Page 42 of Italy Can Bite Me

Her pupils dilate until those green eyes are nearly black, her body edging toward mine like it knows exactly where it belongs. When I speak again, I deliberately let my accent thicken, watching her shiver in response.

“Ammettilo, ti stai immaginando di scoparmi.”

Admit it, you’re imagining fucking me.

“I think that’s enough.” Her voice comes out breathless. “I need to post some pictures for Jared.”

And there’s that name again, slicing through my growing arousal.

Fuck.I need to get my shit together before I do something monumentally stupid. Like press her up against these sacred walls and show her how an Italian man worships a woman. But she belongs to someone else—invisible ring or not. And despite my reputation, despite how much I want to ruin her for any other man’s touch, I don’t cross that line. Not ever. No matter how much my cock wants to.

I pass her the camera, ignoring the thrill of her fingers brushing mine.

“That’s… that’s me?” She blinks rapidly like she’s trying to reconcile the seductress on-screen. “I look…”

“Like a woman who doesn’t just catch a man’s attention—she chains him to her presence. You look like a weapon of desire—like the reason priests question their calling.”

“Stop!” But she’s grinning that real smile—the one that splits me open and disarms me in a single heartbeat.

“I’m serious, Katie. This—” I lean closer, pointing to a shot where the sunset turns her into liquid gold. “This is the woman who’s always there, burning beneath all that control, begging to break free.”

Our eyes meet in the screen’s reflection and holy fuck—the heat between us could power all of Italy.

The second the photos transfer, she’s typing and posting like her life depends on it.

“Tag Monti Tours?” I keep my voice casual, like I’m not desperate to see what kind of man gets to call her his.

“Of course!” She doesn’t look up, probably crafting the perfect caption with the same precision she applies to everything else in her life.

My phone pings, and I hitFollowbefore I can stop myself.Porca miseria!My feed explodes with pictures of her and some professore who looks like he gets turned on by pictures of dinosaur feet. It’s a fucking shrine to perfect coupledom. Photo after photo of her in tasteful cardigans, him in ugly ties with stupid fucking dinosaurs. In every one, Katie wears that polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

No wonder she made that comment about women faking their climaxes. I’d bet my last euro Jared’s never made her come so hard she gripped the sheets until they tore. He probably pencils in their missionary position encounters between ironing his ties and polishing his fossil collection.

But who am I to say anything? Of course she’s into reliable guys with put-together lives and careers. Girls like Katie don’t dream of a man who can barely keep his tour company running.

Why the hell am I spiraling over Katie Crawford’s all-American life as if it’s any of my business?She’s a tourist who needed photos. That’s it.

I took the pictures. I did my job.

Even if watching Katie finally unleash her sultry side made my cock harder than marble.

I’ve got my rule; she’s got her fiancé.

Time to focus on being the charming tour guide—not someone imagining how she’d taste or how she’d sound screaming my name.

I need to get my head straight and focus on something else—like tomorrow’s Wish Card.

The seniors start filtering back, right on schedule, and I begin my head count. Katie beams at her phone screen(which I ignore… unsuccessfully).

Last to arrive are Deborah and Howie, andcazzo—that sapphire around her neck could fund a small country.

“Deborah, that necklace is almost as stunning as you.” I whistle low. “Though you should see the gorgeous photos I just took of your niece. She wanted something special for her fiancé—”

“Fiancé?” Aunt Deb chuckles. “Darling, Katie doesn’t have a fiancé. Jared broke things off, and we hightailed it to Italy.”

Katie freezes. Her phone slips from her fingers, hitting the cobblestones with a crack.

I look down at her face, watching the color drain from her cheeks, and suddenly everything—those staged photos, the constant mentions of Jared, that empty ring finger—clicks into place.

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