Page 67 of Italy Can Bite Me

KATIE

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Me:Help. Is it cheating if we’re technically broken up?

Petra:The fact you’re asking means you’re already halfway to doing it.

Cam:Jared gave up all rights to your body when he returned those wedding invitations.

Petra:We support all your bad decisions… especially the naked ones.

Me:But what if he wants to get back together?

Cam:He should’ve thought about that before letting you go.

Petra:NOW GET SOME ITALIAN DICK!

MATTEO MONTI GAVE MEmy first orgasm last night.

And we didn’t even have full-on sex.

The morning sun glints off the spotless shuttle windows as I study the Mediterranean coastline, the turquoise waves sparkling like they’re teasing me. And fine, I’ll admit—seeing the gorgeous view without peering through a smudgy, crime-scene-level layer of grime is a treat. But at the same time, this sterile little bus with its new car smell and functioning seat belts… It feels wrong. Empty.

Is it weird that I miss that rolling death trap?

“Ready for some fun in the sun?” Aunt Deb says from the back where she’s draped over Howie like a human scarf. “These Italian beaches won’t know what hit ’em!”

Beach day. Aunt Deb’s Wish Card. And Howie’s, too, apparently. I don’t know what I expected from my auntie—a live volcano expedition maybe or riding elephants through the middle of Rome—but the beach seems surprisingly tame.

Meanwhile, all that stuff Aunt Deb’s been preaching about: pleasure, freedom, and living in the moment? Yeah, she was right. The kind of right that makes me want to erect a shrine in her honor—complete with an elaborate vibrator display—and set all my precious binders on fire as a sacrificial offering.

Because this? This feeling surging inside me like liquid lightning?Thisis what I’ve been missing. My body’s still buzzing like it’s auditioning for a role as Thor’s hammer, and muscles I didn’t know existed are giving a standing ovation for…

Matteo’s ridiculously talented mouth.

And his hands.

And his dirty words…

Bravo, Matteo. Bravo.

A shiver works its way down my spine. I bite my lip to keep from squirming, butJesus, I can still feel him.Like his touch owns me now, from my lips down to my curled toes. No matter how I try, Iliterallycan’t think of anything else. The sounds I made in that wine cellar—he drew them out, effortlessly, like he was uncorking a vintage chianti after years of pent-up pressure.

Is this how it happens?One earth-shattering orgasm and suddenly I’m ready to join a sex cult?

No wonder Aunt Deb travels the world chasing this high. How do people function after experiencing this? Like, are they just out there grocery shopping and answering emails while pretending they haven’t seen God between their thighs?

I fidget with the hem of my beach cover-up, attempting to conceal my legs. Beneath it, the skimpy bikini my auntie forced me to buy is a scandal waiting to happen. Black. Tiny. Basically craft string masquerading as swimwear.

I amnotthe kind of woman who wears barely there swimwear on European beaches. Or so I thought. But Matteo Monti has officially corrupted me.

The man responsible for last night’s fireworks is sitting four rows ahead, and he won’t even look my way. Like, hello? Earth to Matteo? The woman you turned into a quivering mess is right here, trying not to spontaneously combust every time the shuttle hits a bump.

But nope. He’s simply sitting there being all devastatingly handsome with his troubled eyes and clenched jaw, making me want to march up there and demand he tell me what’s wrong. Maybe while sitting in his lap.For emotional-support purposes only, obviously.

Where’s my insufferable tour guide? The one who flirts and makes inappropriate comments about “the harder the cork, the sweeter the wine.” Matteo Monti doesn’tdobrooding. He does smirking, he does teasing, he does “Let me charm you out of your sensible panties.”Broodingdoes not suit him.

I wish I knew what was bothering him.

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