Page 30 of The Hitman

It’s not glamorous, and I think briefly that Ryan would have hated that; he would have thought it was beneath him, but Giulio doesn’t. He slides into the back seat first, which I think is rude until he spreads his arm across the back of the seat, turns to me, and smiles in invitation. “Vieni qui,” he says.

My brain doesn’t need to speak Italian to understand what he means, and neither does my body. As I crawl into the tiny back seat beside him, there’s sweat at the back of my neck, my clit is throbbing, and my knees are weak. We’re off to a great start.

It’s a tight fit. Giulio does nothing to stop his body from touching mine. In fact, he spreads his legs wider, so his thigh brushes against mine. His forearm touches my bare shoulders, and his fingertips lightly brush my right arm as it curls around me.

The drive to the vineyard takes ten minutes. Ten bumpy minutes. His body bounces against mine the entire time, the bare skin of our legs and his arm against my shoulder — sticking for a humid fraction of a second and then pulling away. We make our way through the San Marco town center. The cobbled streets are not fun, but the packed dirt road as we enter the vineyard is smooth. Almost as smooth as the soft linen of his clothes against my bare skin.

Can a car ride be erotic? Because this one is. By the time we unfold from the golf cart, my pussy is somehow even wetter than when I crawled inside. My nipples are hard enough to cut diamonds.

Ryan who?

* * *

“This vineyard has been here for nearly a century,” the tour guide tells us, as we move carefully through the vines.

I thought it would be a small group tour, but it’s not. It’s just the tour guide, me, and Giulio’s silent presence at my back.

God, I hope this tour is expensive as fuck. If not, I’m going to buy all the wine to make sure it is.

As we wind through the neat rows of grapevines, I swear I can feel his breath on my ear or shoulder. Once, I think I feel his fingers at the hem of my dress, but when I turn around, he’s not touching me. Not with his hands, at least. He’s watching me with those dark eyes and a subtle grin on his face, and I can feel that.

The tour guide tells us a bunch of things I never hear. Lots of stuff about the strain of grapes and how long the vineyard has been owned by the same family — whose name I don’t catch — because I’m so focused on Giulio.

Maybe I’ll book another tour on one of Ryan’s other cards.

But you know God don’t like ugly, because just as that thought enters my brain, I stumble. Somehow, my foot sinks into a patch of soft dirt, and I pitch to the side. I’m just about to crash into a row of century-old vines when two strong hands grab me around the waist and haul me upright.

I yell out and then suck in a dry breath of air when he sets me on firm ground but doesn’t let me go.

“Be careful, tesora,” he whispers into my ear, chuckling softly.

My face heats with shame. “I shouldn’t have worn these shoes,” I mumble.

My ass is pressed against his front, and he might not be fully hard, but he’s not soft. He looks down the front of my body, and I wonder if he can see down my dress. I wonder if he knows that I want him to.

“I like the shoes,” he says before turning to brush his mouth across my ear again. “I like your toes as well.”

I barely swallow this moan.

Someone clears their throat.

The tour guide’s eyes are averted, but he’s red-faced and clearly embarrassed. “Just this way, we have the barrel storage for the tasting room,” he says nervously. “Andiamo, si?”

“Va via,” Giulio says in a hard tone that makes me shiver and causes the tour guide to scurry away.

“What did you say to him?”

“I told him to leave.”

“Why?”

His arm tightens around me, and he grinds his erection into my ass. It’s harder now.

“Do you want me to tell you?” he whispers. “Will that excite you?”

“Yes,” I say without even a second of hesitation. There’s no room to second-guess or think too deeply. Literally.

He smiles against my ear, and then his tongue caresses my earlobe.

---