“What did you tell her about our night together in Florence?”
“That we went as friends.”
“Did she buy it?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “She wasn’t born yesterday.”
We drag open the sliding door of the former barn, and I peer into the huge chest fridge, bending down to pick out a watermelon.
“Have I told you how nice your butt looks in those shorts?” asks Michael.
“No, but go ahead and have a seat,” I reply, happy to have my back turned so that he can’t see the smile plastered on my face. “Are you enjoying the show?”
“Very much.”
I emerge from the fridge with the watermelon in my arms just as Michael approaches me from behind, his hands pressing into the door frame, leaving me no way around him, his mouth resting impertinently on my shoulder as he slides the strap of my top down with his tongue.
My strength abandons me, and the watermelon falls to the ground in an explosion of seeds, juice, and pulp.
“You’re playing dirty,” I tell him, returning the provocation, my hands making their way under his T-shirt.
“If it’s not dirty, I don’t like it ...” The top button of my shorts surrenders to Michael as he adds, “Do you remember pici night or do you need a reminder?”
“We shouldn’t have,” I murmur, my lips against his.
“But we wanted to.” The second button on my fly leaves the chat, and now Michael’s fingers are dangerously close to my panties. “Are you ... okay?”
Maybe he thinks I still have my period after ten days. “Willing and able,” I reassure him. “I think they’re going to have to wait for their watermelon,” I say, pulling off my top.
He picks me up and heads for the exit. “Fuck the watermelon.”
We arrive at his room in a whirlwind of kisses, bites, caresses, and scratches.
He locks the door and presses me against it. “I swear you won’t get out of here on your own two feet.”
“I swear I’ll never want to leave.”
In the darkness, I don’t know who pushes who onto the bed, probably both of us, with a hunger that verges on desperation, my shorts flying to the floor along with Michael’s T-shirt and jeans.
We’re not kissing now; we’re tearing each other apart. I’m on top of him, astride him, the thin barrier of our underwear the last thing preventing us from consummating our desire, but we’re both so ready, I’m afraid we’ll explode just by touching.
“You have condoms, right?” I ask him with the last bit of prudence I have left.
“Of course.”
“How many?”
“A box of twelve.”
“That may be enough.”
“Is that a challenge, Elisa?”
“Are you scared?”
“Darling, you have no idea what kind of trouble you just got yourself into.”
“Get them,” I implore, stifling his possible reply with a kiss. He opens the bedside drawer and blindly feels around.
