Home for the Summer, Chapt. 1

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Home for the Summer

Chapter 1

 The breeze has been competing with the humidity all morning and is finally winning. Standing on the balcony, my hips pressed against the black iron railing, I let the cool air tip my head back. With my dress swirling around my ankles, tickling my skin, I breathe in the sweet air, smiling into the breeze. We’re finally here, on Italy’s sunny coast, for the next three months.

We found our small villa last year at the end of the tourist season, and he spent the winter working with the estate agent.  The seaside village is quiet, despite being only a few miles outside city centre. The colorful houses are tucked into the hillside, and palms and shrubs draw zigzag landscapes, ensuring privacy. Looking out at the crystal blue water, it was worth the nine months of headaches and worry. There was still work left, minor repairs and painting which he insists on doing himself. He arrived two days ago to get started while I stayed behind, seeing to the moving details. I hated every minute of it; London might be our home, but my heart is already here.

I hopped a late-night flight available and landed this morning at dawn. I couldn’t stay another minute in our lonely, upscale apartment. I found him sprawled out, asleep atop our antique metal bed and spent long moments looking down at him. His dark, tussled hair made the sheets finer and whiter, somehow. And while his full lips were soft in sleep, they can be hard and determined, in temper and against my skin.  His arm stretched across the empty space, as if he were holding me in his dreams. I wanted desperately to lie down and curl my body around him, soaking up his strength, his steadiness, but I had work to do.

He isn’t an easy man, though he claims he is. He is an adventurer, drawn to living life a moment at a time. He is brilliant and logical, sexy and dangerous.  He is very much his own man, skirting the edges of every day or commonplace.

He lured me in with his patience and singular focus the night we met, and I felt like a snared rabbit, scared and excited. Somehow I caught his attention, an intriguing puzzle he wanted to solve. I’d told him so, churning the words into an accusation, hurling them like a dagger one bad night. He’d grabbed me by the arms then, and pulled me close. His jaw was clenched, his lips drawn tight over his teeth, when he all but snarled that I was never a puzzle, but an answer, that he’d found himself in me. It was an admission he hadn’t been prepared to admit, but one I’d been desperate to hear.

He is the other half of me, strong where I am weak, soft where I am hard. He captured my mind, and in doing so, my heart. From the night our paths crossed, I knew I would follow him anywhere. He was determined to have me, and I was helpless to do anything but submit. I shared my brain first, then my body. A long time later, I shared my feelings. Those pesky, messy feelings that had no place in my life, until him.

I shake my head, sigh and return to the present. I step away from the balcony and return to my makeshift desk, a small wrought-iron table where my laptop sits. I’ve been working like crazy the past month to complete the last of my contracted work. I rub my hand along the back of my neck, lifting the damp, curling strands of hair that slipped free of my ponytail while lowering myself onto the cushioned seat. I grab the hem of my skirt and drag it up my legs, thankful again for the small breath of air. I resent having to work, but he’s been working just as hard, so I push the pettiness aside.  I let my eyes graze briefly over the deep, blue sea beyond the second-floor balcony one more time, then turn my attention to the words in front of me. I’ll never finish if I don’t concentrate.

His lips press against my neck just as I close the computer. I didn’t hear him stepping over the threshold or crossing the balcony. His tongue strokes my quickening pulse as his hands cup my shoulders. I lift my hand to his neck and slide my fingertips into the curling hair behind his ear, closing my eyes. Leaning my head on his shoulder, my lips brush against his skin, damp with sweat, and breathe him in. Immediately, need swirls, low and deep.

His mouth moves down my neck to my shoulder, his tongue and teeth moving across the heated skin, and I moan. “You should have crawled into bed with me this morning. I’m through waiting,” Low and raspy and heavy with sex, his accent, usually lyrical, is a growl. Shivers cascade down my spine.

He traces the small tattoo sitting above my shoulder blade with a single fingertip and raises goose bumps despite the heat.  A low pulse beats heavy between my legs, and I feel the wetness between my legs as his fingers slide across my collarbone before slipping underneath my strapless dress and pushing the elastic edge down. He cups my breasts, capturing my nipples between his fingers to tug and twist. 

He bends low, curling his body over mine and presses his cheek into my belly for a moment before turning his mouth to my skin. He whispers words against my flesh, words I still don’t understand, but their meanings are clear, and my skin quivers in response. My breath catches as he lifts my breasts to his mouth. He scrapes the tender skin beneath them with his stubbled chin as he licks and sucks, and this ravenous need sinks deep. I raise my arms and wrap them around his shoulders and neck, stroking, urging, demanding more. I arch back and thrust my breasts higher, my nails scoring his back.

He stands suddenly and slides his hands under my arms, lifting me to my feet. He pulls me into him, one hand firm on my back, the other cupping my ass. His eyes meet mine; they are black with need and bright with intent. Then his mouth crashes against mine, reclaiming it as his. Only his.  I meet him eagerly, hungrily. His tongue slides into my mouth, rubbing, dueling, and I taste the flavors of his day –the endless cups of coffee and illicit cigarettes he constantly tries to leave behind.

I need him now. Now, in the sun, with the smells of the sea and his skin mingling, my senses overwhelmed.

***

I can’t get enough of her; her skin, her scent, that indefinable quality so uniquely her. She draws me in, mindlessly. Recklessly. Watching her from the doorway, standing at the balcony railing, with her head back and the breeze ruffling her hair, my desire roars. I need her, need to lose and find myself in her body. Her smile. Her eyes. She is a goddess in her white, strapless sundress.

She wants to be a simple woman, but she is not. Her brain is a wild dervish of words and meanings, a private world of outrageous dreams and ruthless logic. She is not comfortable with her emotions, yet she is capable of illogical love.

She captured my attention late one night, a chance meeting on an evening train with a long look and quiet greeting as she slid past me.  From her accent she was American, but nothing like the brash, loud tourists constantly bombarding the city. She was self-contained, content to sit and let people hum around her. She didn’t strike up conversations as Yanks often do, eager to interact with mostly disinterested passengers. Neither did she hide behind a book or headphones. She sat and observed, and I wondered what went on behind her golden-brown eyes. When our eyes met, she didn’t smile, and she didn’t look away. She simply let her eyes rest on my face, and it was as tactile as a caress. She took me in, and when she looked away, I felt alone, a new and foreign feeling.

My stop came and went, but I rode on, and the train slowly emptied. Her quiet demeanor wasn’t encouraging, but neither did it dissuade me. In the near-silent carriage, I asked her to join me for coffee. Her eyes widened, perhaps in surprise or amusement, but she firmly nodded her acceptance. As we settled in the booth of a quiet restaurant instead of Starbucks, I asked her why she agreed. She smiled then, soft and genuine, and my heart skipped at the quiet joy of it.

“You might not understand,” she murmured, her eyes on the vodka she ordered, instead of coffee.

“Try me,” I responded, wanting her to look at me, needing her to see me again, like she did on the train.

“There’s a story inside you. I like stories, and I like learning. I also liked the way you looked.” Her head tilted sideways, considering. “There you were… suit and tie. Dressed up, but slightly disheveled. Looking like you’ve had a long day.  You appeared disinterested, like all the other passengers. But you were focused. You watched,” she paused. “And you didn’t get off at your stop.”  Pleased, I asked her how she knew.

She laughed and leaned forward, crossing her arms on the table in front of her, and something in my stomach knotted, a reflex to her relaxed casualness.  “You glanced at the doors as they opened, then down at your watch. When the doors closed, you sat back. Stretched out. You made the decision to stay where you were. I was curious why.” I looked at her, raising an eyebrow.  She shrugged and sat back, then flashed a mischievous grin. “And you charmed me with your invitation.”

I laughed at the unexpected admission. Looking pleased with my reaction, she freely admitted, “I liked the way you asked me. Leaning forward, your elbows resting on your knees.  You looked me dead in the eyes.”

 “Why did you invite me?” Her simple question had a thousand, no-so-simple answers.

We talked and walked that night. She gave away precious little about herself, yet something in her called to me. More than a chance meeting, it was recognition. Now, all this time later, whether she’s in the next room or across the city, she does the same. It is not her beauty or her intelligence, though they are considerable, or even her sense of humor, what was lightning quick and just as hot and sharp. I move through my day, taking meetings and phone calls and dealing with a million obligations and problems, but she is there, calling me back to her. I’ve busted ass the past two days, was restless the past two nights, painting. And waiting. For the next three months, we’re in Italy; she’ll turn her attention to her writing, while I content myself with small projects around the house and getting in her way.

I felt her this morning, standing alongside our bed. I thought it a dream until I woke and caught her scent. I showered then padded across the kitchen tiles, shirtless and barefoot, ready to share a cup of coffee with her, but she’d set only one mug next to the espresso machine, not two. I gritted my teeth at her warning. I was to stay away until she finished her work. So I made my coffee and finished the painting.

I saved her office for last and was pleased with the results. The light from the high windows reflected off the soft, cool walls, making the naked floor gleam, dark and rich. I can see her here, moving from windows to desk to shelves, her feet shoved into her ridiculous-looking slippers, her hair messy. We bought the house for her; she has a need to escape the busy and noise, the distractions and demands. Secretly, I bought it for me, so I can have her for myself. I wonder if she’ll allow me to take her here; perhaps against the thick wooden door, wrapping her legs around my waist as I sink my cock into her waiting heat, or her riding me, my shoulders and heels pressing hard into the polished floor as she shifts and slides, taking me deep.

But I’ve reached my limit.  I push the sheer curtain aside and move across the small balcony, catching her by surprise as she finishes her work. My mouth and hands move over her sweet, warm skin, tasting the damp skin on my tongue, feeling her shivers. My hands cup her breasts, and my cock grows hard as her nipples pebble against my rough palms.

I grab her shoulders and pull her to her feet, forcing her to stand on her toes as I cup her ass, tilting her hips. I press my hardness into her, her soft belly a warm cushion. I kiss her, pushing my tongue into her mouth to rub against hers. She tastes faintly of juice, tart and sweet. Her arms wrap around my neck, her fingernails scrape my scalp as her fingers bury deep in my hair.  She moans, soft and low. I slide my hand to her ponytail and pull hard, snapping her head back. I run my mouth over her check, jaw, and down her neck, nipping and sucking my way to her breasts. She bows, offering herself. Using my lips and teeth, I torment her flesh, ignoring her whispered pleas to slow down, to let her catch up.

I pull back and slowly straighten. Her eyes are dazed, her lips moist and swollen. I lead her to the balcony edge, and taking her hands, I place them on the hot iron railing and order, “Don’t let go.”

I sink to my knees and let my mouth and chin run down her spine, exploring the bumps and hollows. Needing to feel and touch all of her, I lift the hem of her skirt and tuck it into the elastic band now on her waist. Grabbing her hips, I pull her into me, curving her back. She is exposed, her ass pale in the sun. I need to taste her. I trace her soft, wet skin before sliding a finger inside. Slowly, sinking deep. She whimpers softly as my thumb rubs her clit, moistening the tender nub with her wetness. My mouth is on her ass, nipping and kissing the smooth skin as I slowly tease, slowly ratcheting her desire and need. Her breathing is jagged and thready, but I won’t allow her to peak, yet. Won’t allow this first, delicious orgasm to overtake her.

 I catch her small sigh of longing as I withdraw my finger, and sooth her with gentle strokes along the backs of her thighs. When she settles, I reach for her again, parting her gently and press my face between her legs. My tongue moves over her clit. She gasps; her legs quiver as I trace the swollen flesh. I close my lips over the bundle of nerves, drawing her in my mouth. Her breathing comes in great gasps of air as she moves against my mouth, pushing and retreating.  Her taste explodes in my mouth, sweeter now, hotter on my lips. I feast on her.

***

My nerves are strung tight; my chest burns as breathing turns to sharp gasps.  His mouth moves over me, his tongue thrusting inside me, fucking me. Standing on my toes, trying not to push back against him, it is useless to fight the swelling tide - the urge to move, to mate, to fuck takes over. My fingers curl around the railing, holding on for support and a measure of control. The hard edges bite into my palms as his tongue dips and strokes.

 He knows every inch of my skin, knows how to draw every ounce of pleasure from my body. He slows again, blowing a slow, steady stream of air over my clit. My chest tightens; a strangled sound escapes the back of my throat. In desperation, I reach behind me and grab a fistful of hair, pulling him hard into me while I push back. His afternoon stubble scrapes my soft skin as his tongue pushes deeper.  Bursts of desire explode through me, my muscles strain as his mouth and fingers move over me, in me.

He stands, his mouth leaving me suddenly, violently, and I yell in protest and reach for him.  He grabs the bunched dress at my waist and pulls it over my head, dropping it on the warm stones. He pulls me against him, my back against his chest, his cock pressing into the small of my back.  His strong hands cups my jaw and turns my face as his lips find mine. I taste my body on his tongue, his lips, and sink into the kiss as his flavors and mine mingle. “Be patient, love. Wait for the pleasure.”

I whimper at his words, helpless to do any more than ride the violent waves of passion. I feel his heart racing against my back. He kisses my neck, my ear, while his hands roam, cupping my breast, sinking his fingers into my body.  His mouth finds mine again, rough and demanding.

“Ride my hand.” His voice is dark and thick. Commanding.

I need to explode. He is an expert, knows how to build my desire, flashes of heat and smoldering flames. Helpless to anything else, I move, rubbing my clit against the hard butt of his palm while his fingers drive deep inside me. With an arm above my head, wrapped around his neck, I grab his wrist and will him not to pull away as I rock against him. His hand grows damp as I slip over it.

But he won’t allow me to continue. I sob as his hand leaves me. Turning me, he wraps his arms around me. “Wrap your legs around me, love,” he murmurs.

His lips meet mine as he lifts me to him, and my legs wrap around his hips. I am hot and wet and out of my mind as he enters, swift and sharp, full and deep. I bury my face into his neck as he sets me on the edge of the small table. He is no longer patient, can no longer pretend patience. His cock stretches me, and the fullness brings me to the edge, again.

“Please!” I cry. I am ready to beg, to plead with him not to stop, not to leave me. To let me come. For him. To please him.

And this time he doesn’t stop. The sounds of damp skin sliding and slapping cling to the air around us. He changes angles and leans forward, bracing one arm on the table while the other angles my hips. His dark eyes are intense, his mouth hard, as he focuses in on me. Only me.

“You are so tight, love,” he rasps, seductively. “I love how your body shows me how much you want me, how much you love my cock inside you.” My pussy clenches in response. He lowers his mouth to my breasts, brushing his lips and teeth over each nipple before pulling the overheated flesh into his mouth.

***

I’m crazed. Her hot, wet pussy traps me tight; the lush drag of skin against skin pushes me closer to release. I tilt her hips higher, knowing the moment the head of my cock hits her sweet spot. Her heels dig deep into the small of my back. I leave her for a moment then sink myself fully, bumping her cervix. I thrust hard and fast, burying myself over and over. Her legs tremble, her breathing as jagged as mine.

“Now, love,” I whisper. I want to feel her shivers as her walls clamp around me. She responds immediately, now that she’s been given permission, and her nails rip into my back and shoulders as her orgasm rips through her. Her back arches, and her low wail fills the air.

I am helpless to respond, and I pour myself into her. I drop my face into her neck, whispering love words, how proud I am of her, that she is mine.

Long, long moments later, as our bodies cool in the soft breeze and our breathing steadies, I raise my head and kiss her softly; her brow, her nose, and finally her mouth, now lax. Resting my forehead against hers, I whisper, “Welcome home.”