Page 12 of Nine Years Gone

“They wanted us to fit in, be American. They thought that by speaking Italian at home, we wouldn’t blend in.”

“A lot of parents from that generation thought that way. I know a bunch of people who’ve told me the same thing you just did.”

“What about you? Do you speak Spanish?” he asks.

“Yes. My parents were the opposite. We weren’t allowed to speak English at my house. My parents would ignore us if we spoke English to them. Literally, if you asked a question in English, they would stare at you or walk away from you as if you’d said nothing. It was really annoying.”

“Bet you’re glad they did though, because now you’re fluent, right?”

“I am,” I say, nodding in unison with my words.

“Say something in Spanish for me.” He puts his drink down on the coffee table and reaches for me, starts drawing circles with his fingers just above my knee.

“Um, what do you want me to say?” The nerves pool in my belly, and I give my glasses a nudge with my left hand.

“Anything, whatever you feel comfortable saying.”

I look into his eyes and say, “Me gustas mucho y tengo ganas de besarte.”

“I have no idea what that means, but it sounds sexy as fuck.” His hand moves from my leg up to my lips, and he drags his thumb firmly across my bottom lip. I open my mouth and pull his thumb in, swirling my tongue around his finger.

“Jesus, Lena.” He takes the drink from my hands, puts it onto the coffee table, and then lifts my frames off, dropping them next to my glass. He draws me closer to him, and his lips crash into mine. He tastes like whiskey, and his breath is hot. I push my hands into his hair, tugging at its ends. Its thick, ink-black strands are a stark contrast to my olive skin.

I separate from him, resting my forehead against his, and close my eyes, inhaling his unique scent. Before our date, I told myself that I wouldn’t sleep with Massimo tonight, but I’m drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

My body tingles all over, craving him—to touch, taste, and feel him. In the background, Tom Petty’s “Runnin’ Down a Dream” is playing. The melody of the music mixed with the vodka I’ve been drinking all night awakens the brave woman within me.

I rise, extending my hand to his. He looks up at me; his eyes are dark, lust burning at their rims, and he stands as well. I walk toward the hall to the left of the foyer, where the bedroom is, holding Massimo’s hand behind me as he follows.

In the hallway, there is another Helmut Newton photo hanging on the wall, a woman ascending a grand staircase with a black dress. The scoop back hangs low, revealing her entire back, the slit of the dress exposing the entirety of her left leg. The picture screams, “Follow me,” as you stare at the woman’s beauty.

When we’re at the door to his bedroom, I enter but stop because it’s dark. Massimo steps around me to turn on the lamp on the nightstand. He struts back to me and guides me to the foot of the bed. His hands caress my arms, across my hips, landing at the hem of my shirt. I want him to remove it but am also self-conscious about my belly.

Instead, I reach for his shirt and tug on it, wanting to help him lift it off. His chest is firm; short, dark hair covers his pecs and meets in the center, with a trail that goes right down the middle of his abs, disappearing into his pants. His belly is flat, but there isn’t a six-pack there, which is how I’d imagined him considering his arms are toned, and his T-shirts are always snug around his biceps.

I place kisses along his chest from right to left, ending on the tattoo covering his left bicep. Black ink covers his upper left arm—a laurel wreath that meets at the top then circles down with a black rose in the middle.

Before I can ask about his ink, he says, “Lena, let me see how beautiful you are.” His hands lift my head so I can meet his eyes. I reach up and rest my wrists around his neck, and I kiss him.

I want to taste him, let him ignite the passion simmering inside me so that I don’t think so much about getting undressed. He returns my kisses, his lips soft and pliant. My hands explore his torso, fingers swirling over his skin.

Massimo’s hands are on my breasts, rubbing and teasing them. The burning sensation in between my legs intensifies with each touch and kiss, stoking the fire within me. It’s giving me the courage to peel my shirt off, tossing it on the bed. Feelings of doubt linger, causing me to cross my arms over my front.

“Are you shy?”

“A little.” I nod.

He places a finger at my chin, raising my eyes to his. “You shouldn’t be. You’re so beautiful.” Massimo lifts his hands and brushes his fingers along my clavicle and down the center of my chest. When his hands meet my arms, he uncrosses them so that they fall to my sides. He cups my breasts and runs his thumbs over the swell spilling over my bra. His lips find the beauty mark on my cheek and linger there before placing a trail of kisses down my jawline, my neck, my chest until he’s kneeling with his mouth at my waistband.

I thread my hands into his hair. “Massimo, please.” I swallow hard; the flutters are a firestorm of fury, want, and need.

“Please what, Lena? Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

“You already have me. You’ll need to be more specific.” My skin burns in the wake of his kisses.

“To feel.”

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