‘You know, now might be a good time to talk about your expectations for the next week. I want to make sure we’re both on the same page.’
Instinctively I tense at the sudden change in conversational direction.
‘Okay.’ I swallow hard. ‘Well, I want you to do everything to me. Show me everything,’ I say with feigned confidence. I don’t want him thinking for a second that I can’t handle this. I need to get it done so I can move on with my life and stop living under the shadow of my naivety.
‘Everything?’ He raises both eyebrows.
‘Yes, I want to know all there is to know. Get it all ticked off.’
‘Do you have a list you’d like to work from?’ The smile he flashes me is teasing.
I roll my eyes at him. ‘Very funny.’
‘But, seriously, any hard limits I should know about?’ he asks, his expression turning serious again.
I think about it for a moment. ‘I don’t want you to strangle or suffocate me, and I don’t like the idea of being spanked.’
‘Shame.’ His grin lights up his eyes. ‘Pain can actually be very pleasurable. It can give you really intense orgasms when you do it right.’
‘Okay, well, I’ll have to reserve judgement on that. But definitely no whipping.’
‘Okay, fine. No whipping.’
I can tell from the look on his face that he’s finding my sexual naivety amusing and it’s irritating me.
‘It’s all right for you to sit there smirking, but I have no idea about these things,’ I mutter. ‘I’m learning from scratch so you’re going to have to give me a break.’ I’m shaking with both adrenaline and frustration. It’s really unlike me to stand up for myself like this, but I know I need to do it if I’m going to maintain any vestige of control over this situation.
He puts up a hand in apology. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m being an asshole. I promise not to tease you any more. Not about your lack of experience anyway.’ His eyes glitter with mischief. ‘There are plenty of other ways to tease you that I think you’re going to like a lot.’
I squirm in my seat as more heat surges between my legs and my knickers grow damp. At this rate I’m going to slide right off this chair in a pool of lust. And he’s not even touched me yet.
* * *
We make it to the apartment in the early evening, doing the journey from Peretola airport to the centre of Florence in another powerful open-top sports car, whose roaring engine makes it impossible to conduct any conversation.
Our home for the next week is on the top floor of a grand apartment block right next to the Ponte Vecchio. Our windows look out over the quirky bridge with its jumble of jewellery shops clinging like limpets to each side with the help of precarious-looking wooden struts, and on across the wide Arno river to the deep russet-red-roofed buildings beyond. It’s a magnificent city and I stand for a moment, drinking in the sheer unique elegance of the place.
‘Let me show you your room,’ Sandro says, beckoning me to follow him with one crooked finger.
I’m relieved to find he doesn’t expect us to share and give a delighted smile as I look around the beautiful airy room with its Art Deco furniture and enormous, cushion-strewn bed.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I say breathily. This room also has a view of the river and I push the wooden shutters open as far as they’ll go to drink it in some more.
Turning back, I see he’s moved to stand right next to the large bed and is watching me with an intensely thoughtful expression on his face. My pulse immediately picks up and my breath catches in my throat.
Is he going to start my first lesson right now?
The idea both thrills and terrifies me.
I move closer to him on shaky legs, telling myself not to be nervous, that he’ll take good care of me like he promised. Based on all my dealings with him so far, it’s obvious he’s absolutely the gentleman I’d hoped he’d be.
Even so, my heart is racing and my palms are sweaty.
He continues to look at me as I get closer, his fingers beating a silent rhythm against his thighs.
‘S-so, do you want to get started right away?’ I ask, nerves making my voice tremble.
A frown crosses his brow, then vanishes behind a smile. ‘So eager.’
‘Well, I’ve not come all the way to Italy just to sightsee,’ I joke, but it comes out sounding a bit defensive.
He shakes his head and walks over to meet me in the middle of the room. Reaching out his hand, he pushes my fringe out of my eyes and I just stand there blinking stupidly at him.
The air crackles between us, as if the tension is charging it with electricity.
‘You know, anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac,’ he murmurs, sweeping his thumb over my cheek so softly I wonder whether he’s actually touched me or if the mere promise of it has set all my nerve endings on fire. My whole body is one big throb of need and I stare up into his beautiful eyes, losing myself in the perfection of them.
His gaze drops to my mouth and my lips tingle as I wonder what it would feel like to have his mouth on mine. His wide, firm mouth.
I swallow hard, my throat a desert.
‘Get changed. We’re going out,’ he murmurs, his gaze flicking up to meet mine again.
I stare at him for a moment, trying to process what he’s just said through my haze of lust.
Then it finally sinks in. He’s not interested in taking things any further right now. He wants to get out of here.
A strange mixture of relief and disappointment threads through me, quickly followed by panic as I wonder what the hell I’m supposed to change into.
I had no idea what sort of clothes I should pack for such a strange trip so I bundled one of everything I owned into my case, telling myself I could always go shopping if I needed anything else. But thinking over my sad collection of lingerie and demure clothes brings home to me just how much I’ve neglected that side of my life. I’ve never really thought about owning underwear and outfits that a man might find attractive; my top priority has always been comfort. And it’s going to show.
Still, it’s not as if I have to impress Sandro to entice him into bed—that side’s already covered under our agreement—a thought that kept me tossing and turning in bed all night.
But I want to fulfil my part of our bargain and, in order to show I’m taking our dates seriously, I’m going to have to make an effort.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask, hoping for some sort of clue about to how to pitch the outfit.
‘Out for dinner, and then who knows?’ he says with a twinkle in his eye.
Okay, that’s really not very helpful. I’ll just have to wing it.
I nod and smile anyway, not wanting to appear difficult and needy. ‘Give me twenty minutes.’
He flashes me one more of his heart-stopping smiles then exits the room, leaving me wondering how I’m going to pull ‘Italian chic’ out of the bag.
Mercifully, it seems I don’t need to worry on that score. When I appear in front of him twenty minutes later in the only smart black dress I own—which is about as far from fashionable as you can get, with its high neck and mid-calf-length skirt—and with my hair in a neat, high bun, he gives me an approving look.
‘You hungry?’ he asks.
I nod, realising I’m actually ravenous.
‘Good. Then let’s eat.’
* * *
The restaurant he’s chosen is in the Piazza Santa Croce, right next to the basilica, which regally presides over the wide paved square and turns out to be only a short walk from where we’re staying.
As we stroll up to the buttery yellow frontage of the eatery, with its canopy shielding the patrons from the low, setting evening sun, I realise it has a long line of people waiting outside. I’m about to suggest we try somewhere else nearby when Sandro takes my hand and breezes past e
veryone, striding straight up to the maître d’ at the door and introducing himself in Italian. As they talk, I notice a movement in my peripheral vision and glance round to see a man standing a few feet away, holding up a camera with a huge zoom lens that he’s pointing right at us. Instinctively, I shudder and squeeze Sandro’s hand. He looks round, spotting the guy, and immediately draws me closer to him, sliding his free arm around my shoulders and pulling me against his hard, muscular body as if to protect me. He leans in to nuzzle my ear. ‘Just ignore him.’
Lust overrides my discomfort at being photographed as I breathe in his alluring scent and feel his warm breath glide along my neck.
Drawing back to look me in the eye, he shoots me a reassuring smile and I grin right back, feeling safe enveloped in his arms. A flash goes off and when I turn to look the guy is already scurrying away towards a motorbike parked nearby.
‘Damn it,’ Sandro mutters. ‘Don’t worry, he’s probably just taking photos of everyone he sees here in case they turn out to be newsworthy.’ He gives me a small squeeze, which only presses me closer to him, and my heart thumps with pleasure. ‘Let’s go inside—they have a table for us,’ he says, releasing me from his protective embrace and gesturing towards the maître d’ who’s patiently waiting to get our attention.
‘But what about those people waiting in the queue? Aren’t we pushing in ahead of them?’ I ask, nodding towards them.
‘It’s okay, the owner is a friend of my father’s. He always has a table for a Ricci.’
‘Oh. I see. Okay,’ I say, smiling apologetically at the people still waiting as we stride into the restaurant in front of them, feeling a sting of shame. Using my name to get a jump on others really isn’t my style.
‘This is the hottest place to eat at the moment,’ Sandro says as we’re led to a table positioned next to one of the windows that looks out onto the grand square. ‘That’s why there was paparazzi outside. They often hang around there in case anyone of note turns up.’
I guess with Sandro being part of the Italian aristocracy, albeit a younger son and therefore an untitled member, he’s probably a person of real interest here in Italy. Plus, he’s such a good-looking man, women will no doubt buy a magazine with him in it just to be able to gaze at his handsome face. I’m actually feeling pretty lucky right now to have the real thing sitting right there in front of me. He’s wearing an open-collared black shirt tonight, which works beautifully with his tanned skin and dark hair. He looks so delicious I could eat him up.
The succulent-looking wild boar fettuccini we ordered has just arrived when we’re approached by a short, stocky man who is clearly ‘somebody’, judging by the way he swaggers over to us.
‘Giorgio,’ Sandro says when he sees him, standing up to give the man a hug and clap on the back.
‘Alessandro—good to see you,’ the man says in Italian, returning Sandro’s effusive physical greeting.
It’s unusual to see men embrace like this in England so I’m always a little taken aback by how physical they are with each other in other parts of Europe.
‘This is Juno,’ Sandro says in English, sweeping his hand towards me.
‘Juno, wonderful to meet you,’ Giorgio says, taking my hand and kissing the back of it.
I can’t help but grin at the pomposity of the gesture.
Sandro and Giorgio exchange pleasantries about their families for a minute or so before Giorgio says, ‘You’ve heard about my new club opening up in the city tonight, right?’ He looks between us expectantly.
‘We hadn’t,’ Sandro says.
‘You must come! It will be full of beautiful people like yourselves. Come. I’ll put your names on the guest list.’
Sandro glances over at me. ‘What do you think, Juno—you want to go?’
I’m so caught up in the moment I just nod, even though I’m not sure I’m really up for going out clubbing tonight, especially not dressed as I am. ‘Sure. That sounds fun,’ I say, not wanting to sound like a killjoy.
‘Great! Here’s the address,’ Giorgio says, handing Sandro a flyer. ‘See you there later.’ He gives me a slow wink, then slaps Sandro on the shoulder before striding away, back to a large party at a table on the other side of the room.
A murmur of conversation flows around the restaurant after he’s left and I could swear everyone’s talking about us.
‘You okay?’ Sandro asks after we’ve taken a few mouthfuls of food.
‘I feel like everyone’s staring at us,’ I mutter under my breath, picking up my water glass and taking a sip.
He leans forward and smiles. ‘That’s because you’re so hot.’
I snort with mirth and the liquid I’ve just drunk comes out of my nose.
‘I didn’t mean you had to cool yourself off by spraying water everywhere,’ Sandro teases.
I groan and put my head in my hands, peeking out at him from between my fingers. ‘Oh, God, I’m no good at this.’
‘At what?’
‘Being sophisticated.’
He waves a hand. ‘You’re doing just fine.’
‘It’s just not very me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
I let out a low sigh. ‘I’m not like my sisters. They’ve always been great at projecting a confident public image. They can play the part. Not me.’ I shake my head sorrowfully.
‘They’re like fire and ice, though,’ I continue nervously when he doesn’t say anything, just looks at me with that piercing gaze of his. ‘They really don’t get on. I’m not entirely sure why. No one ever tells me anything of any consequence. They treat me like the baby of the family, even though I’m only two years younger than Maya. To be honest, where my family’s concerned, I think I’d rather not know what’s going on in their heads. I don’t really feel like I fit with the rest of them. When she was alive, my mum always said none of them could figure out where I came from.’
He reaches over and gives my hand a squeeze. ‘I was sorry to hear she passed away.’
‘Yeah, thanks,’ I say, allowing the grief I still feel to this day to sink through my body. I let it sit there in my heart for a moment, acknowledging it but not letting it overwhelm me, before tucking it away again.
‘I was only thirteen when she died and my father just sort of checked out—not that he’s ever paid much attention to me—so April stepped into her role, though she’s not exactly the mothering type. She’s very brittle, and can be quite cold sometimes—something I think that benefits her in the male-dominated business world she works in—but it makes me suspect she’s quite lonely in her love life. In fact, I don’t think she even really has one. I know she goes out on dates with men, and I’m sure she sleeps with some of them, but they never last. It’s like she’s built an emotional wall around herself, perhaps because she feels like she needs to be responsible for Maya and I, though she really doesn’t. Maya can definitely take care of herself and she really doesn’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.’
It must have sounded insincere because once again he reaches over and puts his hand on my arm. ‘Are you sure about that?’
I sigh, feeling the weight of my anxiety about how difficult I’ve found it letting people into my heart, then shrug that off too. I mustn’t dominate the conversation with my personal angst; it’s not fair on Sandro.
‘Yes. At least, I will be once you’ve taught me how to be a master seductress,’ I joke, picking up my fork again and finishing off my meal.
I feel him watching me as I eat but I don’t look at him again until I’ve put my fork down and wiped my mouth on my napkin.
‘You want to get out of here?’ he asks, nodding at my empty plate.
‘Yes,’ I say, liking the idea of having a break from the intensity of sitting opposite him. ‘Good idea. I could do with some fresh air.’
So after Sandro’s settled the bill, which he insists o
n paying, we take a walk across the square and look around the basilica, enjoying a few minutes of cool relief from the balmy evening air. I’m acutely aware of his presence, even when he’s on the other side of the building, and I find myself drawn back towards him after only a few minutes on my own gazing at the beautiful Renaissance art. He’s a work of art all on his own.
‘So, do you still want to check out that club?’ Sandro asks as we exit the church into the now dark night-time air. I nod, recognising that I really should be making more of an effort to be the sort of party girl he’s used to being with.
‘Sure, it sounds like fun.’
‘I promise you, it will be. Giorgio’s clubs are something else,’ he says with a loaded grin and I worry for a moment about what we’re about to walk into.
* * *
When we get to the club—which turns out to be in the middle of a row of bars and restaurants round the corner from our apartment—the bouncer on the door looks me up and down as if he’s assessing whether I’m cool enough to be let in. My face flushes hot with embarrassment, as I suspect he’s about to decide that I’m not, when Sandro steps forward and gruffly tells him our names, protectively sliding his arm round my waist and pulling me close.
After that we’re waved straight through.
The magic of who you know.
Inside there’s a chrome and black lacquer bar in the middle of the room with a large crowd of people standing around it and a small dance floor off to one side which is heaving with dancers. On the other side of the room are high tables and stools, which are currently all occupied. It’s a popular place all right.
‘Let’s get a drink,’ Sandro suggests, already heading to the bar. For some reason all the other patrons turn to stare at us as we approach and there’s something strange about the way the men are looking at me, almost as though they’re sizing me up. Do I really stand out so much in my demure cocktail dress? Surely I’m not making that much of a fashion faux pas?
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