Roman Crazy
Page 35
I gestured down at the tight green silk wrapping around my hips and thighs. Bending down and slipping underneath it would result in either flashing him (bad), or splitting it up the back since it was so damn tight (very bad). “No way.”
Without a word, he reached around my waist and lifted me effortlessly over it. I slid down his body until my feet brushed the old floor. He could have let go. He should have let go—but he didn’t.
Marcello’s rough thumbs found the sliver of skin between my skirt and the tight top I was wearing. Sweeping it across, he rubbed the skin just so. Back and forth, searing into my skin.
His breath whooshed out, and I knew what would follow. The low rumble deep in his chest that I’d always heard just before he kissed me. My tongue slipped out, licking the last of the stickiness from my wine away. His eyes caught the movement and there it was. The deep resonant sound, the clenching of his fingers against my side as he tugged me the tiniest bit closer.
My breath caught. I was afraid to move, scared that whatever bubble we were in would pop and we’d realize we were out of our depth here.
His nose brushed mine, with his lips hovering close. He was almost there. It was so natural. I knew these lips. I knew what they felt like, how they moved over every inch of me . . . God, I wanted him! It was as if no time had passed, and the woman I am joined the girl I was then in wanting this to happen more than almost anything.
Because in that moment, there didn’t seem to be anything at all wrong with letting nature take over. Wanting so badly to take that final step, I brought my hand up to his hair, twisting a curl around my finger. The arm that circled my waist pulled me even tighter to his body.
I was always a girl who loved to be kissed. Sweet little pecks that said I love you quickly or deep, searching ones that you felt through your body like a live wire over your skin. It had been a long time since I’d felt someone’s lips against mine in such a needy way. It had been an even longer time since I felt a kiss that made my toes curl and that had me throwing caution to the wind.
Maybe because we were at a party filled with people he worked with and it happened to be in a building that used to be a monastery, but I was wild with desire and it was terrifying just how much I wanted this. But then I heard a tour group coming toward us and something changed, I changed. I didn’t think, I reacted and pushed him away.
I exhaled shakily, then took a much-needed breath. This was exactly what I didn’t plan to happen and I let it.
The twinkle in his eyes vanished and was replaced by that same hurt he had shown me that day at the café. “Marcello, I’m—”
“Sorry. I know.”
“Marcello, wait,” I called out, but he’d already taken off.
I searched the party for him, but much as I had that first dinner, he did everything he could to avoid me.
“What happened?” Daisy asked, pulling me over to the side.
“Things almost got out of hand. I have to apologize. Again.” I ran my hand through my hair, frustrated. “I feel like all I do with him is say I’m sorry.”
YOU’RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?” she asked, eyeing the envelope with skepticism and disbelief.
“Listen, I don’t know where he lives. I’m not going to corner him in the office, either, so I need you to do this.”
“If there are check boxes in here asking if he likes you Yes or No, I’m kicking your ass when I get back.”
I didn’t dignify it with a response.
An apology was necessary, so I did what any self-respecting, practically divorced woman of thirty would do. I sent a letter with my best friend, asking him to call, email, or text me. I gave him every option.
Being in the apartment all day wasn’t how I planned to spend my time, but I didn’t want to miss him, so I caught up on email. My in-box was flooded with curious questions from friends, more leading questions from acquaintances still determined to get the dirt, and no fewer than four emails from my mother.
She hadn’t approved of me running off to Rome, even though both she and my father were 100 percent in my corner when it came to leaving Daniel. But leaving Daniel didn’t have to mean leaving the country, or so my mother’s first email told me.
Her second email wondered why I couldn’t have simply escaped to their house; I shouldn’t be alone right now. She’d make me my favorite brisket, she’d rent us some funny movies, she’d buy me chocolate ice cream (my mother’s problem-solving methods were all straight out of a Julia Roberts rom-com), and she’d get me through this crisis, by God.
The third email allowed that perhaps I did need some time alone, but that if solitude was what I needed, then I could move into the Cape house and not see a soul if I didn’t want to. Furthermore, if solitude was what I needed then why, for pity’s sake, was I in Rome, a place crawling with summer tourists?
The fourth and final email told me that she was ready to give me my space, that she and my father would continue to support me any way that they could, but for the love of all that is holy, could I please return an email like a good daughter should?
She had a point. I had sort of cut and run when I left, and I know it didn’t make much sense to her. I quickly fired off an email promising that yes, I was fine, and yes, I was settling in, and that yes, once they got their Skype up and running I’d love to have a “video phone call or whatever.”
I emptied out the rest of my in-box, painted my nails a beautiful shade of Roman Red—fitting—and then proceeded to ruin my new manicure by deciding to grab my easel and head outside to the courtyard.
Without a word, he reached around my waist and lifted me effortlessly over it. I slid down his body until my feet brushed the old floor. He could have let go. He should have let go—but he didn’t.
Marcello’s rough thumbs found the sliver of skin between my skirt and the tight top I was wearing. Sweeping it across, he rubbed the skin just so. Back and forth, searing into my skin.
His breath whooshed out, and I knew what would follow. The low rumble deep in his chest that I’d always heard just before he kissed me. My tongue slipped out, licking the last of the stickiness from my wine away. His eyes caught the movement and there it was. The deep resonant sound, the clenching of his fingers against my side as he tugged me the tiniest bit closer.
My breath caught. I was afraid to move, scared that whatever bubble we were in would pop and we’d realize we were out of our depth here.
His nose brushed mine, with his lips hovering close. He was almost there. It was so natural. I knew these lips. I knew what they felt like, how they moved over every inch of me . . . God, I wanted him! It was as if no time had passed, and the woman I am joined the girl I was then in wanting this to happen more than almost anything.
Because in that moment, there didn’t seem to be anything at all wrong with letting nature take over. Wanting so badly to take that final step, I brought my hand up to his hair, twisting a curl around my finger. The arm that circled my waist pulled me even tighter to his body.
I was always a girl who loved to be kissed. Sweet little pecks that said I love you quickly or deep, searching ones that you felt through your body like a live wire over your skin. It had been a long time since I’d felt someone’s lips against mine in such a needy way. It had been an even longer time since I felt a kiss that made my toes curl and that had me throwing caution to the wind.
Maybe because we were at a party filled with people he worked with and it happened to be in a building that used to be a monastery, but I was wild with desire and it was terrifying just how much I wanted this. But then I heard a tour group coming toward us and something changed, I changed. I didn’t think, I reacted and pushed him away.
I exhaled shakily, then took a much-needed breath. This was exactly what I didn’t plan to happen and I let it.
The twinkle in his eyes vanished and was replaced by that same hurt he had shown me that day at the café. “Marcello, I’m—”
“Sorry. I know.”
“Marcello, wait,” I called out, but he’d already taken off.
I searched the party for him, but much as I had that first dinner, he did everything he could to avoid me.
“What happened?” Daisy asked, pulling me over to the side.
“Things almost got out of hand. I have to apologize. Again.” I ran my hand through my hair, frustrated. “I feel like all I do with him is say I’m sorry.”
YOU’RE KIDDING ME, RIGHT?” she asked, eyeing the envelope with skepticism and disbelief.
“Listen, I don’t know where he lives. I’m not going to corner him in the office, either, so I need you to do this.”
“If there are check boxes in here asking if he likes you Yes or No, I’m kicking your ass when I get back.”
I didn’t dignify it with a response.
An apology was necessary, so I did what any self-respecting, practically divorced woman of thirty would do. I sent a letter with my best friend, asking him to call, email, or text me. I gave him every option.
Being in the apartment all day wasn’t how I planned to spend my time, but I didn’t want to miss him, so I caught up on email. My in-box was flooded with curious questions from friends, more leading questions from acquaintances still determined to get the dirt, and no fewer than four emails from my mother.
She hadn’t approved of me running off to Rome, even though both she and my father were 100 percent in my corner when it came to leaving Daniel. But leaving Daniel didn’t have to mean leaving the country, or so my mother’s first email told me.
Her second email wondered why I couldn’t have simply escaped to their house; I shouldn’t be alone right now. She’d make me my favorite brisket, she’d rent us some funny movies, she’d buy me chocolate ice cream (my mother’s problem-solving methods were all straight out of a Julia Roberts rom-com), and she’d get me through this crisis, by God.
The third email allowed that perhaps I did need some time alone, but that if solitude was what I needed, then I could move into the Cape house and not see a soul if I didn’t want to. Furthermore, if solitude was what I needed then why, for pity’s sake, was I in Rome, a place crawling with summer tourists?
The fourth and final email told me that she was ready to give me my space, that she and my father would continue to support me any way that they could, but for the love of all that is holy, could I please return an email like a good daughter should?
She had a point. I had sort of cut and run when I left, and I know it didn’t make much sense to her. I quickly fired off an email promising that yes, I was fine, and yes, I was settling in, and that yes, once they got their Skype up and running I’d love to have a “video phone call or whatever.”
I emptied out the rest of my in-box, painted my nails a beautiful shade of Roman Red—fitting—and then proceeded to ruin my new manicure by deciding to grab my easel and head outside to the courtyard.
