The Italian

* * *

Three hours later and the room is spinning to the sound of my laughter. Enrico and I are dancing and he’s throwing me around like a rag doll. He is holding me by the hand and is spinning me around and around.

We’ve drunk way too much, and now it’s late—3:00 a.m., to be precise—and we’ve come to our third bar of the night. I don’t remember the last time I laughed so much. He’s funny, smart, and seriously gorgeous. He’s also making me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

I couldn’t tell you if anyone else is here, because all I can see is him.

He’s the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome, with his square jaw, dark, wavy hair, and the biggest brown eyes I have ever seen. His lips are pouty and a beautiful shade of red. He has this joyfulness that seeps out of him, as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. His laugh is loud, echoing, and his voice has a deep huskiness that speaks to something deep inside of me.

A slow song comes on. Enrico pulls me close and wraps his arms around me. “Finally,” he whispers as he kisses my temple.

“Finally?” I smile, liking the way his lips feel on me.

“Finally, a slow song that allows me to hold you close.”

He towers above me. He’s so tall that I only come up to his shoulder. One of my hands is in his, while he holds me by the waist with his other. The air between us is electric. My heart is pumping hard and fast.

What would it be like to have sex with a virile, intense man like this?

Imagine fucking him.

A deep ache begins to grow inside of me. I can feel myself getting wet as my need for his body grows. Enrico slowly dips his head, and his lips softly dust mine, his tongue gently asking for permission to enter my mouth. I grant him access. His kiss is slow and erotic, and it does things to me as I get a visual of him on top of me. Naked. Fucking me hard—so hard. Our bodies wet with perspiration. I’m aching for him to touch me.

His hand tightens around my waist, pulling me closer as we kiss. I lose control and my hands go to his hair, bringing him closer to me.

For fifteen minutes, we stand on the dancefloor, kissing like we are the only people in the room. I can feel his hard cock up against my stomach. His eyes have darkened to nearly black, and I can feel the want in his vice-like grip.

He’s different to any man I’ve ever met. It could be the whole Italian thing, of course, but I feel like it’s more than that. There’s more to him than meets the eye. Perhaps that’s just my inexperience with gorgeous men speaking. Maybe all players make women feel like this. Maybe it’s a spell that only a few men know how to cast.

A special kind of black magic.

Suddenly, achingly aware that I’m dripping wet and acting like a horny ho, I whisper, “I should get going.”

His eyes hold mine, and some kind of silent acknowledgement runs between us. He bends and kisses me softly, a promise of more.

After a beat, he replies, “I’ll walk you home.”

* * *

Half an hour later, we arrive at my hotel, hand in hand. “This is me,” I say nervously.

He turns toward me, takes my face in his hands, and he kisses me again, waiting for an invitation to come in. Our lips dance as my mind runs at a million miles a minute. Visions of us naked together play like a perfect porno in my mind.

But… I can’t. I can’t do it. As much as I want to, I can’t sleep with a stranger. It’s not who I am.

Damn you, conscience.

“It was nice meeting you,” I say.

His face falls as he stares at me, his chest rising and falling as he battles his arousal.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I…” I hesitate, because damn, saying it out loud seems so lame. “I’m not the type of girl who sleeps around.”

Tenderness crosses his face but he remains silent.

“You make me wish I was.” I smile bashfully.

We kiss, and then he holds our foreheads together as we both try to come down from our high.