Tuscan Seduction
Page 2
“Si Carlo, si” I murmur, but my voice is lost on the wind.
Earlier in the trip when boredom inevitably set in, I’d spent some time exploring the old train. Taking his wrist, I lead him across the short but perilous catwalk to the unused sleeper car containing a succession of compact cubbies with sinks—none that work—and couchettes. Grinning at my cunning, he closes the door behind us, replacing the grind of steel on steel with relative silence.
There are no awkward moments. He moves forward, sweeping me into his arms, and we tumble into the nearest cabin, taking up right where we’d left off. I hold my breath as he lifts my dress and folds down my bra to reveal my rigid, rose-tipped nipples, begging for his expert touch.
“Siete magnifici.” His burning mouth closes over each in turn, bestowing alternating suckles and flicks as his hands roam my curves. I’m fast melting into a steaming puddle at his sandaled feet.
In a matter of seconds his shirt and my dress are strewn around the cramped compartment. I fervently run my hands over the smooth terrain of his chest, from his tiny nub nipples, down to his solar plexus and taut navel—then lower still, relishing the sight of his rippled physique by moonlight. For a moment I linger uncertainly at the ridges of his hip bones, until I feel him urging me on. I stroke the front of his jeans and fumble with the button, feeling the tantalizing hardness straining under the denim.
Now my heart is pounding so hard I wonder if he can hear it. He takes a step back and in one lithe maneuver, sheds both his jeans and briefs. His nude form is a magnificent sight to behold. Before I have time to act on impulse, he scoops me up and lays me back on a couchette. For a second I contemplate what the other passengers would think should one stumble into this empty car, but then he sinks to his knees and every last vestige of decorum is lost as he slides my panties down my legs. It’s long past five o’clock and his cheeks, showing just a hint of shadow, rasp my sensitive inner thighs. I can’t help but whimper as his soft tongue teases my swelling outer lips, dipping inside quickly, tauntingly at first, before invading my innermost regions in the same manner he invaded my mouth moments before: hard,, questing, conquering.
Writhing under the blissful assault, I cry out as he sucks my needy flesh into his velvet mouth. I feel him spreading me open like a ripe fruit then consuming the sweet center until my body shudders uncontrollably and the sound of my own cries fill my ears.
“Venite a me, tesoro. !” he urges, as the stars outside the window become a blur and the night explodes in a dazzling fireworks display—all while the train rolls on.
With my fingers entwined in his hair, I desperately coax him upward. His full lips glisten wetly as he cups my breast in one hand and spreads my legs with the other, wedging his narrow hips between my trembling thighs. His erection feels harder than forged iron as I stroke him, gliding my thumb over the dewy tip, slick with moisture and smooth as silk.
Urging him to stand, I moisten my lips and nip at the rosy head. He shudders, gripping the upper bunk for support as I draw him into my warm mouth and lavish him with my tongue. His abdomen tightens and a sheen of sweat glistens on his skin. He murmurs a warning in Italian, which I disregard while caressing his firm buttocks. I feel the corded muscles in his thighs go rigid as the head of his hard cock swells between my lips.
Abruptly he pulls away. “Non ancora.”Not yet.
Grinning wickedly, I lie back in a silent invitation and he comes down on top of me, lifting the small of my back with one strong arm as the other tangles in my hair. He whispers my name as I part my thighs, an intangible primal need making me desperate for penetration. Instead he ruthlessly teases by stoking himself up and down my salivating entrance until I feel as though I’m drowning in a rose-colored sea.
Finally, when I think I can take no more, he pushes inside. Magnifici! Every imperfection in the rails ricochets up through me as he moves perfectly, slipping and sliding—slow then fast—pushing the limits of inconceivable sensation. The resonating drone of the engines melds with his hoarse pants as he splits me with his satin sword, plunging deep into to the very core of my being. He rises up to look down at me, and I frantically clutch at his back, wrapping my legs around his waist to draw him deeper still.
His arms on either side of my head begin to tremble and he utters a long, low moan. His powerful thrusts slow just before he cries “Vieni!” and erupts with such velocity that I feel the rhythmic spurts of molten heat against my quivering womb.
For the third time of the night my wanton body is teetering on the edge, grasping him, trembling; then exploding in staccato bursts of blinding orgasm, each one perfectly timed to his forceful climax.
He collapses, this rose-scented deity, who by extending one simple gesture of chivalry has unknowingly fulfilled my every fantasy. If only he’d known what his reward might be.
Outside, a glowing full moon rides low on the horizon. I savor the feel of his tousled hair on my cheek—his heart beating hard and fast and his broad chest crushing my breasts—the warm wetness linking our bodies in the most intimate way possible. I feel his lungs expanding and contracting, and synchronize my breath to his, skimming my fingers along his powerful back. He lifts his head to give me a soft kiss that makes me feel warm and fuzzy all over. I never want to leave this couchette—ever. I would rather remain here until the end of time, breathing in his luxurious scent and feeling safe and secure in his arms.
Time passes slowly—a half hour? An hour? Eventually we involuntarily separate and I’m struck by a hollow pang of melancholy. He rolls on his side, props on an elbow and stares right into my soul. Does he sense my sadness? His dark eyes gleam in the pale, zigzagging moonlight.
“Gina—il mio dolci.” My sweet.
I melt at the sound of his voice and realize—not without apprehension—that I’ve fallen head over heels in lust. In love?
Our affair spans the rest of the journey to Venice. Scenes from a hundred heartrending movies play in my head as I contemplate our inevitable parting. I imagine him to be a young soldier whisked off to war while his heartsick bride is left at home to weep. Or an innocent man wrongly convicted and being forced to serve an unjust sentence while his fiancée is left grieving her lost love. These are our last moments before we are torn apart forever—we make the most of every one.
Eventually, I turn on my side and snuggle back against him as one strong arm wraps around my waist and the other forms a pillow for my head. We fit together perfectly and doze in content quiet. Still, the heart-wrenching saga of our looming separation plays over and over on my mind’s silver screen. Why do I torture myself like this? My wildest dreams have been realized—but still I’m yearning for more.
Gray columns of dawn invade our sanctum like a funeral pall. Wordlessly we pry out of our makeshift cocoon and dress in silence.
I sneak out of the compartment and in a dingy, cracked mirror, compose myself as best I can under the circumstances. I expect to see dark circles from lack of sleep but instead, find my complexion glowing. Carlo sneaks up behind, slides his arms around my waist and kisses my neck. We feel like old lovers, familiar friends—anything but perfect strangers who’ve just met on a train.
I leave first. Chilled morning air slaps me across the face—a hard dose of cruel reality. The toddlers are beginning to stir as the house-frau struggles to keep them quiet with snacks and milk. The businessmen still sleep, reclined in their seats clutching their briefcases. The middle-aged couple eyes me pensively—probably enviously, as I pass. The old woman in black glances over her shoulder and scowls behind her scarf. I can read the harsh disapproval in her eyes. So be it.
I settle in and fish through my bag for wipes to wash my face and hands, then contemplate applying lipstick but decide against it. What does it matter? Just as I finish, Carlo returns. I notice how he rebuts the censuring glares with a cocky half-grin as he sits down beside me then places a reassuring hand over mine. Although I blossom like a springtime bud under his touch, I wish he wouldn’t—it will
only make things harder in the end.
We ride along in silence. The misty morning fog dissipates to reveal the hundred stunning islets that are Venice sparkling on the horizon. Beautiful as it is, my heart clutches. I have friends to meet and places yet unseen to visit—but I’d readily forgo it all to remain with my newfound love.
We close in on the city. The port is coming alive at this hour; the Rialto market bustles with early shoppers while the canals teem with gondolas. The clock tower at the Basilica chimes eight o’clock, but to me it’s the witching hour.
Our train chugs along the outskirts, over a bridge then finally down into the Piazza San Marco where it grinds to a laborious halt. I shoot a crabby frown at the winged lion as it glares judgmentally down from its pedestal, and then risk a glance in Carlo’s direction. Curiously, I find him watching me with a hint of smile playing at his lips. Those lips. I shiver at the memory.
While the other passengers file noisily out, I make a production of gathering my things. In other words, stalling for time. Carlo makes no move to rise. When at last we’re the only ones left on the train, he gives my hand an affectionate squeeze and breaks into a genuine smile.
“Dove ora?”
My heart leaps into my throat. Where to now?
* * * * *
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ISBN: 978-14592-2814-6
Tuscan Seduction
Copyright © 2012 by Amber Carlsbad
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