Every word from his mouth is lyric, lovely music.
He says my name like it's a song: "Dee-LYE-lah."
Let me go back and tell the story from the beginning, get it right. Luca is best understood in the context of how I met him.
*
I was sitting on the ledge of fountain, digging through my backpack for sunscreen. I spread the sunscreen on, tossed it back in the open bag and leaned back, enjoying the heat of the sun on my face, the sound of splashing water and laughing conversations. It was late afternoon, not quite time for dinner, but well past lunch. The sun was lowering, shedding soft but bright golden light on everything, illuminating the aged marble of the millennia-old buildings.
I let my mind wander, imagining Roman senators crossing this very spot. Cicero, maybe. Or Pliny. Or was Pliny Greek? I couldn't remember at the moment and didn't care.
Then I heard slapping feet and a sound as of something heavy being snatched, and the breeze of someone running past me. I opened my eyes to see a young boy scrambling through the crowded piazza, my backpack in hand, open, spilling things out as he ran.
My backpack. Shit! That bag had several thousand dollars in it, and my passport, and my netbook...
I cursed and took off after him, thankful that I'd worn sensible sneakers. He was fast, the little shit. I followed him through alleys and narrow side streets, nearly catching him, only to lose him as he leapt over a crate of oranges that I tripped over, scattering fruit and earning an earful of Italian curses.
I scrambled to my feet, yelling an out of breath "Mi scusi, mi dispiace!"
Yeah, I've learned a little Italian.
I caught sight of the little thief rounding a corner, pulling away from me, and I heard sobs scrape out of my throat.
"No, please," I gasped, stretching out my arm as he began to move out of sight.
Then, a miracle. The boy turned back to look at me, almost apologetically. He didn't slow, but he seemed to realize how distraught I was. He turned back around, poured on more speed....and then a body shot out from a doorway, knocking the boy against a wall and held him there with one hand.
Hello, tall dark and handsome. He was holding a cell phone to his ear, talking into it in lilting, rapid Italian, holding the runaway thief against the wall with the other hand. His grip on the boy's shoulder was obviously crushing, as the boy was squirming and shrieking, scrabbling at the man's hand with both of his, my backpack dropped at his feet.
(I've since learned enough Italian to be able to guess what they were saying. For the sake of storytelling, I'll transcribe their words in Italian, as I heard them, in other words, un-translated and confusing.)
"Lasciatemi andare! Mi dispiace! Non farmi del male! Lo daro indietro!" The boy's voice was high-pitched, panicked.
"Dovro richiamare," The man said into the phone, then hung up and stuck into the pocket of his tight jeans. "Zitto, ragazzo," he said in a harsh voice, shaking the thief.
I hurried to them, snatched up my bag and made sure the important things were all there, which they were. The boy was looking as if the man was really hurting him, and I felt bad for him. He was skinny and dirty and hungry-looking, desperate.
"Let him go," I said, in English. "I have my bag back. Don't hurt him."
"Tell the American lady you're sorry," the man said, in accented English.
"Sorry! I'm sorry, American! I only am hungry. Mi dispiace! Please, let go!"
The man shook the boy once more, then let go, shoving him away, growling in accented but fluent English, "Get out of here, boy. If I catch you stealing again, I'll turn you over to the police."
The boy nodded, pale and shaking, and vanished around a corner. I zipped my bag and shrugged it on, then looked up and found myself pinned to the wall by the most arresting pair of dark brown eyes I'd ever seen. He didn't just look at me, he seemed to be looking into me. Seeing all of me, as if I were naked before him, vulnerable and soft.
My breath caught, and I couldn't look away. I felt strong fingers touch my palms, scraped from my fall.
"You are bleeding," he said, his voice and accent turning even those mundane words into music.
"I'm...fine," I said. My hand was still in his, his touch like fire, sending thrills through my body. "Just a scrape..."
"No, you need care. Your knees are a mess as well. Come, please come." He tugged me by the hand, gentle but insistent. "My flat is just there. I can have you cleaned up in only a moment."
I looked down and realized my knees were oozing blood too. And now, suddenly, they stung. And I was sweating...
I let him show me up a narrow flight of steep stairs to an airy one-room apartment. It was clean and neat, a galley kitchen, a small balcony overlooking the street, a small table covered by a white linen cloth and an empty wine bottle turned into a candle.
"Sit, please," he said, pushing me into a chair.
He wet the corner of a towel and dabbed at my hands, kneeling between my knees. His presence was a hot, electric fire in my veins, his inky hair drifting across his eyes, his brow furrowed as he oh so gently dabbed at my palms, then each knee.
"There, you are clean now. You want a bandage or no?" he asked.
"No, I'm fine, thanks," I said.
What I wanted was for him to keep touching me. Just his hands on mine, or on my knees would be fine. A littler higher up my legs, maybe?
He pulled the other chair next to me, sitting astride it, resting his hands on the back. "So, mia bella, what is your name?"
Mia bella? I knew enough Italian to know that was a compliment, and to blush.
"Delilah," I said, holding out my hand to shake his.
He took my proffered hand and kissed the back of it, never taking his eyes off mine. His lips on my hand burned like fire, sending shivers of delight up my arm to coil hot and heavy in my belly. He'd actually kissed my hand. I could barely think, for a moment.
"I am Luca," he said, after I failed to ask.
"Oh, sorry, yes, I was going to ask but I...you..." I stopped, took a deep breath and gathered my composure. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Luca. Thank you so much for getting my bag back, and taking care of me."
Luca smiled, his straight white teeth brilliant against his dark olive skin. "The pleasure is all mine, Delilah."
"I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost my bag. It has everything in it."
"Roma can be most dangerous, at times. You are here alone?"
I nodded. "It's a beautiful city. I've always wanted to see Rome."
"Is it what you thought it would be?" Luca asked, resting his chin on his hands along the back of the chair.
"Yes and no. In some ways it's so much more than I'd ever dreamed, but in others..."
"It is not so lovely in some ways, too, no? I know this. I am from...you call it Florence, I think...and I too am often surprised at the state of things here in Roma. It is a complex place. You should see Firenze. Mio Dios. So lovely." He gave me a quirky smile, roguish and cunning. "So lovely, like you, Delilah. The only thing Firenze needs to be perfect is you, walking her streets."
I think I melted, right then. All I could do was blush redder and look away, down at the cracked and faded tiles beneath my feet. Was he trying to give me a heart attack? Was he really talking about me?
"I'd like to see Florence...what'd you call it? Firenz?"
He laughed, a flash of white teeth and kind mirth. "No no no. Firenz-EH. with the 'eh' on the end. Firenze. Florence is the English word. We call it Firenze."
I tried the Italian pronunciation, giving it the lilting accent he did. "Firenze...it's much lovelier that way. But yes, I think maybe I'll see Flore--Firenze next."
"For how long are you in Roma?" He grinned again. "That's how we say 'Rome' by the way. 'Roma'."
"I suppose I should have learned some Italian before I came, huh?" I laughed somewhat sheepishly. "I don't have any definite plans."
"Well, you are learning now, no? I am a good teacher, I think. I will teach you
more. For example, 'thank you' is 'grazie'."
"That was the first thing I learned. And 'thank you' is 'per favore'." I showed him my phone, and the app I'd been using to translate. "I've learned a few phrases with this."
Luca laughed again, waving his hand in dismissal. "Bah. Technology is a wonderful thing, but I think perhaps nothing is so good as a person to teach you a language. There are many small things to speaking truly that no program or app can ever teach." He stood up and extended his hand. "I think maybe after so much running you are hungry, yes? Eat with me, Delilah."
There was no hesitation. I took his hand and let him draw me to my feet. "I would like that."
We walked through the streets of Rome, or Roma, I should say, him guiding me with subtle nudges. He worked for a vineyard, selling cases of wine to restaurants and bars throughout Italy and some of the surrounding countries. He was the youngest of four children, all of whom except him lived and worked in Firenze, a stone's throw from their parents. Luca traveled much of the time, but still spent a few weeks at a time with his family, "on holiday" he called it.
We sat across from each other in a little cafe, from which I could see the huge gray bulk of the Coliseum.
"I am returning to Firenze tomorrow, actually. I have been in Roma for a week, working, and for three months before that traveling in the north. I am ready to go home and eat my mother's cooking." He grinned. "I am what you Americans call 'a mama's boy'. I am not ashamed of this. My mother makes the best food in all of Italy, I think."
"I think it's sweet that you're close to your mother," I said, sipping the wine he'd ordered, something dry and unpronounceable and delicious.
"Europeans are often much closer to our families, I think. I have traveled in America a few times, and I think this is true."
"I think you're right," I said. "We move away when we're old enough, and it gets hard to travel back home. It's at least partially because America is just so big."
"It is also a matter of culture, and the raising of children, too," Luca said. "Not to mean that Americans do not love family, but for us it is different, I believe."
I let Luca order for me, and we ate slowly, enjoying each bite, trading stories of childhood. I'd managed to avoid any discussion of my reason for coming to Italy thus far, and I was proud of it. Don't talk drama, George had told me.
"So, why have you come to Italy? Just for vacation?" Luca had a sly look on his face, as if he knew differently. "I think it is more. You are alone here, yes? No friends, no husband, no travel group?"
I hesitated, wondering what to say. Eventually I decided on some of the truth. "Yes, I'm alone. I just had to get away from everything for awhile, and the thought of going with a bunch of random strangers, just seeing a few tourist-y spots and moving on...no thanks."
"What is it you are getting away from?"
I shrugged, trying for casualness I didn't feel; it was still a store spot. "Just...you know. Life, drama. The usual."
Luca waved his fork. "Ah. Drama, this I know. Perhaps you do not wish to discuss it, I think. You are on holiday to forget, no?" Our waiter brought dessert, spumoni for each of us. "Ah, now this looks delicious. You have had spumoni before?"
And with that he was off again, the topic mercifully changed to our favorite desserts.
When we finished, Luca paid, refusing to let me contribute, and we walked again, strolling aimlessly. Night fell gradually, time slipping away beneath our feet. We rested now and then, sitting on benches, our conversation endless and naturally flowing from topic to topic. Luca was careful to keep our conversation away from anything serious. Eventually we ended up on a high hill overlooking the city, leaning back against an ancient stone wall. We were sitting close enough that our shoulders and thighs touched, and with every brush of clothed flesh I felt a current of electricity buzz through me. I wished, like a school girl, that I was brave enough to kiss him, or even hold his hand.
"I leave for home tomorrow," Luca said, apropos of nothing. "I was thinking...perhaps you might like to travel with me? It would be a free ride to Firenze, after all, and if you did not mind my boring company on the way..."
My heart leapt into my throat. "I...you aren't boring, Luca. Just the opposite." I was thinking, frantic as a lovesick teenager, he likes me, he likes me, he likes me! "I would love to, thank you."
We wended our lazy way back to my hotel, and Luca stood with me outside my door. My heart was hammering in my chest, although I wasn't sure why.
I'm going to kiss him, I realized. My nerves knew before I did.
My back was to my door, Luca standing in front of me, one hand planted next to my head. We weren't speaking, for the first time in hours, just staring at each other. I was waiting for him to kiss me, wondering if he would, wondering if I should make the first move or if that would be offensive.
"I would like to kiss you, Delilah," Luca whispered, interrupting my thoughts. His voice was a breath on the breeze.
I tilted my head up, lips parted, and then my hand was in the feather-soft black locks by his neck and our lips were touching, barely grazing at first and then with more urgency.
He tasted so good, like wine and heat. His feet moved to bracket mine, and his hands were on my waist, and then one moved up to brush my cheek and slip past my ear into my hair. His hard body pushed up against mine, and I could feel the faint thump of his heart in his chest, a little fast, as if he was nervous too. Surely he could feel mine, hammering in my chest? I was terrified. I wanted this to continue, I wanted the kiss to last forever and never change, but I wanted more, and he was so hot, so sexy, and he was kissing me, me, Delilah Flores.
His hand moved around my waist to my back and slipped down, stopping mere centimeters from caressing my backside, and I really, really wouldn't have minded if he kept going.
"Perhaps we could move to the other side of the door?" Luca suggested, a smile in his voice.
I nodded, unthinking, letting my instincts move me rather than my fears or inhibitions. I fumbled in my bag for the key, found it, managed to turn away from his molten, desire-sparking eyes long enough to unlock the door and get inside.
Something exploded in my belly then, burst apart my fears. Luca closed the door and turned back to face me. I might have attacked him, just a little. A wave of pure lust ran through me, demolishing everything but desire. He was here, in my hotel room, larger than life, hair tangled across one eye, jeans low on his hips and tight around his firm ass. I wanted to touch him all over, feel him pressed against me, let him take control and float along for the ride.
He caught me, let me crash into him and crushed his lips to mine, and now--oh god--his hand slipped down my spine to cup my bottom and pull my hips against his.
Damp heat blossomed between my thighs, and I sighed into his lips.
"I like this," I said. I hadn't meant to speak, but the words dripped out of my mouth unbidden.
Luca laughed, a huff of breath against my lips, a smile curving his luscious mouth. "That is good. I like it as well." He moved his other hand to my backside, curling his fingers into the muscles beneath the fabric of my knee-length skirt. "Do you like this, as well?"
I nodded, and let my hands find their slow but eager way to his chest, feeling the bunched muscles. It wasn't enough, though. My hands wanted more. They wanted to feel hot skin. They snaked underneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt and skimmed his stomach, lightly brushing the dusting of hair to rest on his chest again.
He smirked, and then mirrored my action, slipping under my shirt and running up the skin of my back, coming to rest just beneath my bra strap. I gasped at the contact of skin to skin, pressed up against him and curved my hands around to touch his back. He just lifted an eyebrow, and kept still. Was he playing a game?
I lowered my hands down the ridges of his spine and the hard creases of muscle along his back. Now I was touching him just above the waistband of his jeans.
Dare I?
Oh yes, I dared.
I move
d my hands under the jeans and his underwear to clutch the cool hardness of his backside. God, it was like rock. My heart was tympani beneath my ribcage, thundering wildly. Would he reciprocate? Would I die when he did?
His thumbs brushed the outside of my thighs, hooked under the hem of my skirt and lifted, pressed his palms to my lace-clad backside. His eyes were locked on mine, waiting for me to tell him no, but I kept silent, willing my heart to slow. It didn't, and when I didn't demure, but kept my eyes bold on his, he slid his hands under the lace to my bare skin.
I trembled, sucked in a deep breath at the buzzing thrill of strong, desirous male hands on me.
"You are okay, Delilah? I do not wish to press you, if you are not wanting this as I am." I could only nod, and he tilted his head. "You are nervous, then."
I nodded again, but knew I had to say something, this time. "Yeah, I'm nervous. It's...it's been a while. But I don't want to stop."
"You will tell me if I move too fast, okay?" he said.
My panties were pink lace, lingerie I'd indulged in for fun before I left Chicago, and was wearing them because they made me feel sexy and daring. Would he see them? The thought of standing in my bra and panties in front of a man was scary. I'd never done it before. That's not how things were with Harry. We had sex in bed, with the lights out. I'd never stood before a man in any state of undress, not intentionally. Oh, sure, Harry saw me naked all the time, just out of the shower, or changing, but...
God, as I write this I realize the hard truth: Harry didn't want me. He didn't desire me. I was safe, for him. I was security. I had a career path and I took care of him. But sexually, I was just there. Available, but not his preference.
Luca...he wanted me. It was in his eyes, in the roving possession of his hand, the bump of his hips against mine. His desire was infectious, and intoxicating.
I'd never been desired before.
I needed to show Luca that I wanted him too. I brushed my hands up his torso, along his sides, and lifted his shirt off. Holy hell. His body was chiseled from flesh-covered granite. My lips, of their own free will, touched his shoulder, an inch away from his neck, and then closed in to where his throat met his clavicle, and then to his adam's apple.
A Sexy Journey Page 5
