Page 54 of Italy Can Bite Me

“I—” She trembles against me. “Everything in me wants… you to keep touching me.”

That breathy confession is a torpedo to my restraint.

I slide one finger along her center, feeling the dampness through the cotton. “Cazzo, you’re soaked.” My cock throbs against my zipper. “Say that’s for me.”

She doesn’t answer, but how she arches against my hand reveals her body wants this—wants me. But not her heart. It’s already spoken for.

With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I set her down. Every cell in my body protests, demanding I pull her back, fuck her right here against the fountain until Jared fades into oblivion. But I’m not the kind of asshole who takes what isn’t freely given.

“That should get his attention,” I manage to say, voice wrecked.

I turn before she’s able to see how much this is killing me. But not before I see her face is flushed, chest heaving.

CHAPTER TEN

KATIE

GROUPCHAT:CPKFOREVER

Petra:Those fountain photos are fire.

Petra:If you’re not letting Tour Guide Hottie rearrange your organs, I’m disowning you.

Cam:The way he’s looking at you!

Cam:Even my boss’s staged “romance” shots for YouTube aren’t that hot.

Me:It’s not like that! He’s just helping with Operation Win Back Jared.

Petra:Quick poll: Who’d give better orgasms?

Me:I’m instituting a new rule about inappropriate polls in group chats.

Petra:The fact you haven’t immediately defended Jared’s honor tells me everything.

Cam:GET IT GIRL!

Me:I’m muting this chat.

Cam:No you’re not. You love us.

Petra:Trust me—one night with an Italian and you’ll forget Jared ever existed.

Petra:Your vagina will thank you later… Possibly in multiple languages.

DEAR GOD, I'M GOINGto die.

Not in the good way, not because of the dreamy Tuscan landscape rolling past my greasy window. And not due to the madness of this rickety tour bus. And not even because of the shouting senior citizens who forgot their hearing aids.

I’m going to die because I’m trapped in a bus with a man who’s intimately familiar with my eagerness-soaked panties, but is now acting like I’m invisible.

I won’t let my thoughts wander there. Not a chance. I refuse to relive how his fingers felt outlining my entrance over my underwear, unveiling just how much my hoo-ha was on board. How my nipples tightened, crushed against his chest while every single nerve ending in my body screamed,Yes. Please. More. NOW!

I smooth my floral dress over my thighs for the twentieth time, not thinking about how I skipped over my sensible walking slacks this morning. The ones I’d already laid out. The ones that were the obvious choice for a day of wine tasting and touring vineyards.

But no. Here I sit in this breezy little sundress that keeps sliding up my thighs every time the bus hits a bump. I tell myself it’s for the Instagram aesthetic. Just innocent photo ops. Not because I’m hoping for a repeat of yesterday. The ache between my thighs grows more intense, and electricity zips through my body as I recall how I was climbing for release in his arms. I swear a few more strokes of his finger and I would have had an orgasm.Which is crazy. Right?

I can’t let myself climax for another man… and in public no less? I can’t do that. It’s not me.

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