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Golden.
He’s golden underneath the unyielding Sicilian sun, summer skies stretching illimitably clear and blue.
She watches the muscles on the broad expanse of his back relax and contract. His arms and hands are strong — rising, falling, and slicing through the water as he propels himself forward again and again.
Every morning she counts his laps. Every morning since the first day they arrived.
It’s quickly become her favourite pastime: perching herself on a deck chair under the villa’s cool shade, forgotten magazine on her lap while her eyes rove greedily over Ethan.
He glides up and down the length of the pool with powerful, rhythmic strokes. The sharp splashing of the water cuts through the morning Mediterranean sounds. It interrupts the careful cooing of turtledoves and the high-pitched chirps of swifts in nearby trees.
They’re tucked away in their own little corner of southern Italy. Their only neighbours are the boundless green hills and the cerulean stretch of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
High up on the hill, Mariana has the perfect view of Palermo’s busy coastline — boats barely bobbing on still waters.
High up on the hill, the rest of the world is so distant and, sometimes, when the breeze whispers against the rogue tendrils along her temples, she forgets anyone else can exist outside the safety of olive groves and the lavender-scented garden.
High up on the hill, it all feels like a hazy, warm dream.
The sun is steadily climbing, ready to hang high and hot— stretching its rays to do away with the morning dew. Mariana can already feel the day’s humidity clinging to her skin, wondering how much of it actually has to do with the midsummer air.
With each lap he completes, the heat on her face prickles and when he reaches lap twenty-seven it becomes unbearable— she stands up.
Slow and cautious steps bring her closer to the rapid, successive splashing.
The soles of her feet burn against the terracotta tiles and she easily remedies it by lowering and seating herself at the pool’s edge.
Clear water hugs her calves, wrapping around in perfect, unending circles. The drastic change in temperature sends a pleasant and welcomed chill through her, eases the tender skin at the bottom of her feet.
Mariana kicks out her legs idly, steadily, purposefully.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
Just as Ethan completes another lap.
And then, suddenly, the splashing stops.
He emerges at the deep-end of the pool, panting as he collects himself. Out of the corner of his eye he spots Mariana lounging and starts to tread across the water, slower this time, as if scared to tear across it the way he had previously, recklessly, done just moments ago.
She squints against the harsh reflection of the pool’s surface, glittering a dazzling-bright blue. Cupping a hand to her forehead, she shields her face from the sun. She tilts her head at him in a non-verbal question, a lazy smile adorns her lips.
Ethan creeps unhurriedly in its depths, fighting against the buoyancy. He pushes back the wet locks of hair, darker from the water’s weight; runs a hand over his mouth and chin. His chest rises and falls, still winded from his swim.
Mariana watches him move towards the shallows, until the water laps and swirls at the lines of his abdomen. Abstract patterns form when the sunlight cuts down to the pool floor. Reflecting like a mirage when they paint themselves along Ethan.
And when he finally comes into full view, she can see every inch of where the sun has kissed his skin.
He stops in front of her, bringing his hands to either side of her thighs, and rests them on the hot terracotta edge — leaving misshapen wet imprints underneath his palms. It’s a confident yet seamless movement, one that says: Don’t move.
Droplets cling to his lashes, vibrant eyes blinking up at her with an unwavering, intense gaze — difficult to discern where the blue in his eyes and the blue of the water begins or ends.
The bright glare of the surface reflects in the depths of his irises. If she focuses long enough, she can make out the faint outline of her reflection.
It’s the gaze of a man whose appetite hasn’t been sated, despite hours spent under jetlag’s cover, prompting lazy kisses at early hours of the morning. Streaks of moonlight permeating their room, illuminating the curve of her back.
He hasn’t stopped looking at her like that since they touched down.
A drop, then another, and another, lands on her lap…falling from the bristles of his beard, his cheek, the slight bump at the bridge of his nose.
Small, rogue rivulets caress his neck, chest, arms on their way down — dripping, dripping, dripping on her warm skin. A barrage of goosebumps lift, pimpling her thighs. The sun is merciless; chlorine-scented beads already drying on her body.
She wonders, vaguely, in a thought that presents with no other purpose than fulfilling carnal curiosity, if she’s looking at him the same way right now. With a wandering, open, and curious gaze.
A loaded movement of eyes flitting along her face, her mouth, the column of her throat. It stops just at her collarbone, where the white string of her bikini diverts his attention.
Should he follow the line up and around her shoulder where it bows at her neck, hiding the dark freckle at the side of her neck?
Or should he follow the strain of the strap down to the nautical-themed triangles covering the rise of her breasts? Blue and white horizontal stripes, stretching to accommodate one of his favourite parts of her.
The words are licentious, low, and lazy like her smile— he’s distracting her from her reading.
His response is quick — always quick — and says her so-called reading is a generous description of the tabloid rags she picked up before their flight.
Voice gravelly and strained from his earlier activity, her pulse quickens.
And anyway, he concludes as if he were making a comment about the weather, she’s the distracting one.
Sitting at the edge of the pool, legs drawing lazy patterns at his sides, Mariana drops her hand from her forehead to the side of his face. She squints, wet beard scraping her palm, and lowers her face to meet his lips.
He kisses her back, mouth hot from his workout, and slips his tongue along hers. He kisses her like he did last night, and the afternoon before that, and the day they arrived in the empty, empty villa.
He kisses her like he did then, pressed into the front door, and telling her to fill the empty, empty space with her moans.
Large wet hands roam every inch of her he can reach. She shivers, a visible and exaggerated shake, from the brush of skin on skin, from the kiss, from the contact of chilled fingers on her sun-heated body.
They settle at her hips, at the haphazardly tied bows of her bikini bottoms, and pulls her closer to him. Her inner thighs graze his ribs, squeezing and encouraging him into the inviting space.
Her heart picks up speed, slamming a little more vehemently. How is it he can kiss her every day for the last week and still drive her near the brink of insanity? Make her heart feel like it might burst from her chest if she doesn’t get enough, while feeling completely overwhelmed by every sweep, roll, flick of his tongue— the nip at her lower lip.
He tugs it into his mouth decidedly.
Like she owes him it.
A small moan escapes her. Flutters her eyes open when he breaks away, breathing harder and more ragged than the end of his entire swimming routine.
Ethan pierces her with a hungry look, and even in the bright daylight — his eyes darken, swallowing her down into terrifying depths.
Another shiver. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at her hips and leans in. Levelled with her neck, he latches on with greedy kisses.
He licks a hot stripe up the edge of her throat. Tastes the salt and sweat of her skin. Slowly, he takes his time getting to where he knows she likes it best and Mariana’s grip flies to the back of his wet hair. Ethan closes his mouth around the junction of her jaw and neck and sucks hard.
Fresh, warm desire roils in her lower belly. She realises his fingertips will undoubtedly leave a mark... and there’s still that handprint from last night, half-hidden by her bikini bottoms.
This moan is not shy. It’s not a tiny mewling thing, the kind she used to reserve for one-night stands in college. It’s deep, breathy, real— and just for Ethan.
It’s his sound. Swallows it from her mouth. Claims it as his at any given chance he gets.
His kiss turns possessive, rough. Her mouth will be sore, grazed, and reddened by his beard. A pain that sends jolts of good, good, good, yes, more right through her— straight to where she’s growing wetter and wetter.
Ethan moves again, down her chin, the slope of her throat where his tongue lingers again. He groans loudly when she tugs hard at his hair. The vibrations of his approval resound in her own throat.
She pulls again, dragging her fingernails along his scalp for good measure, tangling into damp curls.
Starved kisses. Like he hasn’t been taking her every single chance he gets, like he isn’t getting his fill of skin and sounds, like he’s unacquainted with the concepts of quenched and satiated.
Angry little bites pepper her chest, the rise of her collarbone, soothing fiery kisses with his rough tongue.
A silly thought occurs to her: He’s going to ruin me.
And at that silly thought, her tummy clenches— contracts as another wave of need simmers in her veins.
Because the only answer she can come up with is: So let him.
Lips brush along the exposed flesh of her breast, the rounded mounds partly concealed by nylon. Another round of goosebumps erupt, his cold nose bumping.
With a hand keeping her roughly in place, a free one slides the material along the bikini’s string, the one that runs around her ribs and knots at the back.
And then the other.
Fabric bunched and ruched to the sides, her nipples are already stiff and pebbled. A combination of his attention, the fluctuating touch of warm and cold, and impatient anticipation.
What else could he have in store for her? What new ways will he leave her breathless, wordless, nameless? To be able to render her into a tongue-tied mess of syllables every day this week—
His hand dips into the water, emerges with a slosh. Curious, she meets his eyes and he represses a smug grin.
The tips of his wet fingers press to the top of her right breast. Mariana inhales sharply, sucks in her lower lip to stop a cry. Nipping-cool rills verge down bumpy flesh, sensitive peaks hardening even more.
And then warmth.
Ethan’s mouth descends on her and she arches into the sensation, a technicolor of promise blooms behind her eyes when she squeezes them shut. Another one of those sounds only he knows how to orchestrate spills from her.
Tongue. So much tongue. And teeth, with gentle lips brushing wannabe-kisses.
He divides his attention. Always worried about being fair, about splitting his time efficiently, Ethan moves to leave no skin neglected. Lowering his head, he licks the swell, the rise, the tops of her breasts, and another round of wild, hungry kisses.
Mariana thanks a previous version of herself, past-Mariana that encouraged him to keep the beard, because when he rolls his tongue down her sternum, down the line of her stomach, dips into her belly button—the scratch of his chin adds to the shimmery bright feeling expanding inside her.
He tells her to lean back and she does, without hesitation, without question— reclining on her elbows and forearms, sensitive skin meeting scorching terracotta as a cool, wet hand splays over her. It runs down her neck, his eyes following the trail of marks, touching them as he goes along. The one under his thumb right at her shoulder, the one at the underside of her breast, a third below her navel.
Fingers at her hips, at the strings keeping her bikini in place, twitch. One skims along the inside of her thigh, once warmed from the summer’s day and his affection, now cooled over by his touch.
Her nipples pinch, tighten even further, and her head lolls back, eyes shutting against the sun’s unyielding glare. Feels it hot— feels it tingle— on her cheeks, her nose, the arch of her throat, her bared breasts.
Dizzy. He makes her feel dizzy. Like getting too much sun after a midday stroll during a heatwave. Asphalt too-hot under cheap, rubber flip-flops. A highway mirage— wiggly and shimmery. Craving for something that even the freshest spout of water can’t assuage.
It’s unending, this need for him.
A bead of sweat, forming at the curve of her back, rolls down the dip of her spine.
Another shudder.
The anchor’s pointed-tip sinks into the pad of his thumb. The metal charm, purely decorative but reflective, hanging off the end of the bikini bottom’s string.
With a smirk and a tug, it unravels, unknots— material unfolding before him. It never stood a chance at his hands, the front now partially floating in the water before him.
Her arm trembles, the muscles tense, winding tighter at the sight of Ethan. Between her thighs, hair slicked back, and drinking in the part of her he can’t seem to get enough of. His gaze flicks up at her, notes her bottom lip tucked in between her teeth, the suspense written all over her features.
The knuckle of his thumb parts her—
Mariana’s palms skate over the orange tiles, seeking purchase as she cants into his touch, water splashing in the process. Her lower lip snaps back in place and her mouth rounds off in an ‘O’, crying out.
She’s been so distracted by the heat, by the pool’s water trickling down her inner thighs and stomach, by the harsh scrape of his scruff, she didn’t realise just how wet she’s gotten.
But it’s gone and she pants out a frustrated groan.
When Mariana finds the strength to open her eyes again, she finds him half-smiling to himself waiting for her to meet his darkened gaze. Ethan curls a hand around each calf, bending her knees, bringing her feet out of the water and placing them at the pool’s edge.
Will you be good for me?
Depends, will you be good to me?
Ethan settles into the water so he’s level with her, and threads his arms through the tight gaps of her thighs and calves— keeps his hands on her hip bones, pinning them down— and his mouth covers her completely.
Her head snaps back, face to the sun again, eyes shut tight, and those moans that belong to him—the moans he’s written and arranged like one of his many beloved operas— tumble out of her.
There’s no gentle teasing. No taunt or promise for more pressure or pace if she complies. He gives it to her freely, without compromises or clauses. With every lick (hot bursts of breath, nose bumping her clit), lapping her up like a man starved, she realises: He’s going to be good to her.
Earnest, ravenous swirls make her jerk into his mouth, but his firm grip stops her. Still pressed to the ground, she pants and gazes past her body, past his tanned (flexed) hands, down to where he is staring up at her sternly.
A second wave of realisation strikes her: But only if she’s good for him.
She keens. More flicks, more whirls, more of his expert mouth. More resisting the urge to buck into his strokes.
Sweat forms on her brow. Mariana can’t wipe it away without collapsing and, instead, lets her back meet the blistering terracotta beneath her. Moisture at the tops of her breasts rolls off, rolls off her temples and into her hair, her fringe stuck to her forehead.
Fingertips squeeze into her hips again and she begs him to keep doing that.
Her toes curl, her hands search for purchase along her own body, finds the perspiration on her chest, and she gasps into the summer air.
It’s bright, even behind her eyelids, and the sun kisses her almost as mercilessly as Ethan is. She is warm all over, a solar flare ready to unleash, and glistening from the raging inferno inside her meeting the Italian rays on her.
His movements, decisive and exact, make it hard to focus on anything else. She doesn’t know what she’s saying anymore, strings of praises peppered with yeses and his name. He finds a rhythm that makes the muscles in her belly spasm.
A match strikes somewhere inside her. She ripples like that highway mirage, wavy and deceptive. Heat and heat and...more heat. So much so she thinks she might radiate, might dazzle, might burn.
And she’s thousands upon thousands of tiny, blinding lights.
Now, she’s shimmery.
Now, she's golden.
Bright. Incandescent. Dazzling white light.
She doesn’t know when she sits up, doesn’t know when her thighs clamped around him or when she reached into his hair and tugged him to her, so she can get more of his tongue rolling as she rides it out.
Ethan lands a kiss to her thigh when she comes down, eventually moves away, and looks up at her with a secretive grin.
Chest heaving, trying to think, she’s unsure if his face is wet from his swim or from her—but doesn’t get a moment to debate it before the grin turns into a smug look. He reaches out, a hand at either dip of her waist, and tugs— plunges her into cool, chlorine depths.
Sputtering, she meets his laughter when she resurfaces. Not even a moment above water, to get a lungful of air, he kisses her; backs her into the pool’s edge and slicks her hair out of her face.
---
That same afternoon he takes her on a patch of sunlight — streaming into the house from the tall open windows and casting hazy ochre on the hardwood floors.
Ethan finds her lying on her stomach and flipping through the magazine she never finished reading.
Her knees are bent, ankles crossed in the air, and sways slightly (calves moving one way then the other) as she savours the waning day’s warmth.
It’s still. So still. She can only hear the occasional spin of the ceiling fan, the birds twittering and announcing the late-afternoon while they rustle between bushes. The song is an overwhelming hum that grows louder as the day goes on, fading into the background as her ears grow used to the tune.
His footsteps are clear, approaching the sitting area she lounges in. A soft click of joints and bones as he descends the sunken steps from the hallway.
She registers them, perfunctory but comforting.
He’s around.
It calls on the beating of butterflies’ wings in her belly, distracts her from the reviews column droning on about the latest Chris Winters movie she’ll never get the time to see. She listens to Ethan’s footfall, the soft padding of his bare feet on the wood, yet...a heavy edge to them; obsessed by the sound they make.
Her heart beats harder, feels it thumping into the floor beneath her.
She counts the steps as he draws nearer. The inevitable looming height of him.
It stops. And from the shadow cast by the sun fixed in the west, she spots it out of the corner of her eye. His long and stretched silhouette. He’s right behind her. Quiet, observing. She can almost sense the cursory way he drags his gaze over the length of her back in her strappy shirt and cotton short-shorts.
A shiver. His voice, low and gruff, likens her to a shameless feline, sunbathing in all corners of its dwelling.
Mariana grins down at the pages, flicking through them as if she’s paying attention to the words on shiny sheets and not the vibration of her heart on the wood (the spike of adrenaline making her giddy). The flipping of the magazine fans hair out of her face, and hums offhandedly— then that must make him the restless canine perturbing its peace.
It starts when he curls a hand around her ankle, and she peeks over her shoulder.
Breath hitching, her eyes slide up the height of him. Ethan stares down at her intently, slightly humoured at her remark, and tilts his head. His fingers graze the contour of a calf, encouraging her with a squeeze to turn, and she does with no delay.
The tabloid lays forgotten, far more entranced by the way the 4pm light reflects partly on his handsome face, accentuating the sharp line of his jaw. The other half shadowed in the cool living room shade. He comes down from a great height, it feels like it might take him forever, wiggling in anticipation against the baked floorboards.
Cloth shorts are nothing to him. Gone. Slipped off her legs and thrown on a neighbouring couch. Removed so hastily he doesn’t even register she hasn’t bothered putting on underwear.
Freshly showered, hair fluffy and damp in some parts, he smells of citrus and mint. Their eyes meet and she tells him this, tells him he smells good enough to eat, and all he can do is smile.
Another round of butterflies. The curve of his mouth, not too sharp, not too high, a modest amount of haughtiness. She could sketch its simple movement from memory alone.
Veins on his forearms thread up, into the strain of muscles along the swell of his biceps she watched slice into the pool earlier. They cage her into his body, overwhelm her with the scent of his body wash.
He moves to kiss her neck with featherlight brushes and Mariana grips at the back of his cotton shirt. She bought it at a tourist trap. Some cheesy saying emblazoned on the front, and insisted he wear around the house for her.
His touch skims up her body, gathering the stretchy material of her shirt until it's over her breasts. And he stares at her. Stares at her as if he hasn't had her naked every spare moment he could get his hands on her. Undressed, partially or completely.
A hand curves over her throat, applies no pressure, but studies the fine line of her neck underneath the large, rough, veined hand. Freckles have bloomed across knuckles and tendons, creeping past his wrists under the hairs of his forearm.
Their eyes meet, his blazing, hers heavy with want, and scratches his back through his shirt; rocks her hips into him for good measure. So sensitive and exposed to the joggers, she feels his length strain and she whimpers a quiet plea.
Reaching between them, and with the help of her heels, Mariana manages to slip the shorts past his hips— just enough to free him and hear him grunt in relief, biting into the edge of her collarbone.
Ethan wastes no time. Kissing a nipple to a stiffened peak, his hand leaves her neck, aligns himself with her wet heat, and listens to her throaty near-gasping moan. His name lives and dies on her lips, eyes shutting at the sudden fullness, and stretching her perfectly.
And then he moves. He moves with a near-brutishness she’d expect from someone who knows this will be their last. She hopes, in between thrusts and affirmative nods, there will never be a last.
She feels the painful, stinging rub of the sun’s claim on her shoulder blades, pressing into the wooden floor.
Hands pinned high above her, hiding in the sliver of a shadow, his grip is strong and firm.
His kiss is espresso pomeridiano, earthy and rich on her tongue.
And, even though it’s rough, there’s still a part of her that manages to choke outa trembling: Harder.
Ethan’s head falls forward, almost in disbelief. If he could afford the headspace, he’d wonder if she’s real and not a side effect of too much sun.
But he answers her request promptly, letting her wrists go to use the floor as leverage. The sun catches on his watch’s surface, casting a prism of light against a wall in the far corner of the room; colours bursting to life.
That’s how he makes her feel. A fortuitous spectrum.
Being the wily opportunist she is, she coaxes him out of the shirt and he pauses only to kick his shorts off the rest of the way. He delves into her with renewed vigour and she bites into the tops of his shoulders; because she wants to hear him.
It’s his turn to fill this empty, large space in rural Italy with his noises. Those breathy, low guttural moans and grunts. His approval. The filthy words and praises that intelligent mouth is capable of.
Her bites only urge him on, fans that unsteady emotion that feels like too much yet too little within them, makes her leave wet moans on his skin. She squeezes her thighs around him, her ankles locked at his lower back.
It’s been days since they’ve been to the beach, but she still finds specks of sand clinging to his freckled shoulders. Scrapes her nails from his scalp down the base of his neck, leaving four angry red marks, clutches onto him as his pace becomes unrelenting.
Ethan slips his touch between them, finds her clit, compresses their hips together; lets the pressure of their bodies moving do all the work— and like that she’s gone, crying into his chest. He follows soon after, powerful and punctuated thrusts, spilling inside her pulsing tightness.
The humming song of the birds, flittering between bushes, is back. But everything else fades into the background, except their breathing, except the sweep of his lips on hers.
He kneels, tucks an arm under her knees and back, hoists her up when he stands tall. Which is probably a good thing, because she can’t feel her legs, barely keeping her eyes open in the delightful afternoon light. Ethan takes her back through the hallway he came from, when she was naively reading her magazine, back in the direction of the massive bathroom.
Mariana makes a comment (breathless) about the refractory period being a myth, and as soon as they’re back home he must be studied.
He laughs loudly, the boisterous sound of it echoing and vibrating around the space too-big for just the two of them.
---
Mariana seeks refuge under the orange tarps of the open-air marketplace. She lets the smells of fresh fruit and vegetables, baked under the 90-degree heat, distract her from the sweat forming on her chest, a bead or two slipping into her cleavage.
The shade is barely a refuge, making Ethan glow orange and highlighting the pink at the top of his cheeks. It’s still too warm from the bustling activity; shoppers bumping into each other along the too-narrow of a walkway between stalls.
Ethan is embroiled in a haggle with a merchant over a plastic bag bursting with tomatoes. There’s a jovial inflection to their conversation, but she’s tuned them out; busy eyeing the mountain of plump peaches. Mouth-watering, already down one bottle of water, she wonders if the sugary-nectar could kick some energy back into her.
She interrupts their conversation, attempts to maneuver her way in a language she has no foundation on. Mariana points to the peaches and says the word for them.
There’s a laugh from the sun-beaten vendor and a gentle smile forms on Ethan’s face.
He corrects her. Kindly, patiently. He says she’s said fish, not peaches.
He uses the last two weeks to show off. Speaks solely Italian when they’re out; at the restaurants or when they’re sightseeing. Converses with tour guides and a lovely older woman he asked to take their picture.
The smooth roll of his Italian comes naturally. His pauses, those hesitation markers are clear: em and eh and allora. Where his vowels drag out as he finishes his thought and processes the next. It’s punctuated by a compliment, an exclamation of surprise, by a waiter or a tour guide— impressed by his fluency.
Mariana guesses she must be too. Because the moments where the words seamlessly tie together in a sentence she doesn’t understand, she can feel the heat spreading up her arms, down her neck, over her belly. A coil of surprising warmth winds itself in her lower abdomen, a swoop of unforeseen ardor.
He laughs and jokes and barters with market vendors. Keeps her in the loop with breaks in conversation, catches her gazing up at him. There’s a subtle arch in his eyebrow at the expression on her face, nothing but adoration and veneration, but slides his gaze away to resume his chat.
A single peach. Fuzzy, round, sunset-coloured in her palm. Rubs it under her nose, inhales at the stem end, and can’t resist the pull of the ripe, sweet scent.
Mariana bites into its soft flesh, and it gives under the first pinch of her teeth. A burst of nectar, heavy and saccharine on her tongue. She links her fingers with Ethan’s, not paying attention to one of his many stories about his semester abroad here, too engrossed by the syrupy pleasantness.
When she doesn’t answer, doesn’t even pretend to dignify his question with an mhmm, he turns to look at her.
The peach’s juice— a thin golden stream trickles down from her palm, lips chasing to catch it. They wrap around the skin near her forearm, stopping the rogue trail at the bone of her wrist.
His gaze darkens, and she watches his throat work when he struggles to swallow. It’s an intensity she’ll never get used to, his attention fully anchored to her mouth kissing herself. She feels him squeeze her hand.
The engraved words Via, Via, Via make her head spin as Ethan weaves them in and out of cobbled street after cobbled street— Mediterranean summer sky bouncing off its shiny, smooth surfaces.
She giggles, yanked into a quiet and narrow alleyway of sandy-coloured concrete buildings. Somewhere more residential and where footsteps (her worn-out sandals) should sound circadian and not excursionary. A buzz works down her spine, following the line of perspiration.
His hands are on her, pushing her into the wall, eyes on her mouth that twists into a sly smile.
It’s so warm. She’s sure Ethan can feel the overheating of her body on his palms, through the strappy viscose summer dress, sticking to her like a second skin. Floral patterned and a coquettish length— the fabric, light and breezy, should feel weightless on her. But under the primal haze, the look he’s giving her, she feels nothing but disrobed.
Insatiable. Insatiable. He is...insatiable.
But so is she.
Mariana denies him a kiss; taunts him.
She says she’s going to finish her peach first and proceeds to take slow, lip-rolling bites. More too-sweet sap. Her tongue traces painstakingly slow over the swell of them, sticky with warm nectar. Holding his gaze, he lances right through her with raw and unbridled need.
His mouth is parted, wets his own while watching the pink of her tongue work. She doesn’t know if she likes this game or hates it.
She presses the fruit to his mouth, flesh to his lips, and he accepts the bite.
Juice slips from his mouth, on his beard, catching on her wrist. Mariana tries to wipe it away, but he’s faster. Ethan grabs her forearm, tugs her towards him, and sucks the path the dribble of nectar left behind.
A pained moan. A daunting thought crosses her mind: how is she going to survive him?
A thigh wedges between both of hers, presses up, and he crowds her into the sun-baked concrete behind her. Distracted by the sweet sensation freefalling in her gut, at the firm muscle between her legs, her grip slacks and the peach falls with an unceremonious thud.
He kisses her palm, sucks the nectar from her fingers— lets Mariana feel the purposeful swirl of his tongue around her digits. She stretches up to meet him in a kiss, tilts her head and parts her mouth, the sticky hand threading in his hair.
Ethan lifts the hem of her dress, finds the edge of the soaked underwear, and slips past it, sinking a finger inside her. He stops her from crying out a shaky moan with a hard kiss which, in return, earns him a grunt of approval.
A yowling alley cat is the only thing that breaks them apart.
Laughing, but flustered, Ethan places a sure hand on her lower back and leads her in the direction of the car.
They don’t make it into the villa. They don’t even make it out of the gravel driveway.
She straddles him in the driver’s seat, his hand instinctively flying down to check the handbrake through an assailment of kisses she lands on his face, his neck, his mouth.
The billowy material of her dress gathers at her hips, Ethan kneading the flesh at her backside, and tells him she already misses the handprint that’s faded from last week. On cue, she feels the press of him, hard and flexing, against the ache he left her with earlier.
There’s nothing elegant about it— and maybe that’s why she loves it so much. Because he’s desperate for it, undone by her frenzy to have him and the half-an-hour car ride. Consumed by need (and light, teasing touches while driving), she parts her ruined underwear, unzips his shorts, and settles over the length of him.
Hot, warm, and stiff— at this angle, he hits all the right places.
The air conditioner blows on the drops of sweat between her exposed shoulder blades. She twists her hands into the front of his polo shirt, also damp with perspiration. The compartment floods with his musk, her arousal, the sickly-sweet peach.
The sunset paints his features golden-orange as he watches her move.
He fucks up into her, snakes a hand at the back of her head so they touch sweating foreheads, and tells her he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.
She moans, the moans that sound like crying (deep, emotional, vocal), and she answers that she loves him, she loves him, she loves him.
---
On their last evening he gets tipsy on the most perfect Chianti she’s ever tasted.
The flash of his teeth and the crinkling at the corners of his eyes is as consistent as the cicadas’ chirping.
Louder, and louder, and louder as the sun makes its descent over the hill. The boats bob a little sadder, lights flicker on across the hills and homes on the coast; preempting the inescapable night.
His mirth: it’s eyes squeezed tightly, mouth-open, white-teeth, deep, chest-filled laughter. The tannin-stained lower lip, its inseam. She’s sure it would taste even more decadent from there.
Their plates are empty, hardly a trace of what was once tomato sauce on porcelain dishes. Another meal that makes her annoyed that he’s just good at everything.
He enjoys wining and dining her, ecstatic to have taken her to an array of places he loved during his time here ten or more years ago. The mom-and-pop hole-in-the-wall restaurant, with the chipped tableware and the leathery nonnas that dote on his handsome face and his attempts at Sicilian.
And even though it is the most divine food she’s ever tasted, the sprawling view of the Thyrennian Sea from the cliffside restaurant was unlike any other Mariana’s ever seen (and, of course, the price point).
But he enjoys cooking for her the most. Flaunting, bragging, talking her through how nothing tastes like the tomatoes plucked ready and bursting from rich Midetteranean soil. That she thought she might have known tomatoes, but wait until she’s tried some in a fresh fish salad.
Ethan knows his way around a knife, a saucepan; drapes the kitchen towel over his shoulder. He makes her taste things off his plate in a bustling restaurant or from the wide-end of the wooden spoon he’s cooking with.
Try this.
Taste this.
Drink this.
He wants to share...everything.
And Mariana wants to listen.
She curls into her seat on the patio, pushing back from the table with their forgotten plates and empty wine glasses. The cicadas rival the portable radio, the only thing that gets reception so high up on the hill.
Blinking in the late-afternoon light, she leans into her hand, entranced by the energy he tells this story of his semester abroad. Something about going to Naples for a week and missing his flight.
She thinks she’s heard it before, but the Chianti easing into her muscles makes it hard to remember. Her focus is pulled by the lines at his eyes again, the way his tan dips beyond the collar of his shirt, how passionately he speaks, how he reclines easily in his chair. Reaching for the wine glass, he keeps talking right until the last moment, and then takes a sip. His arm comes up and around to rub the sunburn at the back of his neck.
A sly smile, a mischievous slant she rarely sees, takes over his face. He eases further into his chair. He says he has a love for this city— this island. Tells her about the one night stand he had. The beautiful man with the dark hair and the wild smile, how he was the best sex he’s ever had— well, and he pauses.
Piercing eyes flicker up from the floor, where he’s been mindlessly toeing the strap of his flip-flop.
The best sex he’s ever had until…
There’s a soft clap when it meets terracotta tiles again, wiggles it back onto his foot; something flashes behind his gaze that makes her liquid—
A song comes on.
It’s retro, Mariana wagers from the 70s, with an upbeat bass and enthusiastic drumming. She doesn’t understand a single lyric, but Ethan— invigorated by wine and poolside conversation and the most beautiful sunset— suddenly perks up.
She’s never seen him like this. His smile is so wide, it takes years off him. He could pass for the 20-something-year-old studying abroad again.
He sings along, without missing a beat; totally, completely in Italian.
And all Mariana can do is laugh. He sings to her, not at her. She shakes her head, giggling wildly, palms turning upwards as if to say: What are you going on about?
But the more she giggles, the more she tries to tell him she doesn’t comprehend a word he’s saying— the more committed to the song Ethan becomes.
Then he swaps out the lyrics, sings along to the chorus in English, changes them slightly just for her: Oh, but love grows where my Rose-Mariana goes, and nobody knows like me.
She calls him a clown. Laughing and rolling her eyes, she stands up to clear their plates. But his arms encircle her waist, and with a small squeak, brings her down sideways on his lap.
They have to crane to look at each other, drawing back, silly smiles and crumpled chins into necks; then he kisses her sweetly.
She’s right. The best Chianti she’s ever tasted, but right from his mouth.
Ethan drops a kiss to the side of her neck, the junction of her shoulder, peels away the cable-knit cardigan to expose more of her (slumps in a heap at their feet). The sensation causes a chill, a sharp inhale, relieved she’s sitting because her knees are all unsteady and weak. He turns her so her back is against him, so he can press her right where he needs her the most.
He spreads her legs over either side of his, squeezing a thigh at the end of her jean shorts.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he kisses along her neck and shoulders, feels bursts of Chianti-laced breaths.
The slinky, strappy tee catches on the path his wandering hands take, rolling it down and baring her to a light breeze. Her head falls back on his shoulder, shutting her eyes. The last glimpse she gets is the sky welcoming the first sheet of stars.
He pops the button of her shorts open, hears the glide of her zipper. He hooks thumbs into underwear and denim at the same time. Without needing to ask, she lifts her hips and helps him tear them off.
Exposed, parted, another rush of cool air meets her bare flesh— until his warm touch palms her, cups her lovingly. Unable to help herself, she grinds into it and, as a welcomed result, presses back against his arousal.
He tweaks a nipple, rolls her clit between forefinger and thumb, gathers her wetness and traces mind-melting circles. A stuttered croak erupts. She has no idea what she says, but Ethan answers with more scruffy kisses that rub her skin raw.
Murmuring that’s it, that’s it, he watches her with heavy-lidded eyes. His lusty tone reaches her through a fog of pleasure, adding to the euphoric high. She can feel it just around the corner, waiting for her, luring her with the tilt of its head and a knowing smile. Nails drag across his forearm; the muscles there taut as they tug her nipple.
She’s so close.
Are you going to give it to me?
She means for it to come out commanding, a little forceful, but just sounds...needy. She hasn’t stopped rolling her hips in time with his strokes; his belt buckle cool, the fabric of his shirt and shorts rustling beneath her.
He growls at the question, punctuates each statement with a hasty kiss.
I’ll give you anything— anything you need, whatever you desire. Everything you’ve ever craved. Just name it, take it. Rob me blind.
Ethan stops only to bend her over the table; cheek and hands press against tempered glass, still hot from the sun’s touch, but cooling in the evening’s creeping breeze.
He grabs her hips, roughly tilts them up. Pure anticipation. She hears the zip of his belt, the clink as it falls on terracotta.
When he sinks into her, whatever sweetness lingered in the air disperses after she emits a noisy, trembling moan.
It’s right; maybe it was always meant to feel this right.
He thrusts into her, again and again, table clattering with dishes and silverware, rivalling the sound of their bodies meeting. Her empty wine glass tips over, rolls off the table, crashes and shatters across from them.
Shit. The glass.
He stops. Mariana thinks it’s over, that the mess was enough to distract them from the most head-spinning pleasure she’s ever felt.
Instead, Ethan’s arm swoops out in front of her, their plates and the remaining glass of wine go flying to the ground. Too shocked to say anything, she complies when he nudges her to turn around— lays her back-first into the new space he’s made to accommodate her, and he folds over at the waist.
Lining himself up with her entrance, he wastes no time. He takes her hands, laces their fingers, and pins them to the table. Ethan drives into her urgently— drunk on passion and power.
Fuck the glass. I’ll break a thousand more to feel you like this again and again.
Mariana keens, lets her legs quake around his waist, and feels the brush of his pelvis on her too-sensitive clit.
If only it could be July forever. If only she could live in the stretch of these two weeks. Live every day of this trip on a loop.
His face, admiring her, and the fading sunset beyond him. The perfect view, for a perfect memory, made to be stowed away and locked away in her heart. How did she get this lucky?
But she’s just met with cloudy thoughts. A pleasure so intense she can’t remember the time of their flight, the name of the city they live in, her address. She is lost. Lost in the rocking of his hips, the words he doles out while holding her overwhelmed gaze: perfect, gorgeous, brilliant, yours, yours, yours.
His hand finds the spot right above where they’re joined and he’s ruthless with his knowledge of her body; adds a pressure that’s too delicious to resist. She clutches onto his shirt, eyes shut so tight flashes of light bloom.
And then like the wine glass, she cracks— sudden, quick, shattering everywhere and around him. The air is pulled out of her lungs, surprises her at how quickly it arrives and how soundless it leaves her. His name is a gasp. A swift, prompt, gasp.
He loves it. It shows on his face, the way he darkens watching the shape her mouth takes to say it, and the slamming of his hips pick up speed.
He doesn’t say her name, instead, kisses her hard, and grunts when her teeth clamp down on his top lip; sends him over the edge, meets her where she’s already eagerly waiting for him.
Lights lining the villa click on. Pool and garden, downlights and bollard lights.
He pulls her up on shaking legs, covers her up with the forgotten cardigan. Heart loud in her ears, disoriented, she hardly registers his lips brushing her temple.
Jump in the shower, he rubs her arms up and down. I’ll clean up this mess.
Stupid, goofy grins flood their faces and they’re accompanied by another round of gentle kisses.
He sends her off with a playful tap to her backside, tells her to watch out for glass and gives her his flip-flops.
She looks back at him from the threshold, steps too-slow in much-too-large shoes; dressed again and gingerly gathering broken plates and silverware.
The sun is nearly gone, almost fully dipped behind the hill, taking the day with it and its aureate gift.
It’s darker. The time between sunset and night, her brain concludes: twilight?
Ethan turns around, gives her a half-smile and raises an expectant eyebrow that says: Well?— without fail, it starts that rush of glittery golden warmth.