Tuscan Seduction

by Amber Carlsbad

  I am making out with a guy I just met… I don’t think I’ve ever been so aroused.

  Gina has given up a boring job and even more unsatisfying relationship to flee to Italy, convinced there’s something more waiting for her. She finally feels a spark of excitement when she meets a sexy local named Carlo on a train to Venice. Their chemistry is immediate and intense, but even free-spirited Gina can’t have sex with a total stranger…can she?

  Tuscan Seduction

  Amber Carlsbad

  Contents

  Tuscan Seduction

  Spice Briefs BPA

  Copyright

  Tuscan Seduction

  The antiquated train trundles down the tracks between Abruzzi and Venezia at a leisurely pace, vastly more satisfying than a rocket ride by bullet train. This was my choice, of course.

  In an effort to discover my roots, an adventure I’d romanticized over many a sleepless night, I’d scrimped and saved for the better part of a year. Still, countless travel books could not have prepared me for the depth of emotion I would feel gazing at breathtaking vistas of golden sunflower fields waving in the breeze, the silver-blue gleam of olive groves sweeping up gentle hillsides, or the comforting shelter of towering cypress and sycamores lining the narrow cobblestone streets.

  July in Italy mimics the hot climate of Southern California, which is precisely why I chose this month to make my move. I love the sun, and research indicated that tourism slows during the humid months. Even the Pope flees the heat of Vatican City to holiday in the Italian Alps, leaving Rome, with its monolithic basilicas and unparalleled history, to swelter on its own.

  For me, this is more than a vacation. I let my apartment go and quit a job that paid decent enough, but did not thrill me. Also left behind was a man who didn’t deserve what I’d done to him. By the time I turned thirty, too many capricious lovers had passed through my life. Jeff wasn’t one of them. Sadly, losing him is the only aspect of this bold move that stirs pangs of regret. While he wasn’t my first long-term boyfriend, he was definitely the nicest; as well as the oldest, at nineteen years my senior. I met him met on a blind date and, for lack of distractions at the time, fell into routine that quickly evolved into a relationship. He couldn’t have been more content. I felt trapped.

  It wasn’t that I was dissatisfied with my life. Flowers, fine dining and orchestra seats at the theatre were not too shabby ways to spend one’s weekends. The sex that followed was nothing to write home about—and certainly not vigorous enough to burn off the calories from those dinners—but it was sincere. For months on end I tried to convince myself that this was how grown-ups were supposed to behave. Polite, poised and discreet. According to Jeff, displays of affection were reserved for darkened bedrooms, under cover of crisply pressed sheets.

  When I could no longer stand the monotony and tried to articulate the intangible longing inside that compelled me to move on, Jeff called me selfish, naive and starry-eyed. Maybe he was right. He said he would not wait idly by while I indulged a childish whim. If I chose to leave, it would be our final goodbye.

  With far more life experience under his belt than I, his stance was understandable. His last words still echo in my ears, “You’ll never find someone who takes care of you like I do.” I thought long and hard about that final statement, but it failed to quell the desire that burned through me each night as I lay in my in bed alone, listening to the drone of city traffic and craving something more than to be taken care of.

  I’m too young to eat rich food and sit prim and proper at the ballet every weekend. I want to scream with the throngs at deafening rock concerts, letting music like thunder shake me to the core. I want to speed though Europe in a convertible, play on the coarse sand of hedonistic beaches, swim naked in the Mediterranean and, most of all, experience genuine lust—the kind that makes you weak in the knees.

  I want to live.…

  Unlike the bullet, this old train makes frequent stops that might be annoying if it weren’t for the opportunity to discover each ancient village along the way. I’m in no rush to reach my destination, a 650-year-old hotel on the Grand Canal in Venice. The journey is part of the adventure. Venice will be the icing on the cake.

  Despite the breeze wafting through open windows, my skin glistens with perspiration. My lightweight sundress clings hopelessly to my body and my strappy heels are slippery on my feet. More than once today I’ve daydreamed about air conditioning, a luxury I have not felt much of since arriving in Italy.

  A few rows up sits an old woman, her hands gnarled from decades of work I can only imagine. At her feet is a handled grocery sack with a crusty bread loaf peeking out. The unmistakably sharp tang of Italian cheese reminds me that I haven’t eaten since the fruit and fromage plate on the plane. The woman is dressed entirely in black with a scarf to match and clutches a rosary while whispering under her breath. Penance? If anyone should ask forgiveness right now, shouldn’t it be me, the “selfish” one who flew a perfectly good coop for greener pastures?

  As we crest a long hill and begin to ascend, telltale duomos and spires rise from a valley marking the next town.

  Stashing the book that has lain in my lap untouched this entire trip, I make my way to the front of the car where the tiny bathroom has a sink with tepid fresh water. I rinse my face and can’t help but grin at my reflection. With olive skin, amber eyes and long hair the color of caramel coffee, I do look like I belong here. Better yet, my reflection is glowing with anticipation and optimism that I have not felt in years. As long as I keep my mouth shut, one might never suspect that I am an imposter in a foreign land, an outsider trying to blend in, secretly searching for something or someone I have yet to encounter.

  Making my way back to my seat, I observe a middle-aged couple, impeccably dressed but frowning behind their books, oblivious to the awesome beauty just outside their window. A shame, that life and all its glory, is passing them by.

  As the train rambles toward the platform, I feel a deep yearning—a primal ache that longs for fulfillment. I have the uncanny sense that my destiny might be looming over the next horizon. Who knows? Maybe this time it really is. It’s that glimmer of hope that keeps me moving onward.

  We stop in the coastal village of Acona where from my window I systematically scan the limestone piazza. A group of sharp-dressed men in designer suits coddle briefcases as they board the train. A matronly house-frau leading a squawking gaggle of dirty-faced toddlers by their sticky hands appears perpetually flustered. No knight in shining armor awaits me, and my heart plummets with undefined loss. I laugh at myself for being such a dreamer, dabbing my neck and forehead with a dampened paper towel. What did I expect?

  At last the train lurches forward again, belching smoke into a cloudless cerulean sky. It dissipates quickly on the ocean breeze as I close my eyes and when I open them it’s gone. Ridged sandstone cliffs cascade in rippling waves to the sparkling water below as we teeter along the precipice, dangerous yet safe, atop an ever-shifting crag that could crumble to the sea at any time, but hasn’t in thousands of years. I feel painted into this stunning fresco, my existence imprinted for all eternity to see. If we were to plunge hundreds of feet to our death right now, at least I could say that I died living my dream.

  I retract that statement as we roll toward our next stop. Ravenna, much like the mosaics it’s famous for, appears in the distance like a colorful mirage. Stacked terra cotta structures adorned with ornate ironwork boast window boxes spilling tendrils of ivy and vibrant geraniums to the narrow cobblestone streets below. Billowing linens strung from rooftop clotheslines dance on a breeze as the train rumbles past. It’s easy to see why Dante found sanctuary in Ravenna.

  Near the Basilica di San Vitale we grind to a halt, and af
flicted by a sudden barrage of pins and needles, I feel the urge to walk. Stowing my belongings under the seat, I stand and make my way to the front of the car. The old woman continues to pray, the couple reads and the children nap. I step out onto the tiled platform and a blast of pungent sea air fills my lungs, refreshing my feverish skin and causing my dress to ruffle deliciously around my thighs.

  The pudgy conductor, waving an amiable ciao, waddles past. Quickly discovering that heels and Byzantine tile don’t mix, I lean against a tessera column to survey my surroundings and spot a gelato kiosk in the Piazza’s center. Worried that the house-frau and her brood might wake up and beat me to it (inbred American paranoia I’m sure), I rush over. I needn’t have worried.

  Handing coins to the young vendor, I can’t help but notice how he is looking me up and down. His lips curve in a slow smile and I am suddenly aware of the filmy material clinging daringly to my curves. There is not much separating his espresso-brown leer from my bare skin. My nipples tingle and tighten against my lacy bra at the thought that I’m probably giving him an illicit thrill, and a wicked chill runs down my spine.

  Purring “Grazie” in my sultriest voice, I take the sinful chocolate cream, lightly brushing his fingers in the process, then saunter away—no easy task on the uneven ground. Leave it to me to stumble like an ox and almost go down as a gap in the weathered grout traps my heel. God save the gelato—I haven’t even had a taste!

  Out of nowhere a steely arm catches mine just before my knees crack on the unforgiving tile. Surprised, I recover my balance and look up into the most captivating hazel eyes I’ve ever seen as he draws me up toward him. My hero!

  “Siete male?” he says in a rich, melodious voice.

  Mortified by my clumsiness, I grin and nod. Had I lost the gelato the outcome might’ve been different, but thankfully we both survived.

  Flashing a set of dazzling white teeth, he grins good-naturedly and says, “I vostri talloni sono troppo alti!” gesturing to my sandals while rolling those incredible eyes. I don’t need a translator to know what he’s implying. I laugh softly, while inside I’m melting faster than my ice cream.

  Longish black hair curls at the edge of his collar, and his smile is more captivating than the Adriatic. He merely speaks and I swoon. The language of love is not lost on me.

  “Siete Americano?” he asks, still carefully holding my upper arm.

  “Si.” It appears my cover is blown, but still I smile, admiring the contrast of his long brown fingers against my skin. Suddenly a revelation. Could it be? Yes. He’s holding a train ticket in his other hand.

  Apparently unwilling to believe I could be intact after such a spectacular near miss, he leads me toward a nearby bench. We sit close, and I lean against him in silent thanks. Beneath the shade of a regal cypress, we could very well have passed for lovebirds honeymooning in Ravenna. Without a word, he skims a large hand down my leg to closely examine my ankle. Flames lick out, radiating from his touch.

  Greedily, I take this opportunity to study him. He’s lean and tall with broad shoulders, and the collar of his white linen shirt is open to reveal a gold crucifix lying flat against his well-defined chest. Faded jeans, worn thin in all the right places, allude to long, powerful legs. As he tends to my foot, his shirt pulls taut to reveal a muscular back. We’re so close that I can smell some sort of rose-scented soap on his skin. Going all soft and shivery inside, I vaguely wonder if I’ll ever again be able to smell a rose without thinking of him.

  He concludes the inspection by sitting up and deeming my ankle intact. “Siete benissimo.”

  As I thank him while finishing the rapidly melting gelato, it appears to be his turn to study me. Savoring the exquisitely rich chocolate melting on my tongue, I imagine he’s undressing me with those smoky jade eyes. And it isn’t a stretch—he may very well be. Subsequently I’m swept away by the delirium only gorgeous men and fine chocolate can induce. He grins as if reading my mind. Tiny lines fan out from his eyes and his lips curve enticingly. The gelato is forgotten.

  He removes the paper cup from my hand and lifts the last spoonful to his mouth. As I watch him swallow, my temperature rises. His tongue appears momentarily at his lips then disappears again. My insides have turned to jelly.

  The shrill shriek of the train whistle nearly launches me off the bench. The engineer is waving to us from his square window. Boarding strikes fear in my heart; will the beautiful stranger disappear from my life as fast as he appeared?

  I stand up, straightening my dress as best I can, then gesture toward the train, the obvious question lurking in my eyes.

  “È quello il vostro treno?” he asks as he takes my elbow and steers me over the tiles. Evidently he doesn’t trust my ability to navigate them on my own. I nod in agreement that this is my train, then float across the platform on a cloud.

  Inside, there are three cramped seats at the rear of the car, mine being the window.

  He takes the one beside me and places his backpack on the aisle.

  “Il tuo nome?” His eyes glitter devilishly in the relative darkness.

  I pull out my passport and hand to him, watching as he angles it toward the light to study my photo.

  “Gina.”

  Hearing my name roll off his tongue has me shivering despite the steamy air.

  “Sei molto bello.”

  A shower of sparks ignites in my belly. He thinks I’m beautiful? Oh, the irony.

  “Sono Carlo.” He extends a hand so big it seems to make mine disappear. His grip is warm and solid.

  The train lurches forward, prompting us to bid Ravenna goodbye, and I can’t help but muse how lucky I am to have acquired a living, breathing souvenir. Beside me sits a stunning incarnate of Michelangelo’s David—in the flesh. So far, he is no less perfect than the real thing, and in my opinion better. We attempt small talk but find it difficult to get past the basics, which don’t really matter anymore because our bodies have started carrying on their own conversation.

  The distant sea fades from cobalt to aquamarine as the sun rides low on the horizon and the train meanders on. An ethereal golden glow pours into the coach and I become acutely aware of his hard, denim-clad thigh brushing mine. The friction sets off tiny jolts of electricity, which cause me to glance around nervously. The old woman is snoring softly, her head lolling to the side.

  Shadows emerge and shortly afterward Carlo appears restless. He lifts the armrest between us then grazes my cheek with a fingertip, moving a wayward tendril of hair from my face before lowering his chin to my shoulder. I shiver and follow his gaze. My dress has ridden up to reveal a good portion of suntanned thigh. A shock of dark hair falls across his eyes as his hand steals onto my knee. His caress is slow and sensual, and my heart lurches in my chest. Moisture materializes like tiny diamonds on my cleavage.

  A slight smile forms at the corners of his mouth as he peers up into my eyes for a long, weighted moment. I am frozen in place—waiting. The heady scent of rose petals envelops me as he leans close, his smooth lips grazing mine, gently at first, then firmer, coaxing my lips apart. His mouth is warm and velvet soft, and as his tongue touches mine, a shudder of desire sweeps through my body. His hand steals higher, brushing my inner thigh, and suddenly I’m on fire. He shifts in his seat and I can’t help but notice his obvious arousal. The sight makes me weak.

  Twilight falls like a midnight-blue painting on velvet, reflecting millions of stars on an inky sea. Inside, dim cabin lights illuminate the surreal scene. I am making out with a guy I just met, albeit a hot guy, but a stranger nonetheless. Still, I don’t think I’ve ever been so aroused. It feels like a sexy dream, except that every ripple in the tracks is vibrating up through the leather seat and my entire body is throbbing with thick, hot desire. This is no dream. The sensations are real. I suck in a sharp breath as his teeth tug at my lower lip.

  “Voglio piacere si.” His lips move up to my ear, whispering all hot and all Italian.

  Not sure what it means, and def
initely not caring, I bury my head in the fragrant hollow of his neck and make an impromptu decision to cast propriety aside and go with what I’m feeling. His large hand has slid between my thighs; I’d like assurance that our tryst remains clandestine, but I’m unable to look up. He’s kissing my collarbone, his curls tickling my neck, and all I can do is breathe him in as his thumb lightly strokes my thin nylon panties. The seat grows slippery as he murmurs in my ear, moving slowly—deliberately. My thighs start to tremble and my stomach clenches as waves of shimmering heat radiate from his touch.

  Kissing me deep, he eases past the nylon to delve between my slick inner lips. Oh my god—my hands clutch at the armrest; I can’t believe this is happening. I can barely breathe as he withdraws to circle my quivering center, whispering, “Sie cosi dolci.”

  Sudden violent tremors curl my toes against my sandals. I’m coming, gasping against his parted lips as my body pulses around his relentless, revolving fingers. He murmurs in Italian, coaxing the rhythmic contractions and kissing my lips until I’m left utterly breathless—and dazed.

  When I open my eyes all is quiet. The rear seat affords much privacy. I concentrate on breathing evenly and quietly while his fingers linger, absorbing every last ripple of our secret. Eyes smoldering with passion, he tilts my chin upward. I could drown in those greenish-gold depths. We need to be completely alone.

  “Venuto con me,” I blurt, then abruptly stand and pull him behind me. He follows as I tiptoe on wobbly legs to the rear exit, slide open the door and step out into the clement night air. My dress billows in a sudden updraft and he smoothes it down, enfolding me in his hard arms as his cool lips graze my cheek. Looking up at his chiseled features makes me weak all over again. Then, like a hungry wolf, he begins to devour me.

  His hot tongue plays between my lips, plunging inside, repeatedly stroking my cheeks, my teeth, my tongue. His passionate kisses literally steal my breath away. He pushes me against the metal railing, his erection firm against my belly as his hands cup my swelling breasts through the thin material. Below us, the ground rushes past in a blur.