Page 50 of Prosecco with My Professor
This differsfrom that first night together. Santo’s kiss is careful, fueled by curiosity and not lust.
I’m glad he kissed me right away. I wasn’t sure how we would get started; would we have awkward small talk over a bottle of wine? It didn’t sound sexy. But neither did getting right to him going down on me.
But thisissexy. Santo doesn’t press against me, but his hands hold my hips in a grip that tightens the longer we kiss. His mouth is warm and firm, a slight hint of wine but mostly the taste of him.
His lips are soft, sweeping across mine, his beard rasping against my skin whenever he moves. I shift on my feet, swaying closer, and he nips at my bottom lip. Just when I think he’s about to deepen the kiss and involve our tongues, he pulls away.
“Which would be more comfortable for you: bed or couch?”
“Bed.” The word comes out as a whisper, and I have to swallow my nerves and try again.
He plants another chaste kiss on my lips before taking my hand and leading me back to his room. There’s a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf on one side and the only light is a bedside lamp with a warm glow. Opposite is a set of windows, beyond which the lights of Rome twinkle just like any other city. He guides me to perch on the edge of the bed and kneels between my feet.
Already? I lick my lips as Santo bows his head to press a kiss to my exposed knee.
“Just so you know…I trimmed.” I gesture vaguely toward my crotch. “So, it’s different.” Santo looks up at me, eyebrow arched. “I didn’t want you to be surprised.”
“You thought I would be surprised that you shaved your pussy?”
I cringe. Even from Santo’s mouth, with his sexy accent, that word is still so weird.
“What?” He rocks back on his heels.
“It’s nothing.” I wave my hand. “Ignore me.”
Santo sits back even further, bracing his hands on the bed and not me. “If I say something you don’t like, I want to know.”
I stare at him, and he stares back.
“Fine. I don’t like that word.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Did I use it wrong?”
“No, you used it right,” I assure him. “I just don’t like it.”
“What do you like? Cunt?”
I don’t even have to say anything; he can tell I like it even less.
“Vagina? It’s inaccurate, but I understand it is common.”
I put a hand over my eyes. I can’t believe we are having this conversation. “No, it’s fine. I don’t have a word that I like, so you can call it whatever you want. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
A firm grip circles my wrist and pulls my hand away from my eyes. “I don’t have to use any of those,” Santo says gently as I meet his gaze. “How about figa?”
I repeat the word, and Santo says it again. It might be vulgar or insulting in Italian, but I wouldn’t know. Itsoundsnice.
“Yeah, that works.”
“Good.” He rises on his knees again. “Lay back.”
I follow his instructions, falling back onto the duvet. It’s an off-white color, cool and soft.
A contrast to Santo’s hands, which return to my knees, and his lips, which gently kiss the inside of my right thigh, just above his hand.
I close my eyes and focus on what Santo is doing. His nose nuzzles the spot he just kissed, and the air moves as he breathes in and out. His fingers tease the hem of my dress, his forearms nudge my legs further apart, he applies wet, sucking kisses. I pay attention to every detail lavished on me.
Oh wait…
