The Italian

“Oh, Rici.” I step out of the shower and take him into my arms. His breath quivers, and I know he’s on the edge, trying to hold it together. “Shh.” I hold him tight as I try to calm him down. I’m wet and water is dripping everywhere, but I don’t care. I hold him for a long time. We stay silent, and with every breath, his arms tighten around me.

I don’t know what to say, because I know that I’ll probably say the wrong thing. He’s thought much deeper into this than I had realized. He thinks he knows how his father would have felt about a child with a woman he didn’t love. Although, I’m sure it’s not as black and white as he sees it, I know for certain that he was loved dearly.

“Rici. Let it go. Let all this anger go. Let’s concentrate on our life together and how we’re going to do things. We have so much to look forward to. Don’t let your father’s mistakes cloud your judgement or make you unhappy. Make a conscious decision to let it go.” His eyes search mine, and I take his face in my hands. “It’s time for us to move forward. For you to bring Ferrara into the next phase. For me and you to love each other our way.”

“I don’t know how to be anything other than angry,” he whispers.

“You talk to me about it and we figure this out together. That’s what partners do. They’re a sounding board for each other. Firing everyone and going crazy is not going to bring him back so you can have your final say. Getting new staff is only going to make your life harder, not easier. You haven’t made the same mistakes your father did. He would be so proud of you.”

He pulls me closer. What I just said meant a lot to him, I can tell.

I search my mind for something I can I say that will make him feel better.

Wait, how do I say it?

“Puoi lavarmi la faccia sotto la doccia?” I ask Translation: can you wash my face in the shower?

He pulls back, his eyes search mine, and he smiles softly.

“Laverò non solo il tuo viso, bella ragazza,” he whispers back.

I stare at him, confused. I don’t understand his reply.

Typical.

He tilts my jaw up so that he has full access to my lips, and he kisses me. His face has softened, and my sweet Rici is back.

“I’ll wash more than your face, my beautiful woman.”

I frown in question. “My face?”

He breaks into a broad smile and my heart melts. I haven’t seen that smile in a long time.

“I wanted you to wash my back.” How do you mix up the words face and back?

He takes his shirt off over his head. “I can wash that, too, my love,” he says softly.

I smile, hopeful that I’ve made him feel even the tiniest bit better.

“Ti amo.”

“Ti amo di più,” he whispers as he kisses me.

I smile against his lips. He said he loves me more. I understood.

Suddenly, the anger that’s been raging around inside of him all week is gone.

It’s just him, me, and what we have between us.

He slides his shorts down his legs and leads me into the shower. The hot water makes my skin tingle. I run my hands up over his broad chest as he stares down at me with tenderness.

We just had a moment—a defining moment in our relationship. I think from the way he is looking at me that I got it right.

His hands go to my behind, and he pulls my hips closer. I can feel him hardening against my stomach, and his kiss holds a hunger that tell me he needs to be fed. His hands go to my breasts and he begins to knead them as his cock begins to slide between the lips of my sex. His kiss becomes desperate—hungry.

God, I love him like this when I can feel the physical need he has for me.

Every inch of his being becomes focused on one thing… the need to fuck.