Page 34 of Italy Can Bite Me

Stop imagining his strong hands sliding up my thighs…

His stubble scratching against my neck…

His sinful mouth whispering filthy Italian promises in my ear—

“Jesus.” I splash cold water on my face. “Get it together, Katie.”

Somewhere amid my artfully displayed toiletries, my phone chimes—another Instagram “like.” I’ve gotten approximately eight million since posting that Lake Como pic(photo credit by Matteo).

It’s the one where I look… different. Softer. Like a woman who doesn’t fold her underwear into separate piles based on type.(Everyday undies in front, period panties in the middle, and scheduled sex nights in the back.)

I pull up the post, ignoring how my pulse kicks up at the sight of all those notifications. Jared? Nope. Scroll, scroll. Family. Scroll, scroll. Friends.C’mon Jared!Scroll, scroll… and nope!

Petra:WHO IS THIS WOMAN AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH OUR KATIE?

Cam:That light! That angle! Excuse me but what magazine is this photo for, miss supermodel?

Mom:You look so relaxed, honey! But let’s button up that top one more…

Still no sign of Jared.

My thumb hovers over his profile. His last Instagram picture—a slightly blurry shot of his favorite triceratops skull—stares back at me, mocking my neediness. He’s probably too busy with his new exhibit to check social media. That’s all. I am absolutely not going to text him the photo directly like some desperate ex.

Even if technically I am his desperate ex.

No. Stay strong. This is all part of the plan. He’ll see these photos eventually and realize I’ve changed. That I’m spontaneous now. That I don’t need to schedule our sex life through 2065.

Speaking of scheduling sex…

My mind drifts back to the boat. Okay, yes, Lake Como might have temporarily diminished Matteo’s… assets, but that just makes me wonder about their non-frozen state. Would his little maestro match the rest of him? Of course it would. I mean all that hard, sculpted perfection comes standard issue with Italian men, right?

Heat floods my cheeks as his words rush back:“Has anyone ever taken their time… tasting… touching… making you fall apart… begging for release?”

Holy. Mother.

Jared would never—has never—said anything that brazen. Our dirty talk consists mainly of “You wanna?” followed by “Sure, let me brush my teeth first.”

Which is fine. Normal. Safe.

I recall the image of Rose and Stan wrapped around each other on their boat. Sixty years together and still acting like lovestruck teenagers. That’s what Jared and I could have. Dependable, forever love.

“Katie-kins!” Aunt Deb’s voice rings out. “Put down whatever list you’re making and help me pick a dress that’ll make these Italian boys pop a button—and not from their shirts!”

My hands mechanically pack my toiletries while Matteo’s rule plays on repeat.

No hooking up with my tourists.

Why can’t I quit thinking about it? And worse… Why won’t my heart stop racing?

***

OURGROUPCLUSTERSOUTSIDEthe hotel entrance, the air thick with excitement and a cloud of floral perfumes that scream, “I’ve got a purse full of Werther’s Originals.”

Matteo’s oozing rugged charm, carrying himself in a way that’s both relaxed and commanding, like he owns the world. I’m doing my best not to notice how his white T-shirt clings to his chest like it’s painted on or how his dark pants hang low on those hips.

Oh my God, his ass. I bite my lip.

“My beautiful travelers!” Matteo’s voice projects across our group. “Today is our last day in Milan, which means”—his eyes find mine with a knowing glint—“we will be sticking to the schedule.”

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