Letters to the Baumgarters

by Selena Kitt

  The truth was, I was already soaking wet—I’d been thinking about him all day too, about our date and where we would go to ease this ache. I had to sneak him into my flat past Cara Lucia. His mother guarded his place like Fort Knox. We had found places of course, the darkness our accomplice. We had christened the restroom at the Mood Café twice, once in the men’s room, the second time in the women’s. We’d made love in the gondola in the dark several times, tied to a post, nearly tipping it over once in a narrow canal with our fervor. We’d even done it like this, in dark alleys, cul-de-sacs, entryways to empty buildings.

  But we’d never dared to do it like this, in the daylight, in plain sight. I usually felt like a naughty teenager, sneaking around and hiding our lust, but this was beyond daring—it was dangerous.

  I loved it.

  “Lick it,” I begged, sliding my leg up over his shoulder to give him better access. He nudged my panties aside and did just as he was told, his mouth working sweet, hot magic between my legs. My clit throbbed against his tongue, my nipples hardening under my blouse. I rubbed my own breasts, grazing them with my nails through the material, sending hot tingles down between my thighs.

  “Oh god!” I cried when he grabbed my other thigh, pulling both of my legs over his shoulders. I looked down and could only see his curly head and the lust in those striking blue eyes on mine, his mouth fastened over my pussy. “Oh my god! Nico! Oh! Oh!”

  I was coming, just like that, flooding his mouth, my clit beating time, like a hummingbird’s wings, against the lash of his tongue. He moaned softly, his fingers digging into my ass, when he felt the buck of my hips, the arch of my back.

  “I have to have you,” he croaked, his face shiny with the juices from my pussy as he looked up at me, still on his knees, his eyes filled with something—a cross between desire and worship—that made me grateful he was still supporting me, because my knees suddenly felt weak.

  When he shifted and stood, pressing me against the wall, I glanced down the alleyway, mindful now that we might be seen. I saw someone walk past, close enough I could tell it was a man pushing a cart, but he didn’t glance toward us. The other way was a dead end, but there were doorways all along the alley, backs of shops, and owners or employees could come out of any one of those doors.

  “Nico, wait,” I murmured, feeling him fumble for his zipper, but once his cock was free, I truly couldn’t resist. The hard length of him pressing against my thigh as he kissed me was pure temptation and I found him with my hand, feeling him swell as I began to stroke him. He moved his hips, seeking entrance, but I had other ideas.

  “Ohhh Mio Dio!” he moaned as I sank to my knees for him, the cobblestone cold and unforgiving, but I didn’t care. I sucked the thick, mushroom head of his cock, feeling his hand moving through my hair, pushing himself further into my throat. I let him thrust deep and hard, let him use my mouth for his pleasure, my fingernails grazing his balls, coaxing the cum I knew was boiling there to the surface.

  “No, no, no,” he cried, making a fist in my hair and pulling me back. I looked up at him, panting with lust, my eyes half-closed, my hand tucked between my legs, rubbing at my aching clit.

  “Please,” I whispered.

  That was all I had to say. He stood, turning me around roughly and shoving me up against the wall. His hands roamed over my ass as he pulled my hips back, bending me at the waist so he could take me from behind. I braced myself, hands splayed on the brick, waiting for him to impale me.

  “Play with yourself,” he ordered, pulling me back into the saddle of his hips, his cock an iron rod between my ass cheeks.

  “Please,” I said again, but I reached down to touch myself, my clit pulsing under my fingers.

  I heard a noise behind us and turned my head to look but Nico grabbed my hair, pressing my cheek to the wall as his cock slid into the wet, waiting shelter of my pussy. I prayed it was just a cat, but then he was fucking me and I forgot everything.

  He grabbed onto my breasts, rubbing them through the silky material of my blouse, his cock a driving piston between my thighs. Already in heels, I went up on my toes, wanting all of him, deeper, harder. He fucked me so hard it hurt, and still I wanted more, the motion jarring, shoving me against the brick, rattling my pelvis, my breasts swaying in his hands.

  “Don’t stop,” I begged, hearing the panting of his breath in my ear, feeling sweat trickling down the middle of my back underneath my bra strap, knowing he must be close. “Make me come! Oh fuck, Nico, please make me come again!”

  He grabbed my thigh and lifted it, spreading me wide and pushing himself deeper inside of me, making me howl like an alley cat in heat. My fingers worked furiously against my clit, rubbing faster than Aladdin looking for that elusive genie, the anticipation of the wish almost better than its fulfillment.

  Almost.

  “I’m gonna come!” I cried, my body stretched taut, something in my belly poised and ready to spring. “Oh now! Now, now, now!

  My pussy clamped down on his cock, spasming around his swollen length, a wet, velvet trap. He cried out at the sensation, grabbing my breasts and squeezing hard, his hips driving in deep, thrusting uncontrollably.

  “Oh mio Cara, mio amore,” he whispered endearments into my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my neck.

  Self-conscious now, I pulled my skirt down, the slick slide of his cum caught only by the panties now bunched between my thighs. Nico zipped his pants, still breathing hard, and turned me to face him, kissing me deeply. I could taste myself on his tongue.

  “You’re a naughty girl.”

  “Me?” I gave a throaty laugh. “This alley was your idea.”

  “I can’t resist you, bella.” He kissed my lips, my cheek, my chin. “I’ve never met a woman who makes me want her like you do.”

  Beside us, a door opened, and a tall man stepped out carrying a bag of garbage. He took one look at us and rolled his eyes.

  “Rent a room!” he growled, striding past us.

  I looked at Nico and giggled. “You know we’re going to be late for dinner at Il Ridotto!”

  “No we’re not. Come on.”

  “I can’t run in these heels!” I protested as he dragged me along.

  “Do you want me to carry you?”

  I squealed when he bent and then hefted me up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, my hair flying behind me. It was only a few blocks, but he ran the whole way with me on his shoulders, howling all the while.

  “Shhh, you little she-wolf.” He set me down and kissed me, barely out of breath. The man was in incredible shape. I smoothed my hair and my skirt, still flushed from being carried upside down—and from the sex. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  Il Ridotto was so small it could only accommodate four couples and two more groups of four. The tables lined one wall with candles and a single flower in a vase in the center. The walls were light brick, the fixtures nondescript. People didn’t come for the décor and the atmosphere—they came for the food and the wine.

  A rotund man in an apron and a chef’s hat came around the corner as the door closed, waving us in. There were two couples seated already, one of them eating, the other talking over glasses of wine.

  “We have reservations,” I explained as the little chef came our way. “Bianchi.”

  “Come in, come in!” He was boisterous and smiling, nodding his head as he showed us to our table. “I’m Gianni Bonaccorsi, I’ll be your waiter—and your chef.”

  Nico had prepared me for this fact. Dinner at Il Ridotto was an intimate affair. Gianni handed over our menus and a wine list, excusing himself to let us look over the fare.

  “Are you sure you can afford this?” I whispered behind my menu to Nico. As a student, I didn’t make any money. I was living off savings and had to be very careful with it.

  “Shush.” He waved my question away. “Anything for you.”

  And that didn’t exactly make me feel better about looking over the
menu, where the items were fresh, local, gourmet, and very expensive.

  “I can’t possibly decide,” I said, looking helplessly at Nico. “It all sounds so good!”

  “I can order for us,” he offered, and so when Gianni returned, I let him do just that, sitting back and enjoying the exchange between the two men.

  Both of them clearly loved food and talking about it. Gianni spent fifteen minutes telling us about changes on the menu, letting us know what he got fresh at the market just that morning. When they got into discussing wine, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I knew I had to be a mess—there was only so much I could do without a mirror.

  I surveyed the damage as best I could in the little mirror over the sink, adjusting my dress at the top where my bra strap was still showing, touching up my makeup, running a comb through my hair. Satisfied that it was good enough, in spite of the flush still in my cheeks, I returned to the table to find Gianni and Nico sharing a complimentary glass of port from a fifteen-year-old bottle, laughing about something as if they were old friends.

  “Salute!” Gianni offered me a glass, smiling as he raised his own and gave a popular Italian toast. “Possa tu vivere cento anni!”

  “Salute!” Nico agreed, and we clinked glasses. The port was smooth and reminded me of cherries.

  “I’m not sure I want to live a hundred years though,” I commented as Gianni went off to get our antipasti.

  “And why not?” Nico raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t life good to you, bella?”

  “Sometimes yes.” I shrugged one shoulder, glancing over at one of the other couples. They were older, in their fifties, but they still smiled at each other and touched hands, offering each other bites of their food. It was a lovely sight and made my heart hurt. “Sometimes no.”

  “So tell me.” He leaned closer, those dark eyes inquiring. “What has broken your heart?”

  I shook my head, glad Gianni had returned with our antipasti—cappesante, canestri, carote e lemongrass—a delicious appetizer of scallops in cocoa butter and carrots puree with thyme and lemongrass. Gianni served as waiter and cook, describing each dish in loving detail.

  “Delizioso!” Nico pronounced. I just moaned in response, closing my eyes in pleasure. Gianni went to serve another table, leaving us to fight over the rest of our antipasti, and we did—down to the last buttery bit.

  “You are so sexy.”

  I smiled, dabbing my mouth with the napkin and lamenting the butter I lost on it. If it wouldn’t have been impolite, I would have licked my finger. “Eating here is like having a food orgasm.”

  “Several,” he agreed. “That was just the antipasti. We have primi, secondi, and dessert left to go.”

  “Dessert!” I groaned in anticipation. “You spoil me.”

  “You deserve to be spoiled.”

  “No.” I took a sip of port and looked out the window where the sun was setting, melting into the water, turning it to liquid gold. “We humans aren’t entitled to anything you know. Life is just a gift, not a promise.”

  “Agreed.” He cocked his head at me. “And you’re a gift to me.”

  “No,” I countered again, but he leaned in to quell my protest and I let him, as if one kiss could wipe the slate clean and I could start over, right here, right now. For a moment, with his soft lips against mine, breathing in the musky, male scent of him, I thought it might be possible.

  “Young love.” Gianni put our primi course on the table. I blushed but Nico laughed, taking a bite of the fettucini con ragout and praising the chef’s skill and presentation. Gianni beamed and went on to tell him about his technique, an artist talking about his work, while I took a heavenly bite of my own primi course, a perfectly cooked risotto with two types of clams.

  Our secondi course was impossibly better than our primi. Nico’s was a John Dory with a fava bean puree and turnip tops in chili pepper. He had ordered the calamaro ripieno de patate for me, knowing my love of seafood—squid stuffed with potatoes, prawns and scampi. Both were fresh, delicious, and meticulously and beautifully plated. The entire meal was an artful, luxurious experience, and I didn’t think it could get any better—until Gianni brought dessert.

  Nico ordered pistachio flan, which was fabulous, but for me there was a white chocolate and basil iced mousse and a sorbet made with green apple and wild fennel. I shared it reluctantly—I’d never tasted anything like it. Gianni received high praise from us both for the night and he asked us to come back, although I had a feeling we wouldn’t be for a long while, considering the bill. I glimpsed it when Gianni brought it out along with a complimentary plate of cookies and chocolates and knew just how much Nico had spent on our extravagant dinner.

  The evening was cool but we walked the streets anyway, holding hands and watching the sun set over Venice. It was probably the most romantic scene I’d ever stepped into—it could have been written in the pages of a book—and Nico’s hand in mine made it perfection. If I’d learned anything in the past few years, it was to enjoy the moments, and this was one I knew I’d remember long after I’d departed Italy.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal quite like that,” I admitted.

  Nico smiled. “If you thought that was good, you should let me cook for you.”

  “I’d like that.” I swung his hand, pondering. “Of course, that could prove a little difficult. There’s no kitchen in my flat.”

  “We could use mine.”

  I hesitated before saying, “It’s really your mother’s, isn’t it?”

  “I live there too.”

  “Nico…” I sighed. “Do you ever want a place of your own?”

  He didn’t look at me. “It’s complicated.”

  “I just wonder about a man who’s twenty-five and still living at home with his mother.” I knew immediately I shouldn’t have said it, but it was exactly what I was thinking. And I think he knew it anyway.

  “She needs me,” he said simply.

  “You could still help her, financially I mean, if you had a place of your own.”

  “But then I’d be paying rent somewhere, wouldn’t I?”

  “I suppose.”

  We turned a corner and I knew then where we were headed. My stomach fluttered and my limbs felt tingly. I wanted him—I always wanted him. It had become a constant.

  “I think we feel differently about family in Italy than you do in America,” Nico said.

  I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Perhaps we care more.” The silence that followed his statement was telling to both of us. “That didn’t sound right.”

  “Americans aren’t all selfish and narcissistic you know,” I reminded him stiffly.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Yes you did.”

  He pulled me close, sliding his arms around my waist and bending his head to kiss me. I turned a little, deflecting, and he kissed my cheek, my ear, my neck, sending a white hot pulse through my veins.

  “Come upstairs,” he whispered, pressing his hand to the small of my back, letting me feel how much he wanted me.

  “No.” I shrugged out of his arms. “I don’t want to get in your mother’s way.”

  “Bella…” He reached for me again.

  “Stop calling me that!” I backed away from him, hugging my arms across my chest. “Just… please stop calling me that.”

  “I don’t understand you.” He lifted his hands, helpless.

  “That makes two of us.”

  He took another step toward me. “Please come up?”

  I shook my head, feeling tears welling and fighting them. “I think maybe we need to spend some time apart.”

  “You’re not making sense.”

  “I think I’m making perfect sense.” I glanced up, seeing the square of light above where his mother was peering out, looking for us. “I can’t be with a man who puts his family before me. I can’t do that. Not again.”

  “Again?”

  I turned away, blinking fast.
I couldn’t bear to explain. “It’s a very long story, and I’m too tired to tell it tonight.”

  “You keep too many secrets.” His hands squeezed my shoulders. “It’s like a weight around your neck.”

  “You’re probably right.” I sighed, touching the charm at the end of the necklace Cara Lucia had given me. The eye of Beatrice, watching over me. “But they’re mine to keep.”

  He murmured his words into my ear. “Sometimes you hold things so close to your heart that they crumble in your hands.”

  “Too late.” I smiled. “The whole thing’s already collapsed.”

  “We’re talking in riddles.”

  I turned to face him, suddenly clear. “I think we just need to stop talking…for a while.”

  “Do you really mean this?”

  “Yes.” I nodded, telling myself I did mean it, that this was the right thing to do. I probably should have done it long ago. Beatrice would have been better letting him go, I reminded myself. Better for everyone.

  He put his arms around my waist, bending his head to mine, reading my mind. “I won’t let you go.”

  “You don’t have a choice.” I tried to disengage myself but he held me tight.

  “Give me one.”

  I stopped struggling, meeting his gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “Say you’ll stay here in Italy.” The urgency in his words made everything in me go silent. He was all seriousness, his eyes searching mine. “Stay with me. Give me a choice to make.”

  “Oh Nico…” I closed my eyes against the hope I saw on his face, filled with a pain I couldn’t fight or control. “I’m sorry.”

  “Dani…” He said my name, soft, but he let me go.

  And I walked home alone against the backdrop of a beautiful, blazing Venetian sunset, crying the whole way, feeling as if my life was fading away with the light, like an inferno in the sky.

  Chapter Four

  Dear Carrie and Doc,

  You aren’t going to believe who’s showed up on my doorstep. I can barely believe it myself. Mason! That’s right, I found my ex-husband sitting on my stoop, waiting for me after class, with just a suitcase and an English-Italian translation dictionary in his hands. I think I was too much in shock to do anything else but invite him inside.