La Vita Sexy

by Jasinda Wilder

  Luca growled, cursed in Italian, and then flipped me onto my back in a single motion. He was above me, suddenly, huge and hard and powerful and rocking into me. Oh, lord. He came with a rumble of relief deep in his chest. I wrapped my legs around his hips and pulled him into me, clutched his shoulder and the back of his head with shaking hands, feel orgasm wash over us, drive us together, push us past anything like mere physical release.

  Luca's weight bore down on me, only his cock moving inside me, his breath hot in my ear, his hands tangled in my hair, his toes scrabbling at the blanket. I was coiled around him with serpentine strength, clinging to him, whimpering and whispering his name.

  Something deep in my chest, incorporeal but integral to my identity, burst apart and flew out of me, into Luca, merged with him. I felt a joining then between us. The Bible verse "and they shall become one flesh" pulsed through my mind. I broke into sobs. I didn't know what was happening, what it meant, but I knew it was something I could never undo.

  Luca was inside me, suddenly, emotionally and mentally, now. Not just physically, sexually, but the person of him was tangled with me. I knew, in that moment, I could never experience anything like this with anyone else. I was completely overwhelmed by physical sensation and emotional response, my body wracked with spasms.

  Luca moved above me and in me, eyes locked with mine. His thumb wiped away the tears from my eyes, but he didn't ask why they were there. The glimmer of emotion in his eyes told me he knew exactly why.

  It was too much.

  When it was over and we were lying nestled together, I knew I would face a decision. There were no words between us, just a tacit knowledge of what we'd shared.

  Eventually Luca's breathing evened out, leaving me awake, frightened, and confused.

  That had gone far beyond mere sex. It threw every other moment we'd spent together into new perspective. It had never been "just sex" between us. Luca had been showing me what I'd been missing. He'd worshipped my body, given me something that went far beyond mere physical pleasure. He'd given me comfort with who I am, confidence in my own sexuality. It was a priceless gift.

  So why was I about to run from again?

  Sleep claimed me, briefly, fitfully.

  I woke up again, about four in the morning, and started writing this entry.

  The war is raging in my heart and head.

  Run. Run. Run.

  Love. Love. Love. It's there, Dee. This voice sounds oddly like Leah's, calm and practical. Don't fight the love. Go with it. It's there, Dee, and you'd be a fool to run from it.

  He's so gorgeous. Look at him: longish black hair falling across his eyes, face so peaceful in repose, muscles bulky and powerful even at rest, the soft rise and fall of his chest like waves breaking on shore.

  If I woke him and told him the war going on inside me, he'd find a way to soothe me, reassure me. I should wake him up. But I can't. He's so beautiful in his sleep, the thought of waking him up seems cruel.

  But if he wakes up and finds me gone, he'll be heartbroken again.

  Lord help me.

  June 17

  I'm in a train station in Geneva. It's noon. My heart is broken, for I know I've made the wrong decision. I ran. I packed my bag and left in the gray haze of dawn. I left a note this time.

  Luca,

  Please don't be angry. I'm sorry. I need space. I need time to think. I don't know what I want. Please don't think I left because of anything you did, or didn't do. You're wonderful and amazing. The problem is me. I'm still messed up, I guess, and things with you are just too incredible, too soon. I know that sounds stupid, but it's just overwhelming. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what I'm doing. All I know is I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you, and I hate the thought of how you'll feel reading this. I'll probably head north, into Europe. God, I'm rambling.

  You're too good for me right now. I need time to be alone. I hope I'll be able to find you when I'm ready for things. If not, know that you gave me exactly what I needed.

  Thank you. I'm sorry.

  Delilah

  Before I left, I snooped in Luca's cell phone and found his number, copied it down so I could call him...someday.

  The morning was cold and dim as I dragged my suitcase through the empty streets of Firenze...Florence. Firenze. Saying it in Italian was too hard. Florence. I heard Luca's voice, laughing and correcting my pronunciation.

  I found the train station and got a ticket for Geneva, Switzerland. The train ride was long, slow, and beautiful. I missed Luca more with every mile that passed. Or, since I'm in Europe, every kilometer. I felt a part of my heart ripping out more and more as the train left Italy and moved north. I imagined Luca waking up, arm patting the empty bed beside him, thinking maybe I was just in the bathroom, or getting coffee, then finding the note. I imagined him crumpling the note, eyes glittering.

  Would he come after me? Would he ask the train station attendant if he'd seen an American girl with red hair.

  Did I want him to come after me?

  Yes.

  Could I turn around and go back? No. It would mean facing him, explaining even more. It was easier to make the break now. Break it off before I got hurt.

  Well, shit. There's the truth. I'm afraid. I'm still hurting from Harry's betrayal, and I don't believe Luca won't hurt me, too.

  June 18

  Switzerland was incredible. Too perfect. Like Luca.

  I left Switzerland behind today. I'm on another train, this one taking me to Belgium. Saw some Belgian sights, drank some Belgian beer. Took a bus to Prague. Lovely, ancient, incredible. In other circumstances I think I would have loved Prague.

  Not like this.

  What have I done?

  June 20

  Yesterday was the second worst day of my life. The worst one is pretty obvious, at this point. It's past noon, and I just woke up. I'm hung over. My head aches. My soul aches. My heart aches. I nearly made the worst mistake of my life.

  Well, no. The worst mistake was leaving Luca, and that's one I can't undo, and I'm too much of a coward to go back and fix it. I can't face the heartbreak and anger in his eyes a second time.

  Cowardly me.

  Yesterday I went to a club in Paris. I got sexy, put on too much makeup, wore too little clothing. Got drunk. Really, really drunk.

  Met a guy named Francois. Lovely man. Shoulder-length blond hair, thin and wiry and not quite effeminate. An artist. Pale blue eyes, narrow shoulders, and manicured hands. Sharp features, a quick smile that didn't quite meet his eyes.

  He plied me with white wine, sweet-talked me out of the club, into a cab, and back to his cramped, expensive loft apartment on Champs-Elysees. I know enough to know the little loft, which would have fit into my closet back in Illinois, was worth six of that house. I hated his loft. It was clean, neat, organized, expensive sound equipment and an enormous flat-screen TV and a deep leather couch taking up the entire loft. I wasn't sure where he slept. He sat me on the couch, handed me glass of something green and potent.

  Absinthe, he called it. I went from drunk to something else. The world spun and flickered and wavered and flashed in strange washes of color. I felt Francois's hands on me, stripping my shirt off. I didn't like it. I couldn't get words out to tell him to stop, and I did kind of like it. I'd gone several days without sex, when I'd been making love to Luca several times a day for several days. I was hungry, ready. But it wasn't right. Francois was rough, clumsy. His nails scraped my sides as he ripped my shirt off. His fingers pinched my nipples through my bra, too hard.

  No. The word wouldn't come out, and I couldn't figure out why.

  The universe was shrinking down around me, narrowed to Francois and his pale, weak blue eyes, his strangely cruel fingers and his thin, piano-wire body pressed against mine. The walls should have been white, but they seemed at once blue and green and yellow, wavering in kaleidoscopic swirls.

  Was there a drug in the strange green liquor he'd given me? I think there was. I thought it
then, and even now, writing this in bed, waiting for room service to bring me coffee, I shiver and feel disgust writhing in my belly at the memory.

  The thing that drove me into action was Francois digging between my clamped-closed thighs, manicured nails cutting the soft flesh as he sought my dry sex. He found it, pushed aside the negligible fabric of my panties, thrust a single finger into my vagina and tried to move it. I moaned in protest. He mistook it for pleasure, moved his finger harder, hurting me.

  "NO!" The word burst from me, ripped free by the pain and the sense of violation.

  I pushed him away, scrambled off the couch.

  "Please, Delilah, wait. You are so beautiful. I want you, don't go, mademoiselle," Francois begged.

  I slapped him, hard enough to spin him around and knock him to the ground. I found my shirt on the floor, hooked the straps of my high-heeled sandals in one finger and wove unsteadily out of his loft. I missed a step, fell down three stairs to the landing, hurting my backside and my tailbone. I refused to cry. The world spun, shook, distorted in awful crazed crayon-colors.

  Nauseous. Disgusted. Afraid. Angry.

  I found the street, hailed a cab. The driver was old, silver-haired and wrinkled and kindly-looking. He turned his face to the side, not quite looking at me, not asking where I wanted to go. I fumbled the card of my hotel from my purse, showed it to him.

  He nodded. "Oui. Immediatement." His voice was gravelly, smoky.

  I stumbled into my room, collapsed on the bed after latching the bar-lock on the door. I took a dozen deep breaths, shuddered, and then shattered into sobs. I fell asleep, the world still wobbling on its axis, colors wrong. Shame burned in my throat with the bile.

  When I woke up, I knew I couldn't go on like this.

  I've made a mistake, and I have to face it, fix it somehow. No more cowardly running across Europe.

  The food is here. The young man pushing the cart reminds me of Luca in a way. Younger, but longish dark across his brow, thick shoulders, strong hands. I'm not wearing much, I'm suddenly realizing. I stripped off my clothes before passing out, and now all that covers me is the bed sheet. The young man is struggling gamely to not stare at me. I smile at him over the screen of my netbook.

  He's not Luca. I break the eye contact and stare at my screen so he knows I'm not interested in anything else but the food. He thanks me in French, his dark gaze flickering to my breasts again and then away.

  Finally he's gone.

  The coffee and food smell great, but all I can think of is Francois and his hard fingers inside me.

  I want Luca here.

  *

  I called Luca. He answered on the second ring, relief in his voice.

  "Luca?" My voice was quiet, hesitant. "I...I'm sorry."

  "No, Delilah. It is okay. I understand. Where are you?"

  "Paris." I wanted to tell him what happened, but I can't. "I...can you come?"

  "Stay where you are. I will be there as soon as I can. What is the name of your hotel?"

  I told him. He didn't say anything else, just told me to stay in my room and wait.

  Hours passed. I watched French TV, not understanding a word. I had a New York Times sent up and try to read it, but I found myself reading the same paragraph a dozen times without comprehending anything. Finally, I pulled out my netbook again and wrote, reread what I've written, going back the first page, composed in a cafe in Rome. Roma.

  *

  I can't believe the craziness that has become my life.

  I miss George and Jose.

  Luca is here. My heart is pounding like tympani in my chest.

  The End of Part 2

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  Jasinda Wilder

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