Page 79 of Italy Can Bite Me

“And then I’d have to invent a candy in your honor,” he says smoothly. “Something sweet, a little spicy, and completely irresistible.”

Okay, I admit it—my heart melts a little. They may overshare, but they’re seriously cute.

I’m about to tease them when the atmosphere in the room shifts. My skin prickles with awareness as Matteo strides in.

He’s a feast for the eyes in that navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, displaying those forearms that I now know demolish a woman’s self-control. His dark hair is still slightly damp, curling only at the edges—his face freshly shaven.

“Buongiorno!“ he says with a deep, accented voice, cutting through the breakfast chatter. The room immediately quiets. “Today we explore Venice on foot, so everyone must wear comfortable walking shoes.” His eyes lock onto mine, dark with allure. “One hour till go time!”

Before the wink he shoots me fully registers, I am on my feet. “I’d better… um… change my shoes.”

Deb’s brow arches, but mercifully she says nothing as I bolt for the exit.

I arrive at the elevator where—surprise, surprise—Matteo’s waiting, leaning against the wall like a walking, talking orgasm.

“Looking for me, principessa?” He smirks.

“Oh, didn’t notice you standing there,” I say, pressing the elevator button. “Gotta grab my binder—be fully prepared for your riveting, well-planned schedule today.”

“My best plans involveyouforgetting how to breathe.” His fingers tease the bottom of my short floral sundress before pulling me into the elevator right as the doors open.

“Excuse me, but I have a very detailed itinerary that needs—”

“I will tend to every one of your needs, bella.”

“Promise?”

The elevator doors close and his mouth collides with mine. We stumble down the hallway, a mess of wandering hands. Matteo fumbles for his room key.

“One hour,” he growls against my throat as we finally reach his door.

The door clicks shut behind us, and all thoughts of schedules, seniors, and sightseeing vanish.

I only want him.

***

Veniceiswastedonthe sexually awakened.

Here I am, floating through one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and all I can focus on is how Matteo’s knee keeps brushing mine every time our gondola takes a turn. His bare skin on my sundress-exposed leg is a live wire, zapping my brain and turning me into a puddle of lust.

The afternoon sun glints off the canal water, creating a mosaic of light that ripples against the effortlessly grand buildings surrounding us. The scent of the water—a blend of salt, moss, and the faint tang of history—fills the air, while the soft murmur of distant conversations mingles with the rhythmic dip of the gondolier’s oar. Then there are the arches of stone bridges crisscrossing above, framing the sky in fleeting snapshots as we drift beneath them.

It’s surreal, better than any dreamlike state you can imagine. At least it should be. But not when you’re mentally undressing your tour guide. Which I am… Again.

“And on your right is the famous Bridge of Sighs. Named for the sounds prisoners would make as they caught their final glimpse of Venice while being transported from the Doge’s Palace to the prison.”

Matteo’s voice carries that tour guide authority that used to make me want to shove a sock in his mouth. Now it makes my knees weak, remembering how only this morning he commanded me to bend over the desk in his room and—

I mean, seriously? Is this what it’s like to be a man? Constant, overwhelming, can’t-even-think-about-anything-else horniness? No wonder the world’s a mess—everyone’s too busy being thirsty to save the planet.

Stan and Rose are cuddled together in the rear of the gondola, resembling honeymooners. “Last time we were here”—Rose’s eyes twinkle as she squeezes Stan’s hand—“this one tried to stand up to take a picture and nearly capsized us! The gondolier cursed in Italian the entire ride back.”

“Worth it.” Stan plants a kiss on her temple. “Got a great picture of my beautiful bride.”

My tears well up watching them. That’s what I thought I’d have with Jared. That comfort. That certainty. That knowledge—of being right where you belong.

But Jared didn’t want that. Not with my neurotic, overplanning self.

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