Page 61 of Italy Can Bite Me

This is what my life has come to—sitting at a gorgeous Italian dinner party thinking about orgasms. Not just any orgasms. Specifically the kind I want Matteo Monti to give me. Repeatedly. In various positions. Preferably while speaking Italian.

I should be soaking up every magical detail of Enrico and Caterina’s backyard, not daydreaming about my tour guide returning and whispering naughty promises against my neck.

I force myself to pay attention, like a good event planner should. String lights crisscross overhead, creating a constellation of tiny stars. Rustic wooden tables stretch out endlessly, covered in linens so white they’re judging my impure thoughts. Weathered wine barrels serve double duty as cocktail stations, complete with mason jars filled with flickering candles.

Even the setting sun feels like foreplay, caressing the vineyard with fingers of gold that make me think of other kinds of touching. The air is thick with the aroma of enough Italian food to feed a small army. Platters of handmade pasta glisten with olive oil, and fresh herbs have been scattered on the tables like edible confetti.

The vineyard workers and seniors have merged into one big, happy, wine-soaked family—sharing stories between bites of pecorino and prosciutto. Mrs. Thomas is glowing as she chats with a volunteer from her hometown in Michigan. “Your grandmother owns Romano’s Deli? I eat there every Sunday after church!”

I wonder how these tablecloths would feel against my back if he took me right here?

Oh yeah, gone is Katie Crawford, Professional Event Planner Who Has Her Shit Together.

My brain keeps glitching to one thought:

MatteoMatteoMatteoMatteo.

And then he appears.

My muscles tighten, anticipation prickling across my skin as he approaches our table. His hair is still damp from a shower, curling at the edges in a way that makes my fingers ache to grip it. To pull it. To use it to guide his mouth to mine.

Jesus. When did I become this person?

His thigh brushes mine as he sits, and the contact makes a flush spread over my skin while my knees press together instinctively.

“Miss me, principessa?”

I dig my nails into my palms to keep from launching myself into his lap. “Like a paper cut.”

Lie.

My lady parts missed him like wine misses cheese. Like pasta misses sauce.

Minutes tick by, and the dinner conversation flows around me in Italian. I can barely pay attention as I’m consumed by every whisper of contact between our bodies. When he reaches for the wine, his forearm touches mine. My body speaks up.Everyone, stay calm. This is not a drill! Let’s not mess this up.

“English!” Caterina scolds. “Or Katie think we plot her murder, yes?”

I force a laugh, like I haven’t been plotting exactly how to get Matteo alone and naked for the past hour. “Murder really would mess up my schedule tomorrow.”

“Always so organized,” Matteo says, his breath hitting my ear.

“Katie!” Enrico’s face lights up. “Has Matteo told you about the time he steal my father’s tractor?”

“Dio mio.” Matteo drops his head into his hands. “Not this story. I was fifteen!”

“Picture this!” Enrico waves his hands. “Mr. Suave Matteo, trying to impress beautiful Valentina Bellini. He steals Papa’s tractor—”

“Borrowed,” Matteo says.

“—Steals Papa’s tractor,” Enrico continues louder, “thinking he will show off his farming skills. Instead—” He dissolves into laughter so hard he starts hiccuping. “Instead, he takes out three rows of century-old vines! Crashes into irrigation system! Creates mud geyser!”

I sneakily kick off my sandal under the tablecloth, becoming full-on seduction ninja. My toes find his ankle, and Matteo’s body stiffens.Challenge accepted.

“Everything okay?” I ask sweetly. “You seem tense.”

“Perfect,” he grits out, then turns to Enrico. “But it wasn’t like that—”

“Papa finds him,” Enrico wheezes, “covered head to toe in mud, trying to push two-ton tractor out of ditch! Looking like swamp monster!”

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