“I work foril dottorRomano. But Teresa and I have worked together for over five years. Romano thinks we make a good pairing. As you can tell, she is calm but strict. I am told I can be—uh, how do you say—quick of temper?”
I snort, and Lorenzo produces one of his half-smiles. He brushes past me repeatedly as he helps, sometimes touching but always coming very close. A few of those times, he breathes warm air into my ear. I know he also catches me staring at his backside as he turns from the top of the stepladder to hand me a pile of books, but he says nothing. I wonder if he is testing my resolve, and the truth is, my body is awakening to his proximity.
“What about family?” I ask, trying to diffuse the sexual tension. I place another dusty book onto a pile on the floor. “You said Mrs Bellacci is not your mother.”
Lorenzo doesn’t answer at first, and I wonder whether I have overstepped the bounds of our familiarity. He stares at a book in his hand for a long moment before turning my way and responding.
“My family are gone. I was born in a suburb of Roma. One night—one I can never forget—my mother and father sat outside our regularosteriahaving dinner. We would eat there two, maybe three nights a week. My father knew the owner. They had just ordered coffee. I was playing with the owner’s kids out back. I remember hearing the roar of a motorbike, loud machine gun fire, followed by people screaming and shouting. By the time we’d run to find out what had happened, the motorbike had gone. Even at nine, I understood death. My father did on-and-off work for bad people—my mother constantly argued with him about it. My childhood ended that day. I ran away and hiked to Napoli. I was afraid they might find me if I visited any of my relatives. I learnt to survive on the streets by doing odd jobs for people, but mainly by stealing. That all changed when a retired military man caught me. Instead of handing me over to the police, he took me in and trained me. Hard. Very hard. Until I was old enough to join the army. From day one, I mastered combat training and, within the year, they assigned me to a special forces division.”
As Lorenzo speaks, I stop to listen. We have more in common than I realised. Although he knew his parents—I have no idea who mine are or if they’re even alive—we both had to find our way in life alone, living rough on the streets.
“I’m sorry,” I say simply, because that’s all I can think to offer.
“It’s past. I survived and I am here now.”
We continue checking the books. My breath catches when I open the cover of one dusty volume to the title page. The author’s name printed beneath the title jumps out at me.Restoration of Function After Brain Injuryby A. R. Luria. I barely notice the sound of a car door slamming, an engine starting up and moving off. I check the inside covers, front and back, for any inscription, then check the pages, barely noticing that Lorenzo has neither moved nor spoken from his place at the top of the ladder. I turn the book upside down and shake the pages to see if anything is lodged between them, but I find nothing.
A loud smack of an object heavy hitting the floor grabs my attention. A hardcover book sits at the bottom of the ladder, one that Lorenzo has dropped. When I peer up, I find him staring intently.
“She will not return for hours. You want to keep searching for this stupid book? Or we have some fun.”
The last sentence is not a question, and his intention is plain when he rubs a hand from his chest down to his groin. I place the book to one side—unlike the wolf, it will be here when I return—and head for the door.
Once inside my bedroom, we stand and face each other. Without dropping his gaze from mine, he reaches out for the top button of my shirt. Instinctively, defensively, I grasp his wrist. I am not adept at foreplay. In the past, my encounters have been calculating and transactional. I sense that Lorenzo will want more, and I release my grip.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a long time.”
“Do you want this?” he asks, his voice a low rumble as he gently unbuttons my shirt. I close my eyes and let him, savouring the release of tension as the buttons open and the cool air touches my skin. “Because I think you do.”
“I do,” I say, and draw in a breath when his fingertips brush bare skin from my neck down to my navel.
“Yes. I think you need this,” he says, as he holds my chin and pushes the tip of his thumb between my teeth. My eyes finally flutter open. “Will you trust me?”
“Yes,” I reply, because what else can I say? He has barely touched me, and I am already hard for him.
Lorenzo lifts his T-shirt over his head and throws it on the floor before stepping into my space. His hands hold either side of my head, and he brings his lips close to mine.
“L’angelo Gabriele,” he says, in a whispered breath.
Before I can respond, he brings our mouths together and kisses me hard. After a few moments, he tilts his head to get better traction. I respond by pulling his body into mine, letting him feel my arousal and finding that he is also hard. The action appears to light a fuse in him.
There begins a rough-and-tumble confusion of clothes flying and stubborn zippers, accompanied by muttered Italian curses as we make our way, both in our underwear, onto the covers of my bed.
Things slow down then. Lorenzo relishes kissing and foreplay, both of which are alien to me. He catches on quickly and resorts to nipping me in sensitive places, along the line of my chin, on the earlobes, around the nipples, biting my lower lip—things that are an unexpected turn-on.
When he jumps from the bed to pull down his briefs, his erection bounces a few times before coming to a stop, solid and curving upwards. He half turns away, slapping one cheek of his arse and grinning wickedly.
“You want this, don’t you?”
How could I not? His body is a work of art, not only the tattoo running down one side of his lean frame, but his perfect proportions, and I scramble for the lube and condoms Josh gaveme. As I rip the top off the foil wrapper, he tugs down my briefs and thrusts his face into my groin. I spread out my thighs and savour the sensation of his hot breath on my skin.
He peers up at me mischievously before poking out his long, supple tongue and swiping it across his bottom lip. I stifle a gasp when he grasps my cock in both hands, one hand on top of the other, and squeezes hard while kissing and licking repeatedly around the head. Without warning, he swallows me and snakes his tongue around my girth. These are sensations I would normally experience with interest, detached from the act, but with Lorenzo, I am drowning. I thrust my hands behind my head and remain still, watching as he works on me.
On the streets, I would usually be the one to instigate sex, earning money by pleasuring others without giving anything of myself. When I fucked someone—nobody has ever penetrated me—I tried to hold off the moment of my orgasm as long as possible, preferably avoiding climaxing altogether. I innately equated release as a temporary loss of control and abandonment, a split second of weakness and something to be avoided.
Lorenzo’s approach to sex is pure carnality. Without asking permission, he takes what he wants. Satisfied that he has brought me fully erect, he plants kisses up my body until he reaches my mouth and claims me again. I am usually aware of my body and able to control my reactions, but I feel the delicious pull of an orgasm beginning in my groin.
I am sure Lorenzo senses this, too, because he snatches the condom from my hand and rolls it onto me, then grabs the lube and squirts a generous pool into his hands before liberally greasing my erection. When he has finished, he wipes the rest into himself. I am about to switch positions, but he pins me down by my shoulders. Scowling down at me, he transfers his bunched fists to my chest and, sporting a sheen on his forehead,positions himself over my cock and sinks down slowly. Warmth envelopes me until he stops. I might have begun thrusting back in the past, but I sense he wants control. I may be the one fucking, but he is the one holding the power.