Elisa
Good thing I decided to cook to distract myself! Michael and I are candidates for the Palme d’Or for liars of the year. It took us half an hour to get from “Let’s pretend it didn’t happen” to making allusions, to physical contact which, I admit, I also encouraged.
I’m afraid I like Michael more than I want to admit. The worst is that I’m knowingly throwing fuel on the fire in the hopes that he’ll take this flirtation to the next level, because I don’t have the courage to make the first move myself.
Right now, Michael is behind me. We’re practically spooning, bent over the cutting board making—or, at least, attempting to make—the pici.
His hands, which until now were next to mine, move up my arms and stop around my shoulders, and a warm pressure on my neck triggers an internal shock.
“What are you doing?” I whisper breathlessly.
“Tasting you,” he replies.
“Do you like what you taste?”
His mouth continues, impertinent and brazen, up to my ear. “It’s to die for.”
We’ve taken the plunge. If I’d wanted to push him away, this would have been my chance. I turn to face him, my hands on his chest. “I thought the new rule was no touching,” I murmur against his lips.
“Rules are made to be broken,” he shoots back, brushing my lips with his. “Where did we leave off yesterday?”
“On the barrel.”
And just like yesterday, he lifts me up, but this time it’s onto the floured cutting board. “Let’s pick up where we left off.” He unclips my hair, letting it fall down my back. “You drive me crazy.”
We’re all over each other, ravenous, our flour-covered hands traveling everywhere. The straps of my dress fall down, revealing my breasts, while I wrap my legs around Michael’s waist and hook his T-shirt with my fingers to lift it.
Our goodwill agreement was short-lived. Only this time I have no intention of running off ... on the contrary! I lean back until I’m almost lying down, pulling Michael on top of me, without any thought for the dough.
“The pici!” he pants.
“We can order pizza,” I say, imploring him not to stop kissing me, my hands gripping his hair to prevent him from moving more than a millimeter away from me.
He lifts my dress and grabs my buttocks firmly, his fingers already hooked on the edge of my panties; I’m busy fiddling with his belt buckle when the thud of the front door and the echo of lively chatter in the hall surprises us.
We freeze, looking into each other’s eyes with a flash of terror. “Did you hear that?” he asks me, petrified.
“Yeah. Are they here already?” I ask, recognizing Lapo’s and Margherita’s voices. “What time is it?”
“Seven,” he replies, checking the clock.
“They’re early!” I exclaim, looking around. “Shit.”
“Shit!”
I jump off the table, and we brush the flour off each other. “How do I look?”
“You should pull your hair back.”
“Your jeans, zip them.”
We clean ourselves up just in time for the merry gang to make their entrance.
“So, are you the chefs tonight?” asks Giada, followed by everyone else.
“Did you manage to make something edible, or did you spend the evening just working yourselves up?” jokes Carletto.
Cosimo approaches the table, from which he plucks one of the pici we steamrolled. “Judging by this, I’d say tonight we’re having nothing but bread. But it’s a pleasure to see Elisa has finally learned to dress herself as God intended.”
