Page 70 of Prosecco with My Professor
“No more catching pneumonia. Not on my watch.”
I laugh as Santo dresses himself in pants and a T-shirt. “I still can’t believe how sick I was after that weekend in Zurich. Shonda teases me about the weather all the time, says this ismild.”
In the kitchen, we put together an antipasto platter and pour more wine. At the table, we eat, talking and enjoying each other’s company. First, I’m ravenous, and the salty olives and smoked almonds are hitting the spot. Santo feeds me his favorite salami, which he calls spianata romana. When we finish ravaging the platter, Santo’s hand slides under the table and onto my cashmere-covered leg.
We’re talking about Abelie’s and my children’s teenage years, and swapping horror stories about boundaries being pushed, so at first Santo’s hand is just a simple gesture of affection. Then it slides down and finds the edges of the robe and comes to rest on my bare thigh, his thumb idly stroking while telling me about Abelie sneaking cigarettes into his house on a visit.
It’s distracting, though, and soon I squirm. “Santo.” My voice has a note of whining to it. I’m getting slick with arousal and am very aware that I have no underwear on. “I don’t want to get the cashmere dirty.”
He leans in, a wicked grin on his face. “Why don’t we go get my face dirty instead?”
36
Emma
I’min position and surprisingly nervous for someone who’s not on the receiving end. Santo is lying on the bed, a delicious buffet of olive skin and sparse brown hair. His hands are behind his head, his eyes watching me softly.
I’m kneeling between his legs, the pointer finger of my right hand slicked up with lube. I was feeling pretty good about it up to this moment.
Yesterday had been exactly what I had dreamed it would be—an eat, sleep, bang-fest with Santo all day. We got out of bed to eat. In the morning, I had a cup of coffee, and he joined me with a plate of pastries. Lunch, we enjoyed al fresco on the balcony, clad in only our underwear with my robe and blankets and a view. For dinner, Santo cooked while I sat at the counter, drinking wine and being hand-fed prosciutto and fresh bread, then a simple pasta dish and in-season blood oranges for dessert.
Between meals, we dozed and talked and had sex, though it felt uneven. We only had penetrative sex a few times, and sometimes Santo didn’t orgasm, but he didn’t seem to mind. Instead, he used his mouth and his hands frequently, and I’d lost count of how many times I’d come.
This morning, when I told Santo I wanted to play with his prostate, he looked thoughtful and mused that he’d never done it before. When I explained the prep work, he gently told me he was familiar with how anal sex works, though that was something I wasn’t going to think too hard about.
After Jade’s explanation, I read about fifteen articles on the topic—articles that got passed around our group chat because I wasn’t the only one interested in this kind of play, apparently.
Santo drops a hand to his chest, and I turn my attention back to the task at hand, so to speak. I read some men can come hands free and some can’t, so I get into position over his hips, one elbow at his side holding most of my weight. It’s pretty unsexy until I reach down and press a kiss to the tendon that runs from Santo’s thigh to his groin, and he inhales sharply. He’s hard and has been since he laid down on the bed and watched me prepare, although I think that was less about the anticipation of the act and more about seeing me doing, well,anythingwhile naked.
I run my lips up and down his shaft. Without saliva or lube or pre-come, his skin beneath mine is so soft. I press light, closed-mouth kisses on the vein that runs along the underside of his cock and on the rim of the crown, avoiding the bead of moisture coming out.
I do this for as long as I can until Santo gives a hoarse “Emma…” and I pop the head into my mouth. Santo is uncut, so I have the foreskin to play with too, and I swallow and lick and suck until Santo vibrates with tension.
Then I rest my hand on his ass cheek, skimming his balls with my fingers. My finger moves down until the tip, slipped with lube, rests against his hole, and Santo breathes deeply and relaxes under me.
I push in gently, pumping a bit to make sure he’s properly slicked up. At the second knuckle, I stop, focusing my attention back on his cock, which has gone soft. I use my mouth and my free hand to tease him again, taking him as deep as I can and then jacking him off. When he’s nice and hard again, I crook that finger inside him, and Santo’s whole body jerks.
“Fuck.” He raises his head to look down at me, eyes wide. “Do that again. Please, Emma.”
All the instructions said that the prostate would be spongy, and they were right. It’s more noticeable than I thought it would be. I rub small circles against it, and Santo’s head falls back again, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him. One knee comes up, giving me more access, and I suckle on his cockhead while continuing that slow, steady pressure on his prostate, over and over again. Time flies by with Santo groaning and panting and quivering, and I’ve never felt so sexy in my life. He can’t even see me, and I feel like a goddess.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Santo chants. “I’m…god, Emma!”
His whole body curves up, those gorgeous muscles honed from soccer games flexing and twisting. Inside, his prostate hardens, and I slip my mouth off his cock and focus on stroking him with my hands, long and hard from both sides.
Santo lets out a string of curse words, some English, some Italian, and power courses through me as he comes. This is exactly what I wanted, this feeling like I’ve returned the favor, that Santo is just as overwhelmed by me in bed as I am by him.
Santo finishes ejaculating, but his head is still thrown back, eyes screwed shut in pleasure, and his hips give these small thrusts, almost fucking back against my finger until a switch flips, and Santo falls back against the bed. “Okay, okay.” He’s laughing and shuddering against the overstimulation, so I stop all movements and wait.
Santo rubs his face with his hands. “Jesus Cristo, è stato fantastico,” he says. “Fuck.” He drops his hands to his chest. “Come here, piccola.”
I carefully ease my finger out, and then dart to the bathroom and wash my hands before returning to Santo. His fingers thread through my hair, tugging me down to a hard, demanding kiss. It’s hot and wet and makes me forget everything I was doing, smoothing away any lingering doubts I had.
When we part, I’m lying on my side, curled up next to him. Santo leans his forehead against mine. “That was amazing,” he says.
I can’t help the giant smile that comes over my face, and Santo laughs and presses a kiss to my cheek. Then he flops back down again, still panting.
I lay down, too, and a few minutes later, Santo rolls out of bed to go clean up. When he returns to the room, Santo stretches out on the sheets. He gestures me over, and I return to the same position, my head at the spot where his chest meets his shoulder.
