Roman Crazy
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Champagne-colored bra and panty set. Lacey. Ruffled. A little bit see-through in some places. A lot bit see-through in other places. Tasteful with a touch of cheeky. Exactly how Marcello liked me.
He licked his lips, eyes hungry. Just before he leaned down, he caught sight of the dining room table, set with plates and glasses, and the bottle of wine I had chilling in an ice bucket. He looked at me, then back at the table, then back at me again.
“Tesoro, you cooked, shouldn’t we—”
“I didn’t cook. I bought. I assembled. It can wait. Believe me, it can all wait.”
“Ah yes, but . . .” At war, he continued to look back and forth until I uncrossed my legs and showed him the part that was exceptionally see-through.
“Marcello?”
His eyes never even flickered up to my face. I don’t think he even tried, as a courtesy. “Si?”
“Wouldn’t you love dessert first for a change?”
Turns out he did. And he had it three times before dinner . . .
* * *
“THE ARTICHOKES, they are very good.”
“Right? I sampled a bit here and there, and these were too good to pass up.” I passed a plate. “Try the green beans, they’re fantastic.”
“Mmm.”
I loved hearing him make that sound. He’d made it only moments before, when he’d laid his head across my naked breasts, wrapping his arms around me tightly and sighing contentedly as I stroked his hair. All while he was still inside me. Mmm indeed.
After our impromptu “dessert” on the couch, we’d moved into the dining room for dinner. Wearing the button-down shirt he’d worn to work that day, I’d moved around the kitchen quickly, placing bowls and plates on the table filled with all the tidbits I’d picked up at the market. Marcello, blessedly naked from the waist up, opened a bottle of Gavi, filling our glasses and pausing only to drop a kiss on my collarbone as I passed by with a plate of vegetables. Or on my wrist as I set a wedge of pecorino down in front of him.
Or the space high on the back of my thigh just before it became my bottom when I bent over to retrieve a spoon I’d dropped.
Famished, we tucked into our assembled meal, sated . . . for now. That was the thing about Marcello and me, it was never enough. We could have sex for hours and hours, seemingly endless orgasms that stretched on an entire night and well into the morning. But when we woke? Hands were groping and hips were thrusting and it all began again. I was a different woman around this man. I felt more like a woman around this man, powerful and sexual and raw and wild. And as he licked a bit of lemon zest from his lower lip, crunching down on a green bean, I saw his eyes begin to darken once more. I knew this meal would be over quickly . . .
I ate with gusto, knowing I’d need the energy tonight.
* * *
IT’S AMAZING, WHEN YOU’RE IMMERSED in a new place, how quickly you begin to pick up the little things that make you a part of the scenery, rather than just observing it. When I arrived in Rome, I still craved a more American breakfast (eggs, bacon, pancakes, etc.), but now I ate my bit of pastry and drank my strong, nearly naked espresso standing up at the little bar in the window of a tiny shop with all the other Romans on their way to work.
To my relief, hearing and seeing the Italian language on a daily basis was beginning to pay off, and I found myself reading, more or less, the thousands of fliers that were posted all over town for various concerts, parties, exhibits, and countless other summertime activities.
And it was one of these fliers that I found myself reading while waiting for the bus one afternoon after work. Advertising a concert series for the International Ensemble Chamber Music Festival at the Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza, a famous baroque church in the historic center, it appeared to be a popular evening activity for anyone who liked their music with a stunning courtyard backdrop.
I wanted to go. And I wanted to take Marcello.
“To a chamber music concert?”
I’d called him one night after work, thinking ahead to the weekend. Although originally I was hired to work only a few days a week, the frescoes were proving more difficult to restore than initially thought and I was putting in some serious overtime this week to bring the project in on time. Something that I was anxious to do, considering this was my first gig. By Friday night, the idea of relaxing under the stars and listening to some beautiful music while sitting next to a beautiful Italian man sounded like heaven.
I curled my knees under me as I sank onto the couch, exhausted after a long day but glad I could just pick up the phone and call Marcello like it wasn’t a huge deal. “Sure, we used to go to concerts all the time in Barcelona. I thought it’d be fun. Looks like this Friday night it’s a salute to Gershwin.”
“And you are craving something extra American for some reason?” he teased, and it made me smile.
“You’re not seriously picking on Gershwin, are you? And while I’m loving Roman life big time, I wouldn’t say no to a Nathan’s hot dog if someone put it in front of me.” It was summertime, and I hadn’t been to a summer society soiree at the club or the annual lobster bake and barbecue. Not complaining, but it was a different kind of summer for so many reasons. “Just say you’ll go.”
“Then we will go,” he said, laughing. “Friday night?”
“It’s a date.”
* * *
THAT FRIDAY I SPENT THE day with my frescoes. I was coming to know them so intimately.
Although from an artistic standpoint, they’d be categorized as “average,” from my standpoint they were priceless. They spread across the interior as the basic wall covering. Depicting scenes from daily life in the eighteenth century, the murals were agrarian in nature: water wheels, olive trees, shepherds and their sheep.
He licked his lips, eyes hungry. Just before he leaned down, he caught sight of the dining room table, set with plates and glasses, and the bottle of wine I had chilling in an ice bucket. He looked at me, then back at the table, then back at me again.
“Tesoro, you cooked, shouldn’t we—”
“I didn’t cook. I bought. I assembled. It can wait. Believe me, it can all wait.”
“Ah yes, but . . .” At war, he continued to look back and forth until I uncrossed my legs and showed him the part that was exceptionally see-through.
“Marcello?”
His eyes never even flickered up to my face. I don’t think he even tried, as a courtesy. “Si?”
“Wouldn’t you love dessert first for a change?”
Turns out he did. And he had it three times before dinner . . .
* * *
“THE ARTICHOKES, they are very good.”
“Right? I sampled a bit here and there, and these were too good to pass up.” I passed a plate. “Try the green beans, they’re fantastic.”
“Mmm.”
I loved hearing him make that sound. He’d made it only moments before, when he’d laid his head across my naked breasts, wrapping his arms around me tightly and sighing contentedly as I stroked his hair. All while he was still inside me. Mmm indeed.
After our impromptu “dessert” on the couch, we’d moved into the dining room for dinner. Wearing the button-down shirt he’d worn to work that day, I’d moved around the kitchen quickly, placing bowls and plates on the table filled with all the tidbits I’d picked up at the market. Marcello, blessedly naked from the waist up, opened a bottle of Gavi, filling our glasses and pausing only to drop a kiss on my collarbone as I passed by with a plate of vegetables. Or on my wrist as I set a wedge of pecorino down in front of him.
Or the space high on the back of my thigh just before it became my bottom when I bent over to retrieve a spoon I’d dropped.
Famished, we tucked into our assembled meal, sated . . . for now. That was the thing about Marcello and me, it was never enough. We could have sex for hours and hours, seemingly endless orgasms that stretched on an entire night and well into the morning. But when we woke? Hands were groping and hips were thrusting and it all began again. I was a different woman around this man. I felt more like a woman around this man, powerful and sexual and raw and wild. And as he licked a bit of lemon zest from his lower lip, crunching down on a green bean, I saw his eyes begin to darken once more. I knew this meal would be over quickly . . .
I ate with gusto, knowing I’d need the energy tonight.
* * *
IT’S AMAZING, WHEN YOU’RE IMMERSED in a new place, how quickly you begin to pick up the little things that make you a part of the scenery, rather than just observing it. When I arrived in Rome, I still craved a more American breakfast (eggs, bacon, pancakes, etc.), but now I ate my bit of pastry and drank my strong, nearly naked espresso standing up at the little bar in the window of a tiny shop with all the other Romans on their way to work.
To my relief, hearing and seeing the Italian language on a daily basis was beginning to pay off, and I found myself reading, more or less, the thousands of fliers that were posted all over town for various concerts, parties, exhibits, and countless other summertime activities.
And it was one of these fliers that I found myself reading while waiting for the bus one afternoon after work. Advertising a concert series for the International Ensemble Chamber Music Festival at the Sant’Ivo alla Sapienza, a famous baroque church in the historic center, it appeared to be a popular evening activity for anyone who liked their music with a stunning courtyard backdrop.
I wanted to go. And I wanted to take Marcello.
“To a chamber music concert?”
I’d called him one night after work, thinking ahead to the weekend. Although originally I was hired to work only a few days a week, the frescoes were proving more difficult to restore than initially thought and I was putting in some serious overtime this week to bring the project in on time. Something that I was anxious to do, considering this was my first gig. By Friday night, the idea of relaxing under the stars and listening to some beautiful music while sitting next to a beautiful Italian man sounded like heaven.
I curled my knees under me as I sank onto the couch, exhausted after a long day but glad I could just pick up the phone and call Marcello like it wasn’t a huge deal. “Sure, we used to go to concerts all the time in Barcelona. I thought it’d be fun. Looks like this Friday night it’s a salute to Gershwin.”
“And you are craving something extra American for some reason?” he teased, and it made me smile.
“You’re not seriously picking on Gershwin, are you? And while I’m loving Roman life big time, I wouldn’t say no to a Nathan’s hot dog if someone put it in front of me.” It was summertime, and I hadn’t been to a summer society soiree at the club or the annual lobster bake and barbecue. Not complaining, but it was a different kind of summer for so many reasons. “Just say you’ll go.”
“Then we will go,” he said, laughing. “Friday night?”
“It’s a date.”
* * *
THAT FRIDAY I SPENT THE day with my frescoes. I was coming to know them so intimately.
Although from an artistic standpoint, they’d be categorized as “average,” from my standpoint they were priceless. They spread across the interior as the basic wall covering. Depicting scenes from daily life in the eighteenth century, the murals were agrarian in nature: water wheels, olive trees, shepherds and their sheep.
