Tonight is much the same—I’m pausing even at the hum of insects, determining whether it’s an approaching engine. Iarrived at the villa in Ravenna yesterday and immediately sent for the occasional housekeeper, Cinzia, who does for us. The landscaping is kept up even when no one is staying here, so the outside looks tidy—pink sandstone paths swept, seasonal blooms and trees in order, fountain clear and musical. The interior is aired, spick-and-span, all surfaces shining.
When Sage’s sporty little Mercedes—one of the Emerald vehicles that upper team members have at their disposal—roars into the circular drive, I can’t help glancing nervously down at myself, checking to see if I look both attractive and sufficiently casual. I check my hair in the mirror in the foyer, then adjust the cuffs of my linen shirt, rolled to the elbows. Opening the front door, I go down the path to meet Sage, who’s pulling an army-green duffel bag and a tailor’s garment bag from the boot of the car. She looks up at me as she slings them over her shoulders, and her genuine smile makes my heart trip.
“Hey, Sandy-boy!” she calls out, coming around the car. She’s wearing a simple black halter dress that ties behind her neck, hair upswept and pinned atop her head, baring the sculpted column of that gorgeous, tattooed neck. Even in wedge sandals that add several inches, she’s petite, nose-height relative to me.
I’m struck with sudden anxiety over the greeting. I’m likely still not allowed to kiss her. Perhaps a one-arm hug? If I obeyed the dictate of impulse, I’d pull her into a fierce embrace and kiss her breathless. But as she draws up beside me, my body is pulled in so many directions at once that I make a complete prat of myself.
My arms do something hesitant and graceless that concludes in sweeping Sage’s head toward myself in the crook of myelbow andalmostkissing her forehead, then fearing it wouldn’t go well and laying my cheek briefly against her pile of aqua hair instead. She laughs, looking up at me from inches away.
“I’ve really fucked you up with the no-kissing thing, haven’t I?” she teases.
“Hopelessly.” I reach for the duffel bag, the heavier of the two items, and she twists away with a sly smile before handing me the garment bag.
“Take this one,” she tells me. “It’s technically yours.”
“Really? Hmm, I’m intrigued.”
“You may not say that once you see it.”
“What is it, vinyl trousers and a ball gag? Sequined gown and cha-cha heels?” I joke. “Full of mischief, you.”
I keep an arm around her as we go up the path and into the house. The skin of my forearm feels electric from touching her warm, bare shoulders. As stilted as the greeting embrace was, walking like this seems natural. When we get inside, I point toward an arched hallway leading off to the left.
“Bedrooms are there. You’ve your pick, of course.” I don’t want to assume, so I had all three guest rooms made up with fresh linens and floral arrangements. An assortment of pricey toiletries and thick towels are in every en suite.
She tilts a sardonic look at me. “Obviously I’m sleeping inyourroom, dumbass.”
I lead her to the open doorway of the first and largest room. “In that case, this happens to be the ‘primary dumbass chamber.’ Make yourself at home, pet.”
She saunters in and drops her bag on the floor before turning a full circle, inspecting. “This is swanky.”
“Thank you.” I half close the door and hang the garment bag on the back. “May I open this?”
“You can change into it for dinner. I made us reservations at a nice trattoria.”
“Oh? Thereisfood here, if you prefer to stay in. Our girl Cinzia made a baked pasta dish and left it in the fridge this morning.”
Sage takes a short backward flying leap onto the bed, giving a few extra bounces for good measure. “Our girl?” she echoes, amused. “What century are you from?” She puts her hands between her knees and leans forward in a Marilyn Monroe posture. “If she’s our girl,” she says, sotto voce, “she’d better be hot as hell.”
Despite Sage’s bisexuality, nothing like this has occurred to me before now, and it must show on my face.
She laughs, leaning back. “Aww, did I unlock something there, Sandy? I don’t suppose you’re good at sharing.”
I rest both hands in my pockets and lift one eyebrow. “I’m not. Though it’s a nice mental picture, to be fair.”
She pulls the pins from her hair, tossing them carelessly behind her to tick on the tile floor. Lifting one foot, she directs, “Take my shoes off, lovely boy.”
I walk over slowly, our eyes locked. Sage rolls her ankle in an enticing circle. I cradle the heel of her foot and work the silver buckle open. The shoe drops, heavy, and I run both hands up her calf. When my fingers dip into the hollow at the back of her knee, Sage’s eyes flutter closed.
“I suspect,” I tell her quietly, “that you and I are going to have averygood time getting to know more about one another.”
I turn my wrist and massage two knuckles into the soft, slightly damp valley behind her knee and note the way she sucks in a breath. Removing her other shoe, I grasp her behind both knees and pull her to the edge of the bed, legs on either side of my chest. My hands glide up her thighs. When I reach her hips, I realize she’s not wearing knickers. My eyebrows lift as if I’m scandalized, and Sage grins.
“Italy is so hot,” she says with a pout.
“You’reso hot.” One of my hands migrates to skim over her appendix scar and go to her belly button, circling it with my thumb, then slowly dropping until I reach the downy strip of hair adorning her mound. “How hungry are you for dinner?” I follow the soft line lower. “I’d love to taste you as an appetizer.”
“Impatient boy,” she croons, putting two fingers over my lips. “I actually am starving. And our reservation’s in forty-five minutes.”
