive. As for her, she’s saying he made a pass at her friend, or a waitress, or something. He’s gesturing to his chest as if to say, “But honey, you have my heart. Not her.”

  I wonder if that’s true. I wonder if any woman has ever really had all of a man’s heart. I wonder if I have even the smallest part of Dylan’s.

  Frowning to myself, I continue along the way, determined to stop analyzing my situation too much.

  This city smells like a molten stew of life. Pizza, cigars, exhaust, even flowers. Every so often I stumble upon a little fountain where people stop to fill up their water bottles and take a much-needed drink. One fountain has an angry face pouring water from its mouth, another, a fish spitting a constant stream. Even the tiniest touches, hidden away in dark corners, are so Roman. So exquisitely beautiful. The Eternal City is magical.

  My heart releases a hard pang as I look around. Insecurities aside, I miss Dylan. As usual, I want his eyes to see what mine are seeing. I want to talk to him about all of it, to point out a particularly beautiful door, or to have him explain to me what sorts of columns I’m looking at. My jealousy is temporarily gone, and all I know now is the warmth of affection for someone who’s made my life better. Someone whose smile has made me happy, his body made me lustful, his brain made me excited.

  I’m a girl who wants to love someone, but has never dared. A girl stupid enough to think it might be a good idea to fall for the boy who once broke her heart.

  Part of me wants to embrace it, another part wants to push away the depth of my feelings. But I remind myself that whoever I am now, I know I’ll be okay, no matter what happens. I don’t need anyone else to tell me what I’m worth, even if it feels good to hear it. I know who I am. I survived losing Dylan once; if it happens again, I’ll be okay. I’m Lucy Fucking Horner, and it’s okay to care. It’s okay to be vulnerable.

  Maybe it’s even okay to love.

  When I arrive at the Forum, I make my way through the ticket line and pay my admission, before entering the sacred grounds once occupied by the likes of Julius Caesar. Crowds of foreigners are milling around, taking selfies, ignoring the closeness of ancient Rome in favour of their cell phones. But not me. I’m leaning against a railing and inhaling the place into my lungs. My eyes drag slowly across the ruins—this column, that lonely arch, centuries ago deserted by its crumbling surrounding walls—and I’m savouring this moment. Every stone in this place has been around for countless generations. Men in togas and ratty sandals held meetings in the shadows of the stones that still manage to stand erect in front of my eyes.

  I love the antiquity of Rome. I love its capacity to survive. I love that my petty insecurities have no bearing on whether this place lives to see another day. Rome doesn’t care about my crap. It just is. Sometimes it takes an ancient place to remind me of how little I matter in the grand scheme of things. We’re all just a part of a giant puzzle, and Dylan and I are nothing more than the tiniest of pieces.

  There are no Italians here. Even the people selling souvenirs come from somewhere else. It’s like the Romans know to stay away from the Forum. They don’t want to deal with people like me. They don’t want to see us marvelling at their treasures. They just want to do their thing, live their lives. And I don’t really blame them.

  Finally, after staring for so long that my eyes have glazed over, I
succumb to the desire to look at my phone—only for a second, I swear—when I see that a text l has come in from Dylan. Among other things, he says this:

  p.p.s. I really, really like fucking you.

  p.p.p.s. I hope that’s not rude.

  p.p.p.p.s. I also really, really like eating you out. I’d make you come for a century if you let me.

  Sweet mother of all that is good and holy.

  I’ll admit it: No matter how insignificant I may be in the universe, I needed that.

  He says he’s sent a link to my email, which I’m not about to download without Wi-Fi. Oh, God. From what he says, I think it’s photos from the bonfire party. My stomach turns. I don’t want to see it. I don’t want to remember. I’m supposed to be moving forward through time, not looking back.

  I guess it’s pretty damned ironic that I’m currently staring at a set of ancient ruins and telling myself that the past doesn’t matter. But it doesn’t, not when the present and future have so much potential to be great.

  I click my phone off and just revel in my lover’s words. Looking forward to tonight, Dylan?

  So am I.

  Twenty-Four

  Lucy

  For the next week, every moment when Dylan’s not at work is a moment we spend together. He takes me to the incredible, massive Colosseum where gladiators used to get eaten by lions. To the Catacombs. To the Vatican Museums.

  When I see the Sistine Chapel for the first time, my lover is clasping my hand in his. In a whisper, he describes to me how Michelangelo lay on his back for years, toiling over the amazing fresco depicting everything from the Creation of Adam to the Last Judgment.

  Hundreds of tourists flock around us, but as far as I’m concerned we’re alone. It’s a moment that I’ll never forget, among many, many perfect moments spent by Dylan’s side.

  He takes me to the Trevi Fountain, where sexy Anita Ekberg splashed around in a strapless dress in La Dolce Vita. Tourists get fined 650 euros if they try that these days, or else I’d be tempted to do it. But I don’t need a fountain to feel sexy around Dylan. He makes me feel so good about myself every second that we’re together that I’ve become all but cocky. A little gelato dripping down my chin is enough to get him going. A shy look. A kiss in the middle of a piazza. I can do no wrong in his eyes, and I love it.

  For the first time in my life I feel like I’m not just dating a man. I’m in a relationship. A mature, adult relationship with communication, openness and so, so much sex. We’re lovers in a beautiful city, and it’s the best feeling in the world.

  By the time I get home at four on my second Friday in Rome, I’ve eaten my almost-daily gelato, walked miles and miles through narrow streets, and even done a little shopping. I came away with a bit of lace lingerie that’s so see-through that I may as well not wear it. I know Dylan loves my breasts, and I know he doesn’t need any encouragement to get his mouth on them, but there’s nothing wrong with a little fabulous packaging.

  When I walk into my apartment, aware that Dylan will be home from work soon, I shower off the day’s sweat and slip the negligée on. My tits do look great in this thing, if I may say so myself. One day gravity will claim them, but not today.

  Dylan told me he’d be back shortly after four, so when I hear a knock on the front door, I fly over like an over-eager sparrow. Normally he enters via the balcony, but it’s entirely possible that he hasn’t been by his place yet.

  “Who is it?” I ask, my tone coy.

  “He who is very hungry for what’s between your legs,” the voice replies. Suddenly I’m really glad I didn’t put panties on. I open the door a crack and shove my face out.

  “I’m not decent,” I tell my lover, who’s looking mighty sexy, his skin shiny from the Roman heat.

  “I’ll be the judge of that,” he tells me. I pull the door open to reveal myself, crossing one foot over the other and placing my hands on my hips. A second later the door’s slammed shut, he’s on his knees, his lips locked around one nipple, his hand between my legs like he’s already detected the lack of panties. When he discovers how wet I am, he lets out a prolonged moan of bliss.

  Very, very good boy.

  “I missed you today,” he says as he slips over to the other nipple to tease it with his teeth.

  “I missed you too,” I reply. “A lot.”

  “Oh, sorry, I wasn’t talking to you,” he says, looking up at my face as he takes my breasts in both hands. “I was talking to these sweet girls.” He presses them together and licks my cleavage.

  “We’re a package deal,” I tell him. “Anything you say to them, you say to me.”

  “Fair enough.” He rises to his feet and kisses me like someone who meant it when he said he missed me. “Thank you, Loose,” he says when we’ve managed to pull apart for a moment.

  “For what?”

  He slips a finger under the negligée’s strap. “For this,” he says. “For this.” He slips his hand down again and strokes a finger over my very wet pussy. “For this.” He kisses my lips again.

  Perfect man.

  “I want to fuck you,” he says, grabbing my hips and pulling my body towards his. “God, I’ve wanted you all day.”

  “So take me,” I reply. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I will—but I desperately need a shower. Is that okay?”

  I let out a laugh. “It’s fine. Just do it quickly, or I’ll explode.”

  He nods. “So will I. But I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He slides down to his knees and kisses me between my legs. “Do not, under any circumstances, cover up this beautiful thing,” he commands, cupping my sex in his right hand. “I’m going to inspect it further upon my return.”

  “In that case, I definitely won’t cover it.”

  “Be right back.” When he’s stood up again, he goes tearing out the back way and around the balcony to his place, where he disappears inside.

  I move around the apartment, tidying this stack of papers and cleaning the kitchen as I wait for him, impatient to feel his mouth on me again. Sure enough, after a few minutes I see him jogging back over, wearing nothing but the bath towel that’s wrapped around his waist. As soon as he’s inside, he lets it drop to the floor, revealing a massive hard-on that makes me want to die in a puddle of my own drool.

  We just stand and stare wickedly at each other from across the room, me in my see-through negligée, him with nothing on at all.

  Oh, yes. We’re going to make love again, and it’ll be just like the first time. Possibly even better.

  But just as we each take a step towards one another, someone jiggles the knob on the door that leads into the hallway. Shit, oh shit. It hits me for the first time that I forgot to lock it when Dylan came in. I leap towards it, trying my damnedest to get to it before the intruder comes in.

  But I’m too late.

  Before I know it, two familiar, horrified faces are staring at me, their eyes expanded to saucer size. Then, in a perfectly synchronized motion, they turn to Dylan and his very impressive erection.

  Then back to me.

  Kill me, I mutter.

  Twenty-Five

  Lucy

  Over the course of my life, there have been a lot of awkward moments. A few spring to mind:

  1. The time I threw up during the sermon in church right after the minister shouted something about expelling demons.

  2. The time I accidentally peed my pants when I laughed too hard in grade three, and had to sit around in wet snow pants for several hours, claiming it was just slushy out.

  3. The time when my dog fished a used condom out of my roommate's garbage and brought it to me as some sort of worshipful gift.

  4. Then, of course, there was the time my parents walked in on me wearing a nipple-licious negligée while my naked lover stood by with a throbbing hard-on.

  Oh, wait. That's happening right now.

  “Mom, Dad,” I choke, “I thought you were supposed to be arriving on Sunday.”

  M
y mother’s covering her eyes and mumbling some prayer, no doubt to re-expel the demons from my very exposed body.

  My hands are covering my breasts, and I’m frozen, unable to make any kind of intelligent decision. Meanwhile, Dylan has at least had the common sense to pick up his towel and wrap it around his waist. It’s now the thickest, softest terrycloth tent ever, his hard-on jutting out like a long metal pole.

  My father has turned away and is facing the hallway, no doubt horrified to be faced with the awful truth: his daughter has sex with men. His daughter also has breasts. And a very see-through, very tiny lace outfit.

  When I finally regain the ability to move, I sprint towards my bedroom, slam the door and immediately feel pretty awful that I deserted Dylan. But women and children first, right?

  I throw on a dress and spring back out only to see that Dylan, calm and collected, has somehow engaged both my parents in conversation and asked them to sit down on the couch. His towel seems to have calmed itself into a more natural position, too.

  I approach the three of them tentatively, like a child who’s just broken a vase and is very, very sorry. But wait—I’m twenty-seven, I remind myself. I’m allowed to have boys over. Even naked ones. And damn it, my parents got here early. Two days early, by my count.

  “We’re so sorry,” my mother says when she sees my face. “A nice young man showed us up here when we asked about your apartment—we didn’t realize you’d leave the door unlocked while you were…”

  “While there was nudity,” says Dad, scorn in his voice.

  “I was just showing Dylan the apartment,” I blurt out. Yup. Naked apartment showing. It’s a thing in Italy.

  “It’s hot in Rome,” Dylan beams, leaning back in the chair, his hard abs on full display. I’m convinced that my very virtuous mother is sneaking peeks at his physique. My father, probably not so much.