A Taste of Italy

A Taste of Italy

Lucie Simone

Price: $2.99


Carly, an LA woman who sets off for Florence, Italy in search of passion, finds that her Catholic upbringing and a decade spent toiling away in the corporate tax industry has her so buttoned up she barely knows what to do with herself. Haunted by Sister Mary Margaret's threats of eternal damnation, she nearly loses the will to fulfill her dreams. But when she meets David, a California man in Florence with his theatre company, she discovers that underneath all her layers of guilt and fear, lies the heart of a "naughty, naughty girl."

PUBLISHED BY: Freya's Bower
ISBN: 1-934069-46-9
CATEGORIES: Romantic Comedy, Contemporary, Erotica
KEYWORDS: contemporary erotica, short story, Italy, romantic comedy

EBOOKS BY Freya's Bower

EBOOKS BY Lucie Simone

COPYRIGHT Lucie Simone/2007

I was strangely comforted by the scent of detergent and the soft swish of the warm, soapy water cascading over my clothes. I felt my eyelids droop as the washer hummed and lulled me into a long-awaited sleep. Hopes and dreams of loves and lovers danced around my brain like a stripper in a nightclub. I had been having sexier and steamier dreams with each passing day of my trip--each day that I didn't find a lover. My libido was on overdrive, and if I didn't get some satisfaction soon, I was capable of erupting like Mount Vesuvius--endangering every man, woman, and child in a two-mile radius.

A clanging sound stirred me from my catnap, and I lifted one eyelid to find a beautiful, dark-haired man in a pair of faded jeans so tight I could make out every inch of his male anatomy. Pulling some clothes out of a dryer and dumping them into a basket, he nodded in my direction. I felt a prickling sensation in my nipples.

"Buon giorno, signora," he said with a smile.

"Buon giorno," I replied, wondering if I had the courage to actually flirt in a foreign language. My Italian was bad enough on a full-night's sleep, forget about trying to chat up some hottie in a laundromat after trotting across two countries with little more than ten minutes of shut-eye.

"E una turista?" he asked.

"I'm on vacation," I answered. "Sono una turista." At least I understood what he'd said. Trying to translate into Italian was another matter entirely. Better just to parrot what he'd said. Sister Mary Margaret, my Catholic high school catechism teacher who often claimed my laziness would send me straight to hell, would surely have been disappointed in my efforts to communicate. Although, I imagine if she'd known who was hitting on me, she'd have dragged me out of the laundromat by my earlobes.

He nodded and carried his basket over to a folding table. Delicately, he spread a shirt out on the table, smoothing it out with his hands. I watched him tenderly fold the garment one sleeve at a time, imagining what it would feel like to have him touch me that way. I closed my eyes and pictured him wrapping his strong hands around my hips, pulling me up into his arms and laying me on the table before him.

I crossed my legs and slipped my right hand between my thighs, as I imagined him plucking open the buttons of my jeans and fingering the waistband of my panties before he enveloped my lips in a hard, wet kiss. One hand would slip under my shirt and unhook my bra as his lips traveled to my neck. He'd pull my shirt off over my head, and toss it on the floor. Cupping my breasts in his hands, his thumbs would caress my erect nipples. Another wet kiss, and he'd pull my hips to him. I imagined the feel of his penis against my pelvis, and felt my own wetness between my thighs. I shifted on the bench, swaying my hips, pressing my hand into the crotch of my jeans. God, it had been a long time since I'd had sex.

I opened my eyes and found him staring at me. A hot shame rushed through me, and I looked away momentarily. When I turned my gaze back toward him, I saw that he had stopped folding his clothes and was instead studying my body, following the lines of my legs up to my hips. I whipped my hand out from between my legs. Had he known what I was doing?

"Che bella," he said. How beautiful? Was he interested in partaking in my fantasy? "Mi chiamo Giovanni," he said thumping his fingers on his chest as he stepped away from the table and toward me. "Call me Giovanni."

"You speak English?"

"A little. Enough." He sat beside me and leaned in, dangerously close.

Suddenly I felt as if a rock had lodged in my throat as he placed his hand on my thigh. Dear God, I thought, were Italian men really this forward? Was I brave enough to find out?


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