Page 84 of The Slug Crystal
He groans and rests his forehead against mine for another brief second. Then, he begins to move, setting a rhythm that's neither too fast nor too slow. It’s perfect, like everything else about this unexpected encounter. One hand supports myweight while the other explores, finding the sensitive places along my center that make my breath hitch and my muscles tighten around him.
"You feel like home," he whispers against my neck, the words sending a shiver through me that has nothing to do with physical pleasure. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
This doesn't feel like an escape or a distraction. It feels like recognition. Like I’m finally seeing what's been in front of me all along. I clutch his shoulders, feeling the familiar tension building within me. Jake senses it too, his movements becoming more deliberate. His fingers rub rapid, tight circles along my sensitive nub. His eyes are fixed on mine with an intensity that's almost overwhelming.
"Stay with me," he urges, his voice strained with the effort of control. "I want to see you."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the raw emotion in his eyes pushes me over the edge. The climax washes through me in waves, my body clenching around him as I muffle my cries against his shoulder, biting against his smooth skin. He falls over the edge seconds later, his face buried in my neck, my name sounding like a prayer on his lips.
We remain joined, breathing hard, my legs still wrapped around him, and his body still pressed against mine. The single bulb casts our shadows against the wall, merged into one indistinguishable shape.
"Well," I manage once I can form words again, "that was..."
"Yeah," Jake agrees, gently lowering me back to my feet. "It really was."
He brushes a strand of hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear with tenderness. The gesture brings tears to my eyes, though I can’t exactly explain why.
We help each other dress in the cramped space, laughing quietly when I nearly elbow him while pulling my dress backon, and when he almost trips putting his foot through the leg of his jeans. It should be awkward, this after-moment in a closet that smells of chemicals and sex, but somehow it isn't. It's just us, as we've always been, only more intimate now.
Jake checks that the coast is clear, then we slip back into the gallery. The elderly attendant still sleeps soundly, his book now fallen to the floor. Jake picks it up, gently placing it on the table beside him, then takes my hand as we walk out into the Italian afternoon, changed in ways that go far beyond the physical.
Tuesday, 5:03PM. The villa looms ahead as Jake and I return from our afternoon at the museum, the golden hour light gilding its stone facade with deceptive warmth. My body still hums from our closet encounter, but as we approach the front door, reality crashes back like a cold wave.
Inside this beautiful house await three other men. Each one I've connected with in different ways, each one unaware of what just happened with Jake. My steps slow involuntarily, prompting Jake to squeeze my hand in silent understanding.
"We could always run away to Florence," he suggests with a half-smile. "Start a new life as unauthorized museum tour guides."
"Tempting," I reply, though we both know it's not a real option. Not with Alex still trapped in his terrarium, not with Sarah still unfound, not with the tangled web of feelings I've somehow managed to spin between five people. Not with neither of us speaking Italian.
The moment we step inside, I can feel the shift in atmosphere. It’s thick with unspoken questions and half-acknowledged tensions. Voices drift from the kitchen, the clink of pots, and the fragrant scent of tomatoes and basil suggesting dinner preparations are underway. Jake's handslips from mine as we round the corner, an instinctive separation that speaks volumes about the complexity of our situation.
"Ah, the culture vultures return!" Ben announces from his position at the stove, wooden spoon in hand. His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes as they move from me to Jake and back again. "How was the museum?"
"Educational," Jake replies evenly.
Marco looks up from where he's arranging bread in a basket, his scholarly gaze missing nothing. "Alex has been quite active today," he reports, nodding toward the terrarium on the counter. "I've documented several interesting behavioral patterns."
I latch onto his words, grateful for the neutral ground of snail updates. “That’s great. Is it beneficial to the project you’ve been working on?”
Before Marco can answer, Luca strides into the room, a dish towel slung rakishly over his shoulder. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, forearms dusted with flour, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow somehow making him look like a model for a kitchen ad. “Forget about the snail,” he interrupts smoothly, flashing a grin that makes it impossible not to smile back. “While you two were off admiring dusty statues, we’ve been slaving away in the kitchen. Homemade pasta, roasted garlic, basil from my uncle’s garden. Go get cleaned up so we can eat. Your seat is waiting.”
His voice carries no accusation, only easy charm, but my chest tightens all the same. The atmosphere between us all is already heavy, and his knowing smile suggests he sees more than he says.
I retreat to the bathroom, splashing cool water over my flushed face, staring at my reflection as if it might give me answers. That’s when I notice my sundress. It’s inside out, the seams obvious, and the tag visible at my hip. Heat floods me from hairline to toes. They know. Of course they know. Myslow walk into the villa with Jake, the way our hands slipped apart, this inside-out dress… it all adds up to a silent confession.
Despite not making any promises to anyone, I feel… guilty.
With trembling fingers, I fix my dress, smoothing the fabric down, then wash my hands with deliberate care, while trying to gather myself. When I finally leave the bathroom, the scents of garlic and basil wrap around me.
The dining room glows in amber light. Wine glasses catch the shimmer, half-empty, half-full, depending on how you choose to see them. Just like my situation with these men. I take my seat at the long oak table, pushing pasta around my plate, acutely aware of their gazes on me from every direction, like points of a compass locking me in place.
Ben clears his throat for the third time, clearly working up to another joke. “So,” he says finally, breaking the suffocating silence, “what’s the difference between a snail and a slug?” He flicks his eyes toward Alex’s terrarium on the sideboard. “One carries his baggage, the other leaves it behind.”
Jake winces, his fork pausing midair. Marco adjusts his glasses, a subtle tick that I’ve learned indicates his discomfort. Luca, ever smooth, just plucks up the bottle of Montepulciano, refilling everyone’s glass, including Ben’s, which was already nearly full. His smile is easy, disarming, but I can’t shake the thought that behind it lies something sharper, something he’s not yet ready to say.
"Perhaps we should discuss our next steps," Marco suggests, his academic tone strained at the edges. "I've been researching possible locations in Rome where someone with Sarah's specific... talents... might establish herself."
His eyes meet mine across the table, and for an instant, his scientific detachment slips. I see the man beneath the professor, the one who kissed me under the stars in Assisi,whose hands were gentle on my face, whose voice softened when he named constellations in Italian. Heat crawls up my neck.
