The door buzzer goes and he rolls off the bed to go and collect the pizza. ‘Well, before you propose marriage to him, can I recommend you check he can stimulate you in bed as well? I think you’re gonna find that’s just as important,’ he says as he exits the room.
‘That’s the plan,’ I call after him, with a confidence I’m not feeling any more. It’s funny, but it occurs to me now that ever since I’ve been here in Italy with Sandro I’ve not given Adam a second thought. Until just now when he mentioned him.
I guess that’s the power of Sandro’s charisma coming to the fore.
Meeting him has really opened up my eyes to how sexual impulses can befuddle your brain and cause you to act in all sorts of uncharacteristic ways.
Hormones have a lot to answer for.
But I have to keep my head on straight. We’re only going to be together for another couple of days. The trouble is, after talking to Sandro about him, I’m beginning to wonder whether Adam really is the sort of man I should be chasing. Whether he’ll give me the kind of love and affection I’ll need from a long-term partner. Whether he’ll make me feel alive, like Sandro does when I’m with him.
I push this rogue thought from my mind. I’d be crazy to start imagining there could be anything more between Sandro and I. He’s made it clear he loves his free, non-committed lifestyle and I need someone steady in my life, not someone who’s going to forget I exist the moment I walk out of the door.
Sandro
For the first time in my life I’m wishing that time would slow down instead of speed up. To my surprise I’m really enjoying having Juno here with me in Florence. Things come to life when she’s around and she has a way of brightening up the room whenever she’s in it, as if she emits some kind of positive force. It seems to be infecting me too because I find myself smiling all the time. And the sex is incredible. I’ve never been with anyone so openly and honestly responsive. There’s no pretence with her. No acting cool. No game-playing. She finds such joy in learning new things. It’s inspiring and refreshing.
And I don’t want it to end.
I’m also having a hell of a job maintaining my determination that she should lose her virginity to someone else. I’ve come close to giving in a couple of times, when she’s had her hand wrapped around my cock and all I can think about is how amazing it’d feel to thrust it inside her hot, tight pussy. But I don’t want the responsibility of being her first. No matter what she thinks, there would always be an emotional attachment between us because of it, and I don’t want that.
It could make things way too fucking complicated.
Speaking of complicated, my father calls me that night in a good mood to congratulate me on the successful job I’m doing of rehabilitating my image. Apparently there’s been a lot of interest in his social realm about Juno and I, which surprises me, but then I suppose we’ll be viewed as a pretty unlikely couple and people are always curious about that sort of thing.
I’m actually really regretting the phone calls I’ve been making to the paparazzi now, after getting to know Juno better. I’m hoping she won’t see any of the pictures that my father tells me have come out in the Italian press. Luckily she seems completely uninterested in reading gossip pieces or looking at social media so she should miss them.
But I’m worried about any possible backlash when she gets home. I’ll feel like shit if the press starts to hound her there. So we’ll need to be more low key from here on in. No more tip-offs to the paparazzi. The only trouble with that is there’s a new gallery opening in the city tomorrow night, which I’d really like to attend, and they have a famous, well-respected Italian artist exhibiting so the place will be crawling with press.
But there’s no way I’m going to sneak out and leave Juno at home. I don’t want to lie to her about where I’ll be. I’ve already done enough skirting around the truth as it is.
I’m walking towards the kitchen to fetch myself a stiff drink when I hear the sound of Juno’s voice coming from her bedroom. She’s left the door slightly ajar and through the small gap I can see her sitting up against the headboard, talking to someone on her mobile.
I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, and begin to walk away, but the sound of my name stops me in my tracks.
‘...having a really amazing time. He’s not at all what I expected.’
There’s a small pause and I take a couple of quiet steps back to her door and peer through the crack again to see a frown cross her face.
‘Maya, don’t say things like that! You clearly don’t know a thing about him if that’s all you’ve got to contribute.’
There’s another pause, where she taps her fingers restlessly against the bedspread while she listens to her sister’s response.
‘Actually, he’s an incredibly astute, sensitive and generous person. And oh my God, Maya, is the guy talented!’
Another pause and a frown.
‘As a sculptor!’ She shakes her head at what she clearly feels is her sister’s crass misunderstanding.
‘He’s shown me some of his work and it’s knockout. I mean, the man is incredibly talented. He should be exhibiting it. I know people would fall over themselves to buy his pieces.’
A warm feeling is rising through me, beginning deep in my belly and rushing up through my chest. Her praise is like a drug, rushing through my veins, making me high on happiness.
I listen in for another minute, unable to tear myself away now, but when the talk appears to turn to a discussion about their father I slowly back away and go to fix myself that drink.
Though strangely, when I get to the kitchen, I realise I don’t need it any more.
* * *
Saturday night rolls around and I leave it to the last minute to tell Juno about the gallery opening.
‘You don’t have to come,’ I say, trying to make it sound as if I don’t care either way.
‘No, no, I’d love to go with you,’ she says, her eyes shining. ‘Hey, you should take some videos of your sculptures so you can show them to people there. There might be some useful contacts you can tap up. My father always says he makes his most important deals outside of the boardroom. It’s probably the same for artists. You need to meet socially with the people who could support and promote you. Dazzle them with that Ricci charm.’
She gives me that heart-melting, warm smile of hers.
I try to smile back but my facial muscles seem to be frozen. The idea of failing in front of her makes me feel sick.
‘No. I’m not ready to show them to anyone yet,’ I say gruffly.
She looks a little shocked at the forcefulness of my tone.
‘I’ll do it soon. Just not tonight,’ I add to save her feelings.
‘Sure. Okay,’ she says, giving me what feels like a pitying smile.
I bristle, but don’t react, though I’m aware of a familiar shame sliding through me.
We get to the gallery an hour after it opens its doors. I’ve deliberately made us fashionably late in the hope we’ll miss the photographers—not that I think Juno would recognise it as such. As she’s come to discover, I’m a terrible timekeeper.
Juno smiles at me as we step inside, giving my hand a squeeze, and we make our way through the thick throng of people standing around chatting and clutching flutes of champagne.
I smile back at her, marvelling at how well she fits in with this crowd. She’s wearing a simple but elegant forest-green slip dress, which she bought on one of our excursions a couple of days ago, and she’s pulled her hair into a loose knot on the top of her head with her fringe clipped up away from her eyes for once.
She’s not hiding here tonight and is actually making eye contact with the other guests. I know how hard she finds it to socialise with people she doesn’t know, so this behaviour both surprises and gratifies me. She’s doing it for me. I know she is.
We tour the gallery,
looking at the art and making small talk with one or two of the other people there who are doing the same thing.
‘There’s the gallery owner,’ Juno whispers into my ear a few minutes later, nodding first at the information programme she picked up at the door, then towards a lean, balding man who is holding court in one corner of the room.
I feel a tightening sensation in my chest.
‘Yeah, I see him,’ I mutter, but don’t make a move that way, and I can’t look at her in case I see disappointment in her eyes. I really can’t handle that right now. But this isn’t the right time to try and push for an exhibition of my work. I need more time to prepare.
‘I’m going to find the ladies’ bathroom. Back in a mo,’ she says, handing me her glass to hold and striding stiffly away.
I watch her go, frustration swirling in my gut, then turn to scope out the room to distract myself from the gnawing feeling of guilt that joins it, smiling at the women who turn to look at me.
For the first time in my life, their interest leaves me cold.
Juno
I walk up to the gallery owner with my heart in my throat. I so desperately want this to go well, but I’m afraid of making a mess of it and consequently making Sandro angry. But I have to do it. It would be an absolute travesty for his talent to go to waste. For him to let his father’s prejudice get in the way of what could be a really successful future as a professional sculptor. He just needs a break—for someone to give him an opportunity to prove himself—and, after that, I know he’ll fly.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the guy, who is surrounded by a throng of arty types, all crowded round listening to him talk.
He turns to look at me and my stomach gives a horrible swoop of nerves. If this doesn’t work, Sandro’s going to be furious with me. But it will work, I tell myself. It has to.
‘It’s a beautiful gallery you have here,’ I say with a smile. ‘Juno Darlington-Hume,’ I add when he gives me a perplexed look. ‘I’m here with Sandro Ricci. I’m his manager.’
He nods, clearly recognising the name. ‘Have you seen Sandro’s sculptures?’ I ask, bringing my phone out of my pocket and opening the video app where I’ve stored some short videos that I took of the sculptures when Sandro was taking a shower.
‘I didn’t know he sculpts,’ the owner says, bending to take a look at my screen.
‘He’s really good,’ I say, ‘And he’s looking for somewhere to exhibit them.’
The guy nods and takes my phone from me, peering down at the video of my favourite sculpture, then clicking through to look at more of them.
I hold my breath as I wait for his reaction, crossing my fingers and praying for good news.
‘These are very interesting. I’d like to see them. Give me a ring next week and we’ll set up a meeting,’ he says, handing me a business card.
My hand shakes as I take the card. ‘Thank you. We’ll do that.’
I walk back to where Sandro is standing, my legs wobbly with relief. He watches me approach with a dark expression on his face.
My throat tightens with tension. I’m worried he’ll be offended that I took such liberties with his work and I give a small cough before speaking. ‘I showed him your sculptures, pretending that I was your manager. He wants to see them.’ I hold up the card I’ve been given. ‘He said to call him next week to make an appointment.’
My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for his response. He’s frowning at me as if he can’t believe I’d had the nerve to do that.
‘You showed them to him without my permission?’ The fury in his voice makes me quake.
I give a tense shrug and tilt my head to one side, feeling tears of disappointment pool in my eyes. ‘I was just trying to help. Please don’t be angry with me. They’re so beautiful, Sandro. They deserve to be seen.’
He stares at me for a moment longer, then lets out a rough groan deep in his throat. ‘You make it really fucking hard for me to be angry with you when you look at me like that.’
‘So you’ll call him?’ I ask in a shaky voice.
‘I told you—I’m not ready to show them yet,’ he says tersely, taking the card from my outstretched hand and crumpling it into a ball before pocketing it.
I open my mouth to protest, but then close it again. He has to want to do this himself. As frustrated as this makes me feel, I know it’ll probably be counterproductive to push him any harder on it. The will to make it work has to come from him.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ Sandro mutters. ‘We can’t stay now.’
I allow him to lead me out, feeling tension in the bunched muscles of his arm that he’s slung around me, which he drops as soon as we’re out of sight of the gallery. We walk back to the apartment in uneasy silence, my blood pulsing hard through my body. Perhaps I shouldn’t have interfered. But I had to. It was a great opportunity and I would have regretted not trying to help him later. I know I would.
He lets us in through the door and shucks off his jacket, still not saying a word to me.
‘Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have done that without asking you.’ I can hear the anxiety and a hint of resentment in my voice as I shut the door behind us. ‘But you’re so talented, Sandro, and sometimes we all need a bit of a push from the outside.’
He stares back at me, his dark brows drawn into a frown. Angry tension buzzes between us.
I want to cry.
‘Please don’t be angry,’ I whisper, barely able to get the words past my painfully constricted throat. ‘There’s so much more depth to you than you believe. Your father and that awful teacher did you such a disservice, letting you think you’re not good enough. That you’re not smart and sensitive and talented. Because you are. You are!’
I can see a muscle working in his jaw and watch as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. I want to lean forward and kiss him there, nuzzle his soft warm skin, make everything okay between us again. But I don’t. Instead I wait, my heart fluttering like a caged bird.
Then without a word he reaches out and pulls me firmly against him, lifting his hand to cup my face. His dazzling eyes stare intently into mine, flashing with frustration, hurt then finally acceptance, and my stomach does a slow somersault.
I sense that we’re tipping over some sort of edge. Something’s changing between us. There’s a fizzing sensation in the pit of my stomach and my heartbeat thumps hard in my throat as the tension builds.
And then, suddenly, he brings his mouth crashing down onto mine and kisses me hard, his lips firm and assured. I shudder with pleasure as I feel the hot slide of his tongue penetrate my mouth.
It’s the most wonderfully intimate sensation in the world, and the most terrifying. I sense myself falling down some sort of rabbit hole from which I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to climb back out. All I can think about are his lips owning mine, his tongue searching out the most intimate spaces within me. He moves against me and I lose my balance and take a stumbling step backward, feeling my back hit the wall behind me. He pins me there, his hard body pressed firmly against mine, his arousal digging into my stomach sending great waves of need between my thighs, but there’s also something else. Some strange buzzing sensation against my leg.
What the hell is that?
Finally we break apart, gasping for breath, our bodies pressed wantonly together.
‘Is that you vibrating or me?’ Sandro asks in a voice heavy with lust.
And I realise that it’s my phone in my bag that’s been caught between our legs.
‘I think it’s me,’ I say, automatically reaching for my phone in my flustered daze to check the screen, grateful for a moment to recover from the intensity of our kiss. A kiss that meant a lot more than it should have done.
‘Oh!’ I say, looking down at my screen, confused by what I’m seeing.
‘Who was it?’ Sandro asks in a concerned
voice, glancing down at the screen too.
The name Adam Cormack is written there.
‘Why’s he calling me on a Saturday night?’ I ask dumbly into the silence.
Sandro pushes himself away from me and folds his arms in front of him. ‘It’s probably a booty call,’ he jokes, though his voice has a sharp edge to it.
‘What’s a booty call?’ I ask.
‘It means he wants you to go over to his place for a fuck,’ he says roughly, not looking at me now. His body language is stiff, as if he’s retreating from me—from the situation—as though he’s worried he’s interrupting a private moment between Adam and me. Which is ridiculous. It’s him and I who were interrupted.
‘Well, he needs to do much more than just call me to get me to do that,’ I say lightly, feeling uncomfortable.
‘Yeah, you make him work for it,’ Sandro says. But there’s something very wrong with the way he’s acting now—as if none of this is of any consequence to him. It’s all just part of another lesson he’s giving me.
I try not to care, but my heart weighs heavily in my chest and my body yearns to be pressed up against the strength of his again.
‘I guess there’s still a lot for you to teach me,’ I say, pressing my hand against his chest, trying to rescue the previous mood. His heart beats a steady rhythm against my palm. ‘Let’s go to bed,’ I suggest, going for a teasing tone in my voice.
But, instead of smiling, Sandro lets out a grunt of disgust.
‘That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?’ His eyes are full of an indignation that shocks me. ‘Just a real-life blow-up doll to practise on and manipulate.’
‘What? No! Of course you’re not. That’s not what I mean to imply.’
He steps away from me and strides towards his bedroom, the muscles across his shoulders pulled tight with tension.
I catch up with him as he steps into the room and I lay my hand gently on his back, horrified to feel him flinch under my touch. ‘Sandro. Please don’t be angry with me.’ Hot tears begin to gather in my eyes again. But I don’t want to cry in front of him. I don’t want him to think I’m that emotionally weak.
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