Author’s Note

This novel includes many moments where one or more characters speak in Italian. None of these lines are essential to understand the story-you should be able to figure out their meaning from context. But if you’re curious, feel free to copy and paste them into your favorite translator. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.

You’ll also run into a few references to TV shows and movies. If you’re ever unsure, it’s probably Sex and the City, Encanto, or The Big Bang Theory. A general familiarity with Disney animated films also wouldn’t hurt.

Chapter One

My name is Alessia Valeria Costa and if you are reading this, I am probably dead.

Ok. So that’s melodramatic, but not without a fair bit of truth. I mean, I am alone in a foreign country about to meet a man I’ve only known online, a man who got to know me by DMs on Instagram where I post pictures of myself in as little clothing as possible. I mean, didn’t Taken start like this?

That being said, I’m pretty good at judging character and everything I have seen and read of Russ Jenning (I admit to cyberstalking him, but I think it’s justified in the circumstances!) says that he’s a very non-murdery, non sell-women-he-lured-to-North-America-to-white-slavers kind of guy. His Instagram feed is all pictures of food that he made (did I mention that he’s a chef?) and his adorable dog, and his Facebook is posts of music he likes, comments on the difficulties of being an ecommuter in his home city of Edmonton, the occasional book, or movie quote, and more pictures of his dog. He is listed as being in a relationship, but he assures me that they are quite broken up and he just hasn’t gotten around to updating it yet. So that is a bit of a red flag, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt on that one. I mean: it’s Facebook. It’s where you post boring stuff that you feel comfortable showing your grandparents, and he did change it the next day.

Mind you, if Russ was a murderer or agent for white slavers, it’s not like he could post that anywhere. (Right? Right?) Still: there are no posts about politics, no ultramacho toxic masculinity bullshit, no drunken parties no matter how far back into his feed you dig, or anything else to make women sitting in an airport bathroom psyching themselves up to meet a total stranger suspect. Ok, so he’s thirty-eight, which is way older than the men I usually date and totally outside the suggested ‘half my age plus seven’ range that the internet swears by, but we aren’t really here to date.

I am here for sex. Lots and lots of hopefully toe-curlingly good sex, if possible, on a rug in front of a fireplace during a snowstorm.

Yes, there are lots of figos-guys-in Florence, Italy, where I live, and trust me when I say that every single one that I dated is straight and totally interested in getting into my pants. Some (well, more than some) have succeeded and most of those have at least ok lovers. Very, very few of them have been interested in becoming any more than that and I even never thought about bringing any to meet my family. Ok, there was He Who Will Not Be Named, but we don’t talk about him, oh no, no, no. (No, his name was not Bruno.)

So why have I flown all the way to Calgary, Alberta, Canada, gateway to the Rocky Mountains, from Florence, Italy, heart of the Renaissance, for sex when there are busloads of local guys willing to do the job back home? I don’t really have an answer. Russ didn’t even invite me, not really. Well, I guess that, technically, he did. He mentioned he was taking a week-long vacation in Lake Louise, and he said that I could join him if I wanted, but he meant it as a joke. I mean, we are eight time zones and a giant ocean apart. I think that he was as surprised as I was when I said that I would love to. I had no real expectations before this of ever meeting him in person. He was a pen pal, someone who existed only on the other side of a chat window and, later, a Zoom call. I mean, he is really easy to talk to, is great at making me laugh, has a nice voice and, while he’s made no secret of finding me attractive, was never creepy or simpy about it.

And, yes, my life is a total disaster right now. My job is, umm, complicated. My family life…well let’s just say that eight time zones and an ocean is probably not far enough away for my liking, but it’s the best that I can do. Dating has been pretty lackluster lately. Italian men have been living up to their stereotype and I just want something…different.

So, a good-looking guy almost twice my age jokingly invited me along with him on his vacation, saying that his room has a king-sized bed so it wouldn’t even cost much extra, and yours truly, the twenty-three-year-old hot mess Italian girl, unexpectedly says yes. Once Russ realized that I was serious, we were both too busy working out details to discuss the why of it, and then I was getting on a plane and it was too late to back out, not that I want to. Well, most of me doesn’t want to. A small part of me is super nervous, but I am hoping that she will shut up and sit down, letting the rest of me enjoy what is already my wildest adventure even before I’ve left the airport.

Before I leave the departure gate, even.

I ducked into a bathroom right off the arrival gate to clean myself up and change before I met with Russ. I texted him when the plane landed and he said that he is outside waiting for me. I don’t want his first sight of real me, with no video filters or Photoshop magic, to be tired and frazzled with bags under my eyes.

That means brushing my teeth, freshening my makeup, giving my hair some much needed life, changing out my boring travel outfit into something a whole lot spicier, and more than a few minutes sitting in a toilet stall asking myself if I have lost my mind. The answer seems to be ‘probably not, but the vote’s not in yet’. Screw you, self.

Taking a last deep breath, I flush, step out of the toilet, wash my hands, and take one last check of my appearance. I’m not going to be falsely modest here: I am what almost all the world calls beautiful, or, if not that, then at least really sexy. God (if He exists) gave me a beautiful face and a curvaceous figure and I have worked hard to make the most of those blessings. I have an Instagram account dedicated to my looking good and it has (as of two months ago) more than one hundred thousand followers. You can take that as much of an accomplishment as you want. I am pretty proud of myself for getting there no matter what your opinion is. It takes a lot of work to be that successful, lots of following TikTok trends, learning little dances and mouthing along to a billion different songs and movie clips, and of course taking many, many, many pictures and videos. My cousin slash best friend is an up-and-coming pro photographer who take a lot of my pictures, photographers actually seek me out to do shoots, and I take a lot (I mean a lot) of selfies, ninety percent of which get deleted. If you saw just how much of my cloud is pictures of me in every style of swimsuit or fitness wear, your jaw would drop.

I practice some facial expressions in the mirror: a friendly smile, a smouldering glance, a seductive pucker, and, at the moment, I like what I see. My hair is dark brown and goes down to my mid back. I admit that I am vain about my hair and spend probably too much time fussing and stressing over it. My skin is olive, like most Italians, but my eyes are a really green, like that tribal girl from the National Geographic picture. Everyone says that I get them from Papino’s side of the family. It’s a pretty good look, really striking, and, other than extending my lashes as far as modern cosmetics can take them, I don’t need to do much to make them pop. My lips, I like to think, are my best feature. They are full and expressive without taking up half my face unlike a certain bee stung supermodel that I am not at all jealous of. Yes, I read her book. No, I’m not jealous of that either.

I take a moment to pull my halter down and make sure that my boobs are where they are supposed to be. My halter is black leather (I want to make an impression!) and it plunges deep down past my boobs, so its important to make sure that nothing pops out by mistake. Exposing myself to everyone in the airport is, admittedly, an impression, but not the one I am after.

My halter top is paired with a matching black leather mini skirt short enough to show off my legs but not so much so that I flash everyone when I bend over. Not the impression I am after. Under that I’m wearing black stockings and my favourite pair of ankle boots. They are YSL and not Prada, (I wish!) but they look good, feel good, and I can wear them for several hours without my feet hurting too badly. Again, not being falsely modest here. I look hot.

“Si può fare questo,” I tell myself in the mirror and resolve that those are the last words I will say in Italian while I am here. I am in Canada where everyone speaks English (except where they speak French). I have studied English ever since middle school and my friends and I spent countless hours watching American television shows (Game of Thrones, Stranger Things, anything with vampires, but most importantly Sex and City) and practicing with each other. All my favourite YouTubers are English speakers and I talk mostly without an accent. “You can do this,” I repeat in English.

I send Russ a text just before I leave the washroom, pulling my carryon behind me. I stop and slip a hand under my skirt to make sure that everything is settled down there, take a breath, and open the door. The smile on my face is partly real, partly wishful thinking.

I spot him waiting in the arrival area, although it takes a moment to make sure that it’s the right person. His seeing the real me for the first time goes the other way, too. This is the first time I have seen him not through a screen, and I’m pretty happy with what I see. He’s not ripped, not like the guys I usually go for, but he’s solid. He’s definitely a man, not a boy. He’s bald with a dark goatee that has a few grey hairs in it and he carries himself with a natural assuredness that, combined with his obvious maturity, make him really attractive to me. His face is square, with strong features and a solid brow. His eyes are soulful and dark, his nose straight and solid looking and his lips look, well, really kissable. He’s wearing a grey polo shirt and slacks that look good on him and is standing next to a luggage cart. He’s holding a small box in his hands. He is looking nervous at first, but he breaks into a wide smile when he sees me that changes his whole face for the better.

My own smile broadens and I do my best to ignore the butterflies that just decided to take flight in my stomach. I’m not feeling tired anymore, even though I’ve been trapped inside planes and airports for most of the last day. Instead, I am nervous and excited and afraid that I will say or do something really stupid. Any lingering concern I had that the reality of myself wouldn’t compare to Russ’s expectations disappear when I see his face. His look of appreciation and desire turn my already excited butterflies manic.

“Alessia, hi. Wow. You look beautiful,” he says when I approach him, then he pauses and speaks again. “Umm, how was your flight? Flights, I mean. How jet lagged are you?”

I don’t answer, afraid that if I open my mouth to speak that my damned butterflies will come out instead of words. Acting before I can talk myself out of it, I let go of my carry on, walk right up and kiss him. Russ freezes for a moment, then cups his hands under my elbows and pulls me closer before returning the kiss.

I just brushed my teeth, so I know my breath is fresh. First kisses are important and I don’t want this one ruined by anything. He is quite a good kisser, once he gets into it. Confident and firm, but not harsh or invasive. His lips are both soft and firm, just right, like Goldilocks finding her third bowl of porridge, and his tongue curious. He tastes of sugar and cinnamon and his smell is sharp, spicy, and deliciously male. His chest feels firm beneath my hands and his beard is thankfully soft, tickling my face and chin without scratching it.

We are both breathless when he eventually drops his arms, allowing me to step away. He is barely taller than me in my heeled boots, which I like. Again, just like Goldilocks: not too tall, not too short, just right. His eyes are brown. I knew this before; I have seen him both in video chat and in pictures (and maybe stared at them at high zoom a few times), but that doesn’t do them, or him, justice. His eyes really do suit his face and they sparkle with wit and intelligence. Right now, though, they are filled with stomach warming heat and I know that I am the reason why.

His hands slips down to my waist and his eyes are still on mine when he smiles. “Hi,” he breathes.

“Hi,” I say back, finally able to speak, and we can’t help but laugh at the inanity of our conversation. I look down at the box he still carries in one hand. He had kept a hold of it even while kissing me and right now it is pressed against my waist. “Is that for me?”

He blinks. “Huh? Oh, yeah, right. Here.” He releases me and raises the box up with both hands. It’s too large and not the right shape for a jewelry box, which is a massive relief. It would be an inappropriate gift this early in a relationship and having to refuse it and what it represented would have made the week awkward.

No, the box is a plastic food container, and it is still warm. “What is it?” I ask.

“It’s a cinnamon bun. You mentioned that you want to try one, so I made it for you before I left. I thought you would be hungry after your flight.”

I can’t help but smile as I open the container. It is indeed a homemade cinnamon bun, covered in gooey icing, its filling tinged with orange. It smells wonderful. “I am, thank you. It looks delicious.” He is a trained chef and his job right now is as a baker in an oilsands camps in Alberta’s far north. We have shared plenty of conversations regarding our favourite foods and pastries, and our mutual love of food is one of the reasons why I decided to come on this crazy trip halfway across the world in the first place. “It’s warm.”

He nods and shrugs in a self-deprecating way. “I warmed it up when your flight landed. Cinnamon buns really are best heated up.”

I smile and give him a light, sensual kiss that I have to break off before it becomes more. I do want to kiss him some more (I really, really do!), but I am also hungry and the smell of food has reminded my stomach of that. One little bag of pretzel bites three hours ago is a far cry from a satisfying meal. “Thank you,” I say.

A few minutes later we are sitting and I am eating a cinnamon bun as delicious as it looks and drinking coffee from Tim Hortons. “It’s our national drink,” Russ tells me. “No trip to Canada is complete without it.” It’s…ok. We make small talk about the joys of air travel in general and my series of flights in specific until I am finished. I lick one last bit of frosting off the fork (I play it up a bit knowing that he is watching) and pull him in for another kiss in thanks for his forethought and skill. It is a slow, sensual, sexy kiss with my tongue probing deeply into his mouth; it’s a both a taste (ha-ha) and promise of what is to come.

We linger after, unwilling to break the spell of attraction between us, and I ask him about his cinnamon bun. “There was something else in the filling. It was really good. I tasted ginger and cloves besides the cinnamon. Was it pumpkin?”

“Very good,” Russ says. “I put spiced pumpkin puree in the filling to help keep it moist in addition to contributing to the flavour. I make the dough with whipping cream and honey, so between that and the pumpkin they stay moist and fresh for days. I made enough that we can have them for breakfast every morning if you want.”

I give an exaggerated sigh. “If I have to. We’ll need better coffee, though.” My eyes narrow in playful warning. “But if I grow too fat for my clothes, I’m blaming you.”

“I think we can think of a few ways to burn the extra calories off,” he says with a grin and I can’t help but smile back. My butterflies are mostly gone now (maybe they fed on cinnamon buns and fell asleep?) and I am starting to feel better about my decision to come here. A week full of toe-curling sex is looking more likely than being murdered or sold into slavery. This is going to be a good week.

I look outside the airport window and change my mind. Everything is white and pillars of exhaust trail behind every car. It is winter in Canada and I knew this trip was going to be cold but actually seeing it-especially when I am presently wearing so little-is another thing entirely. “You said you were bringing winter clothes for me?” I ask. My nervousness is clearly audible in my voice.

Russ grins. “It’s only minus twelve, positively balmy.” I give him a look chillier than the air outside and he laughs. “Don’t worry, I brought you the warmest winter clothes I have.” He picks up a dark grey woolen overcoat with large silver buttons. “We’re close enough in size that it should fit you,” he says, holding it up for me to slip on. “It’s a vintage firefighter’s winter dress coat, made back in the sixties, I think. I found it in an antique shop.”

I insert my arms into the sleeves and he slips it onto my shoulders. The weight settles onto me and I almost stumble. “It’s really heavy,” I can’t help but say. It is a little large for me, but still wearable. Only my fingertips peak out of the ends of the sleeves and the shoulders are certainly much too wide for my frame. It feels like a hug, though, an immediate warmth and weight that envelop me and make me feel safe and comforted. It’s lined with satin and that is what I feel against the skin of my arms and back, not itchy wool. It smells of Russ, too: spice and masculine musk and I will enjoy wearing it if only for that reason. “It’s perfect, though. Thank you.”

“They don’t make them like this anymore,” Russ says, smiling. “I’ve worn that coat at minus forty and been warm.”

My mind balks at just the mention of such a low temperature. “You have not,” I protest. “It doesn’t get that cold here, does it?”

“Not here,” he said. “Lows of only minus twenty-five in the mountains this week, I promise.”

Is that supposed to reassure me? Well, it doesn’t. Not one little bit. “That’s still really cold. It’s colder than I have ever felt. Not even freezers get that cold.”

“In that jacket, you’ll be fine.” He says it with such assurance that I want to believe him, but I just can’t. Minus twenty-five sounds ridiculous. He begins to button my jacket shut and almost immediately, I start sweating. Ok, maybe I will be fine. “The minus forty was only one night,” he tells me, “And it was up north of Fort McMurray. And I have gloves and a hat for you, too.” He brings out a black Russian style fur hat (‘it’s called a ushanka,’ he tells me, ‘which is Russian for fur hat’) made from sheepskin and then large mitts made from animal fur. “They’re from Russia, too,” he says as he slips them onto my hands. “Made from very brave bunnies who gave their all so that you could be warm. These are the warmest mitts I have ever worn.”

“I should be protesting wearing animal fur, but they’re so warm,” I say, looking at my new mitts. “Fur farming is illegal in almost all of Europe, you know. Gucci and Chanel don’t use real fur in their fashions anymore. Its barbaric.”

“You said it yourself,” Russ says as he fusses with my clothing. “It’s really warm. Plus, I think it’s a little hypocritical. We eat beef and wear leather. If were just about cruelty then that would be banned, too. The only difference is that bunnies and chinchillas are cuter than cows.”

I have always been in favour of banning fur and I begin to protest without thinking. I only get as far as ‘but it’s different’ before I realize that it really isn’t. Or maybe it is. “I…maybe,” I concede. “They are really warm.”

Russ smiles and pulls out his smartphone. “I can’t resist,” he says, holding it out to take a picture. I strike a pose without thinking, leaning forward and puckering my lips, then striking a classic pinup pose that, if they were visible under the mountains of wool and fur on me, would show off my boobs and butt. “Not the usual kind of picture you pose for, but I think it’s great.” He glances down at my carryon. “Is this your only luggage? Really?”

I shrug in reply, although Russ probably can’t see the action from underneath my heavy jacket. “Who wants to drag around a ton of luggage? I always try to pack light but then end up remembering more things I need and trying stuff everything inside. When I do open that, I’m sure it’s going to explode.” I grin. “It will be lacy lingerie, slinky dresses, and sex toys everywhere.”

“Glad to hear you limited yourself to the essentials.” His tone is dry, but he can’t hide his smile.

Again, I shrug. “I figure that everything else I need I’ll be getting here anyway.”

He nods. “I brought some of my sister in law’s stuff-she’s big into outdoor adventuring-and anything else we can buy tomorrow. No trip to Calgary is complete without stopping in at Cross Iron Mills, after all. It’s a big outlet mall,” he adds when he sees my curious look. “And I figured that might be the case, so I brought an extra suitcase for all your winter clothing.”

An outlet store! I love those! “How long can we spend there?” I don’t even try to keep the eagerness out of my voice.

“Only a couple of hours,” he says. “Once we hit the outdoor stores you should have some time to look for other things. I realize that ‘some time’…” he uses air quotes around the last two words. “…means different things to men and women when shopping is involved, but it’s a few hours to the hotel and we should leave the city by one at the latest. The mall opens at ten,” he adds.

“I can make that work,” I say, already beginning to plan my morning. He goes to the mostly empty luggage cart and something occurs to me. “Wait!” I say. “I’m wearing all your warm clothing. What will you wear?”

The look on his face tells me that he’s humouring me. “The things you are wearing are too warm for me to wear right now. It’s only minus twelve. To an Albertan, that’s light jacket weather.” To prove it, he puts on a leather jacket with a hooded liner, grabs the handle of my carryon and turns to the door. He’s not even wearing gloves! “Come on, the car is only a few minutes away.” He gestures towards the revolving door to the snow covered outside. “Shall we?”

I brace myself and step through the door. All of me is covered in wool or fur except for my face and a little bit of my calf between the top of my boots and the bottom of my heavy wool coat. I expect the cold to stab into me like a knife but, to my surprise, it doesn’t. “It feels fine,” I say. “I’m not cold at all.” Not even on my legs.

“We should make it to the car before you do,” Russ says. “There isn’t any wind right now, so you’re lucky.”

I take two steps and almost fall when one of my feet slips on the snow.

“I was worried about that,” Russ says. “Everything is plowed and sanded here, and we should be fine in the parkade, but those are warm weather boots. They probably don’t have much grip. Do you want to take my arm?”

I give him a mocking curtsy, or at least the closest I can manage without moving my feet. “I thank you, kind sir, for your courteous offer,” I say, hoping that I sound like Sookie Stackhouse and not a drunk Irishman. “I think I should be alright as long as I am careful.”

He bows. “As you wish, My Lady, but I’ll stay in grabbing range if you need me.”

Slowly, carefully, I make my way down the length of the sidewalk and across the street. Once we are under the awning over the parkade entranceway, I relax.

“Ok, I’m a little confused,” Russ says as we climb the steps together. “You said that you’ve been skiing before. That means that you’ve been out in the snow.”

“I’ve been skiing in Italy,” I correct. “It’s only snowy on the mountain tops and it never gets very cold. Minus five, tops, and we only go skiing when its sunny. This is way worse, trust me.”

“Well skiing is the same no matter where you’re from,” Russ says. “I’m glad you won’t be a total novice on the slopes.”

“I went on a class trip when I was in high school,” I tell him. We are in the parkade now and endless rows of cars lie before us. Russ heads off in one direction and I follow. “And then a few times with some friends once we were allowed after Covid ended, and we spent more time in the bars in the centre than on the slopes. I’m still a novice.”

“But not a total novice,” he says. “You know how to put on the boots and which end of the ski is the front. It’ll come back to you, and I’ll be with you the whole time, don’t worry. I won’t let you wipe out too badly.”

“I’ll probably never leave the kid’s slopes,” I protest. “I don’t want you be stuck with me the whole time.”

“I’m not that avid a skier,” Russ says. “I wasn’t going to be hitting any black diamonds even you weren’t here. I won’t leave you, don’t worry.”

“Thank you,” I say. The warmth I feel isn’t just because of the jacket.

He leads me through the parking lot to a sleek looking navy-blue sedan. To my surprise, my calves and feet still aren’t too cold, especially when every other part of me is so very warm. I am going to wear this jacket every chance I get.

“Our chariot,” Russ says, gesturing to the car. “I rented it in Edmonton yesterday and drove it down this morning.”

“It is a Tesla,” I say, surprised, even though I shouldn’t be. Russ believes in sustainability, talks about its challenges on Facebook, and drives an e-scooter whenever he can. ‘I like to believe that all the electricity I use is from the three percent of power the province generates with wind and solar,’ he told me before, but also acknowledged that it’s hard to be green in a province whose riches all come from oil and gas. He is fully aware where his own paychecks come from but can’t do anything about that. The job market here is tough, and a person has to take what opportunities that are available.

“How far away is Edmonton from here?” I ask. I’ve seen the maps and know that it is a ways away from Calgary where we are, but the ridiculous scale that Canada is drawn in makes comprehending it difficult.

“About three hours by car,” he answers. “It’s an easy drive, just a straight line south. Well, north, from here.”

“If I drove for three hours I would either be swimming in the Med or somewhere in France,” I say, shaking my head. North America really is a different world than what I am used to.

“Well, I think that casually going to a different country for the weekend is just as weird,” he says. He opens what on any other car would be the hood, but on a Tesla is another trunk. Tesla purists call it a frunk, while others think that to be a dumb name (it’s a Big Deal among Tesla owners, apparently), and places my luggage inside. I notice something moving in the back seat of the car, which, when I turn to look, I see to be a brown furry head.

I don’t try to keep the eagerness out of my voice. “Is that Lola?” His dog. Russ has shared several pictures of her with me and I am eager to meet her in person.

“My girl!” Russ says with the kind of affection given to lovers, children, and pets and I can’t help but be envious. He hits a button and the back seat window lowers, revealing a long-haired grey, brown, and black haired dog. Her tongue is lolling and I can hear her tail thumping against the seat. He reaches in and scratches her head energetically. “Did you miss me? Was I gone forever? How did you possibly survive?”

I reach out with one hand, pulling off one of my borrowed mittens and holding it in front of her. Lola sniffs for a moment, then settles back on the seat with a huff. “Don’t take it personally,” Russ says as he closes the window. “She’s a rescue and she had a crappy life before I adopted her. She’s, well, shy, I guess. If you aren’t one of her five people, you don’t exist. She’ll never bite you,” he assures me. “She’s not violent. She’ll just ignore you.”

“I feel like that, too, some days,” I say. Especially so these days. He opens the car door for me and probably can’t see the smile on my face as I settle into my seat. He’s proving to be quite the gentleman, and I am curious to see what he does next.

“You might want to take your coat off before you settle in,” he suggests, crouching down next to me in the open door. “I left the heater on full. I don’t want you to overheat.”

I give him a coquettish look. “Are you saying that I am too hot?” Before he can answer, I cross my arms firmly across my chest. “I don’t think I am ever taking this coat off. It’s wonderful.”

He grins. “Then consider it yours for as long as you are here.” He closes the car door, but not before checking out my legs peeking out from under the jacket. Not totally a gentleman, then. Good. Feeling the satisfaction I only get when someone I like finds me attractive, I make sure that my legs remain visible.

A moment later he is sitting in the driver’s seat. “Do you want to go to the hotel and rest?” he asks once the vehicle is backed out of its parking stall and enroute to the parkade’s exit. “You’ve spent basically all of yesterday and today flying. Are you tired? Jet lagged?”

I shake my head. “I spent basically the whole time in the air sleeping. The white noise from the engines puts me right to sleep.” I had downloaded and tried to watch Dr Zhivago on the London to Toronto leg, but passed out before Zhivago could be reunited with Lara. “I try and stay hydrated to combat jet lag. I’m ok.”

Russ scans the parking pass, presses his watch to the scanner, and we are on the road. It’s quite bright-all the light shining off the snow makes me feel like I am in front of a makeup table-and I can’t help but squint.

“So, what do you want to do?” He asks. He glances in my direction and his eyes linger for a moment on my legs. “It’s early afternoon here, so we can do basically anything you want. I wasn’t sure what you would be up for, so I didn’t make any hard plans. Calgary isn’t Florence, but I’m sure we can find something that would catch your interest.”

“I’m fine with going right to the hotel,” I say to him, unable to stop my smile. “I may not be tired, but I could use a shower.” I pause and give him a measured look. I like his profile. “You could join me,” I offer.

He grins. “How can I resist that offer?” After a few moments we turn onto a major road and merge into traffic. “So how does Calgary compare to Florence so far?” he asks. “Not counting the snow.”

“Firenze,” I correct, pronouncing it the correct way. “Only foreigners call it Florence.”

“ ‘Fee-REHN-tseh,’ ” Russ says, and I nod.

“I have to count the snow,” I say, answering his original question. “It’s a pretty big deal. But a road is basically a road, whether you call it a freeway or an autostrada. The traffic here isn’t any worse than the A1 back home.” I look beside me at a large pick-up looming over us. “The cars are way bigger here, and everyone drives slower.”

“Welcome to Alberta, where everyone drives a giant, gas guzzling truck even if they don’t need to,” Russ says, rolling his eyes. “Everyone in Alberta calls Calgary Cow-Town, and not just because they raise a lot of cattle nearby. They really embrace the idea of the cowboy here, with the hats and the boots and the belt buckles. The Calgary Stampede is huge rodeo and one of the city’s biggest events of the year. Anyway, part of being a cowboy, around here anyway, is driving a huge pickup with an engine powerful enough to pull a tank just so you can go to the store.”

I can’t help but smile at his vehemence. “And you drive a scooter.”

“I had an epiphany a few years ago and realized just how much money and gas I was wasting when all I was carrying around was myself. When I need a car, I can just rent one, like I did this time. It’s so much cheaper and environmentally friendly.”

“I drive a scooter, too, you know,” I tell him, “for basically the same reason. It’s much easier than driving a car for a single person in Firenze. Mine uses petrol, though, and has a seat. If I ever need anything moved, I either ask my parents, brothers, or my friend Stef.”

“You drive a road scooter, what we call a Vespa, here in Canada,” he says. “My scooter is smaller and slower, and I can only drive it on secondary roads and bike paths, but its electric.” He holds his fist out. “Scooter bros,” he says, glancing at me and smiling. “You and me against basically all of Alberta.”

I bump his fist with my own and chuckle. “You barely see any trucks like this back home,” I say, gesturing out the window at another very tall pickup. “They would barely fit down our little streets and they’d be impossible to park. Even our cargo trucks are smaller than these monsters.” I grin. “We have scooters everywhere, though. You are an Italian at heart, I think. There are tiny little electric cars popping up on the roads everywhere these days.”

“Hmm,” he says. “Maybe I should visit.”

“Maybe you should,” I say, but suddenly the conversation is too heavy, the subtext too strong. I haven’t even been in Calgary for an hour yet, and I only came here for fun and sex. This week is a break from the disaster that is my life, and, once it’s over, the disaster resumes. Russ and I live a continent and an ocean apart from each other, and we haven’t even had sex yet. It is far, far too early to think about what might happen beyond the nine days that we’ll be together.

“So, tell me about Lola,” I ask to change the subject. “Where did you rescue her from?”

“She’s a reservation dog,” he answers, happy to talk about something else. “Do you know what that means?”

“I think so,” I studied a bit about North American colonization in school, but most of that knowledge disappeared from my memory after I finished my state exams. “The pre-European natives. They were forced into small sections of land by settlers. There were a lot of them who were killed by wars and diseases. The places where they live now are called reservations?”

“More or less,” he says.

“I’m not going to lie,” I say. “I learned most of that from watching Pocahontas.”

“Yeah, well, the Disney version left out all the murder, cholera, and smallpox,” he says. “It was a lot more violent and bloody down in US, but reservations in Canada are still pretty grungy and run down, and there are a lot of wild dogs in them. There are animal rescue societies that go from reservation to reservation picking up as many strays as they can, spaying and neutering them, and then rehoming them to anyone who’ll take them.”

“Stray dogs are a problem in Italy, but not in Firenze so much,” I say to him. “We have dog rescue societies, too.” I glance back at Lola, who is currently curled up into a shaggy donut. Her eyes are open, though, and she is watching me. “What kind of dog is she?”

“She is officially a ‘Saskatchewan Reservation Dog,’ he says with a smile. “Saskatchewan is the province to the east of Alberta. They grow lots of grain there,” he adds. “Apparently, they breed true enough over there that natives can recognise a Saskatchewan Reservation Dog by sight. She’s mostly terrier with maybe some corgi mixed in. it’s the short legs,” he explains. “She’s not wiener dog or basset hound short, but her legs are still pretty short for her body length. If you ask five different people, they’ll give five different opinions on what other breed she might be. I’ve heard German Shepard, Lasa Apso, Shiba Inu, and a bunch of others.”

“She’s adorable, whatever she is,” I tell him. “Who are the five people she recognises?”

“Oh, me, my best friend, my parents who watch her when I am in camp, and my ex. We got her together.”

I don’t say anything in reply. Bringing up exes to new flames (or whatever Russ and I are to each other) is always tricky. I will wait to see what he says before saying anything.

“We’re still friends,” he says into the silence. “We just decided that we were better as friends than lovers, that’s all. A big reason we got Lola was to encourage her to get out and be more active. It kind of worked.”

“There weren’t any custody fights over who got Lola?”

He shakes his head. “Lola was always my dog from the very beginning. She is the most mono-focused dog I have ever met. I’m her world. In Bridge’s own words, she would never dream of breaking up me and my dog. All she wants is to hang out in same place as me. Lola, that is. It’s bad enough that I am gone in camp three weeks of the month. I would never leave her behind if there was any way to avoid it.” He glances at me, smiles, and reaches over to squeeze my hand. “So, thank you for sharing your vacation with her.”

“I’ll be human number six by the time I have to leave,” I say boldly. “Dogs love me. A good friend of mine has an adorable little chihuahua dog named Figo, and we are best friends. He always leaves fatter than when he arrived when I watch him.”

He chuckles. “You and Lola should get along fine, then. She doesn’t play with toys, care about dog treats, or chase balls. All she cares about, other than always being in the room with you, is meat. Oh, and bones, I guess.”

“She and I are destined to be friends,” I say, glancing at him sidelong. “I like meat and long, hard bones, too.”

He laughs. “Yeah, but you don’t eat them.”

I raise my eyebrow. “You don’t think so?”

“I mean you don’t consume them and then swallow,” he corrects.

“I always swallow,” I say, unable to stop from smiling.

“I’ll…shut up now,” he says and I can’t help but laugh. A moment later, he joins in.

The rest of the car trip is spent chatting about my flight and airports in Europe. We have left the freeway by then, gone across a river, and are driving through the city’s centre surrounded by towering skyscrapers. Russ pulls into a parking garage and stops the vehicle in an available spot labelled ‘guest’. “I’ve already checked in,” he says as he gets out. “There is a back door into the hotel just over there.”

The cold air from the open door immediately makes me shiver and I waste no time placing my borrowed fur hat and mittens back on. Russ is busy putting a harness and leash on Lola (‘she hates collars’, he explained before. ‘If you pull on her neck at all she cries and falls onto her back.’) and I’m out of the car before he can open my door for me. “it’s a short walk,” he says. “Come on. This way.”

I am making my way to the hotel door and pulling my suitcase behind me when Russ grabs my trailing hand and pulls me to him. I barely have time to make a startled squeak before his is kissing me long and deep, and almost immediately I melt into his strong arms. His hands are around my waist, my arms around his neck and suddenly nothing else matters as he kisses me deeply and thoroughly. Americans (and Canadians) call it French Kissing, but we Italians call it limonare: ‘to lemon’, because it’s juicy, I guess. I don’t care what it’s called or in what language, right now it’s perfect. I return his passion with my own, wrestling his tongue with mine, moaning deep in my throat, and feel my breath get completely stolen. His chest is firm, his hands strong as they pull me to him, his lips claiming me for his own.

Right now, and for the next nine days, I am totally his.

A passing car honks and we step apart, the moment broken. we both laugh, still clinging to each other, and I remain that way until Lola, a remarkably patient dog, gives a single bark to remind us of where we are and what we are doing.

“I’m so glad you decided to come here with me,” he says, breathless.

“Me, too,” I breathe back. Lola pulls Russ away and suddenly I am alone. Regaining my thoughts as much as I can, I pull my luggage into the hotel. “I can do this,” I say to myself.

Chapter Two

There isn’t too much to say on the ride up to the hotel room, but that doesn’t mean that we aren’t communicating. Russ’s eyes, filled with warm humour and anticipation, only leave mine to check on Lola, who isn’t a big fan of elevators. I’m not sure what my expression looks like, but I know what I’m feeling now and I’m making no effort to hide it.

I’m excited about what is to come, but nervous, too. The first meeting with a guy is always a bit of a mystery. It’s like opening a present or getting a prize at a carnival, but with sex. What will he be like? Will he live up to the impression of him that I have drawn in my head? Is the face that he has shown me his real one or is he just being a Nice Guy? I’ve texted and Zoomed with him for a few months already, and I’ve both kissed and been kissed by him. My instincts say that everything will be fine and usually that’s enough. I are going to spend the next nine days alone with him, so I had better be right.

Either that or things are going to be really awkward.

He must like what he sees in my expression, because his smile widens and gaze intensifies. His eyes glance down my body and I can’t help but pose a little under his gaze. My (well, his) coat is open now that I am out of the cold and my legs and cleavage are on full display. I like the way I feel when he looks at me.

The moment ends when the elevator door opens to some other guests. It’s not our floor yet, so they file in and Lola gets some well-deserved admiration. Russ makes the Saskatchewan Reservation Dog speech again (it sounds pretty rehearsed; it’s likely a question that comes up often) and everyone chats about dogs for the rest of the journey.

“This is our floor. Good to meet you,” Russ says. “Come on, girl.” I’m pretty sure that last part was to Lola. He guides me into the hallway with one hand while leading his dog with the other. His hand on the small of my back is gentle and I can feel it on my skin even through three layers of cloth and leather. I can’t help how my breath quickens at the sensation. The elevator shuts and the two of us are alone in the hallway. He grins and points down the hall with his head. “This way. Come on.”

My eyes can’t help but follow the rolling of Russ’s ass under his slacks (nice!) when they aren’t drawn to Lola’s swishing tail, and I begin to imagine what might happen next. The warmth I feel when we arrive at the hotel room door isn’t just because of my coat.

He unlocks the room and enters, holding it open for me and for Lola. I like to think that it’s for me, anyway. Lola finds her green dog bed and lays down on it with a huff after circling twice. The look she gives me is wary.

“There is a place nearby that offers salsa dancing tonight if you are up to going,” Russ tells me after he takes my hat, coat, and mitts. “I promised you live music and dancing, and there aren’t any live music options in the mountains, so, if you want to go, its tonight or never. If you aren’t too wiped out from the flight, that is. It’s up to you.”

I look at him through my lashes. Planning for this trip had been a little rushed once I decided to actually come and, two weeks ago, he had asked if I could come out a day earlier. He hadn’t explained why, only said that it was a surprise, and now I know why. “I wouldn’t have you break your promise,” I say, stepping close, sliding my hands across his chest to his delightfully firm shoulders and giving him a brief kiss that promises more. “Maybe we won’t stay until they close, but I am not going to pass my only chance to dance with you.” I packed my favourite dancing dress and shoes just in case a chance something like this presented itself.

His eyes are dark. He cups his hands under my elbows and pulls me close. “The band doesn’t start until ten tonight,” he murmurs. Its barely three o’clock Calgary time right now. “We have lots of time if you want to do something else in the meantime.”

I smile and wrap my arms around his neck. His hands move to my waist. “I can think of a few ways to pass the time,” I purr.

His eyes dip down to my lips. “Did you want to wash up or anything first? You said you wanted to shower.”

“I washed up in the airport before meeting you.” I grin. “I figure why shower before I’ve had a chance to work up a good sweat?”

He doesn’t reply, just kisses me, and I melt into his arms.

We have both restrained ourselves when kissing until now. Every previous time my lips met his had either been in public, separated by multiple layers of thick cloth, or surrounded by exhaust gas. Now, we are both indoors and no one (except maybe Lola) is watching. I have been looking forward to this moment for weeks, if not months. I am done holding back.

Except…not quite yet. I force myself to pull away from his embrace. His eyes are heavy with desire, but I can see him trying hard to calm his expression. “What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice husky. “Too fast? I’m sorry, we can watch teevee or something if you want. I don’t mind waiting.” His face and voice make lie of his words, though. Seeing his self-control makes me even more excited as I can’t help but wonder what I can do to make him to break it.

“Not too fast at all,” I tell him, biting my lip to stop me from throwing myself back in his arms. “Just the right speed.” I glance back at Lola who is eying us both with an expression I don’t recognize. “I just don’t want to scar her or get interrupted or anything. Is she going to watch?”

Russ glances at his dog and her tail thumps. “Would it be a turn off if she does? I can lock her in the bathroom if it creeps you out.” I can hear the ‘but I don’t want to’ that he is thinking added to the end of his sentence.

“She’s not going to bark at us or jump on the bed or anything?”

He snickers. “No, that’s not her thing at all. Lola doesn’t care what we do, as long as she’s near enough to know where we are.” He nods in her direction with his chin. “Lola guards the door. That’s her self-appointed job. Beyond that, she’ll completely ignore us, trust me.”

“I just don’t want any interruptions,” I tell him, my green eyes locked with his brown ones. Lola doesn’t exist anymore, it’s just the two of us. Well, the two of us and the bed beckoning from behind French doors.

He cups my face in his hands. “Wild horses and all that,” he whispers, then brings his lips down on mine. I took off my boots when I entered and don’t have the eight centimetres of extra height that they would have given me. I like wearing heels, both for how they make me feel and look, and for the height they give me, but I also like being shorter than my man, too. It just feels more feminine.

He kisses me deeply and thoroughly and I can’t help but moan at how it makes me feel. Eyes closed, my hands slide up his hard biceps to his strong chest, memorizing every bit of his body I can feel.

“You are so fucking sexy,” he breathes as he slides his lips across my cheek to my jaw. “I just can’t get over how much hotter you are in person.”

I can’t help but shiver. The caress of his lips on the corner of my jaw, his soft breath when he speaks, the silk of his beard brushing my skin, they excite me just as much as the low rumble of his voice and the breathless passion that soak his words.

He brushes my hair back with one hand and gives an open mouth kiss to that place just behind my ear and brushes it a moment later with his moist tongue. I give into the sensual revelry and just stand there. I can’t help the gasping moan that escapes my lips. “It’s your smell,” he says, nibbling at my earlobe. “You smell so fucking good. I don’t know if it’s your shampoo, perfume, or just you, but I can’t get enough of it.” He kisses and licks a bit higher behind my ear and I give a happy moan.

“Right there,” I moan, my hands fisting on his chest like a cat making biscuits. “Keep doing that but use your teeth.”

He obliges and the brief sharp pain makes me shiver and gasp, followed a moment later by his lips. “Cosi bene,” I whisper.

Neither of us say anything else for the next while, though neither of us are silent. His lips have travelled down my neck to that point where it meets my shoulder. “Oh, Russ,” I moan, the words flowing right to my lips and bypassing my brain. “Oh, Russ, per favore…” I don’t know exactly what I’m asking for, but right now I want it more than anything.

He bites down a little longer and harder than he had before. “Oohh, si, oooh,” I say in a breathy moan.

He pulls away and I groan at the lack of sensation. I blink in confusion at his smiling face. “Did you know that you are talking in Italian right now?”

It takes a moment for his words to register. “I did? I am? Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s super sexy.”

“I…I’ve never had an English boyfriend before,” I admit. I cringe inside as soon as I say the word. Russ isn’t my boyfriend. He’s my, well, fuckbuddy for as long as I’m here in Canada, and nothing more. He doesn’t seem to take notice of my slip of the tongue, thankfully. “I guess Italian is my sex language.”

His face is serious. “You can talk to me in Klingon if you want to, so long as you don’t say ‘no’.”

“Green lights all the way, mia caro,” I say, then give him my sultriest look. “Taci e baciami, Russ.” I pause, then repeat it in English. “Shut up and kiss me.”

“Gladly,” he says, and does. Our tongues exchange greetings as we kiss breathlessly. I take his bottom lip between my teeth and half suck, half bite it. It isn’t long before he is kissing and sucking on my neck. It’s going to leave a mark and I don’t care. I want to show all of Canada that Russ is my lover.

“I’ve wanted to kiss your neck since our first video call,” he says to me between kisses. “You were wearing that off the shoulder sweater and I could see your bra strap under it. You kept playing with your hair and every time you did I kept staring at your shoulder.” He dips his tongue in the notch of my shoulder, and slowly, sensuously follows the hollow over my clavicle from the base of my neck outwards, stopping when he reaches the strap of my halter.

“The first few times were because I was nervous,” I say breathlessly, fingers trailing down the back of his neck. I keep my language straight, this time. “Then I saw that you liked it, so I kept doing it.”

He kisses the hollow of my throat and my moan is closer to the purr of a cat. “Your skin is like silk,” he continues. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

I have no recollection of doing so, but suddenly my hands are pulling his lips to mine and am sticking my tongue as far into his mouth as I am able. I step backwards towards the bedroom and pull him along with me. I can feel the smile his mouth forms and, his hands moving down to my hips, he pushes me along.

Which of us is leading, and which one following? I don’t know and don’t care. One moment I am standing and the next I feel the bed’s edge behind my knees and I am sitting down on it. I lean back, spreading my arms behind me. Knowing exactly what such a pose looks like and implies, I smile up at him invitingly. Russ looks down at me, shirt mussed, chest heaving, and eyes dark with passion. I give an excited gasp as he hooks his hands under my knees, effortlessly raises me up and slides me to the centre of the bed. Half a second later, his body is on top of mine, nestled between my spread legs, pressing me into the bed, and he is kissing me possessively. Even as I return his kisses with the hunger of a starving woman (or, maybe the hunger of a woman who has only eaten airplane food and a cinnamon bun in the last eighteen hours) I slide my hands down his chest and stomach to his belt. I pull his shirt free and over his stomach and then eagerly slip my hands up inside, running my nails across his sides and back. He stops kissing me for a moment, gasping loudly for air as he sits up onto his knees, reaches behind his back, and pulls it over his head.

I take a moment to appreciate what’s in front of me. He’s solid, not full of bulging, well defined muscles like an athlete, but strong, like the working man he is. His chest is firm, his shoulders broad and thick, and his arms (forearms especially) wiry with corded muscle. He is on the hairy side and some of the ones on his chest are grey, but it just makes him look virile and masculine. It’s not his body that attracts me the most right now anyway, it’s the intense expression on his face and his eyes that burn with hunger when he looks at me. I manage to run my fingers up and down his thighs, coming to rest on the straining bulge of his erect penis, and then he is on top of me once again, kissing me hungrily.

Russ’s lips don’t linger on mine very long before pulling away and kissing along the vee of my throat until he reaches the hollow of my neck. I moan happily when he kisses and licks me there, squeaking when he gently nips the sensitive skin there, but my hunger has outgrown kisses along your neck and throat. My entire body is pulsing with need and crying out for his firm but still gentle touch.

He seems to sense this and his lips move lower, trailing along the bare skin of my upper chest and cleavage. My leather halter shows more than it hides, including most of my sternum and a fair bit of sideboob. His lips kiss every bit of bare skin that he can get to and I really like it, but my nipples are hard and aching and I need him to touch them.

“Stop teasing me,” I moan, my hands tracing lines across his neck and shoulders. “Touch me, please.”

He glances up and gives you a teasing smile. “Like this?” he asks, rubbing the ball of his hands across my nipples.

I moan and nod. “Di pui,” I whisper, then realize what I did and repeat it in English. “I need more.”

He cups my breasts in his hands and squeezes, gently pinching my nipples between the ball of his thumb and knuckle. I moan and arch my back, pressing my breasts into his grip.

Russ kisses the sensitive skin between my breasts, his feathery touch maddening, while his thumbs trace gentle circles around my nipples, and it feels so good. I trace your hands across every part him I can touch: his head, his shoulders, his back. I dig my nails into his skin just below his shoulder blades and not-so-gently draw them upward. His breath catches and he looks up, surprise on his face. “That feels good,” he tells me and I just smile in reply.

Any other time, I might enjoy the teasing and the slow build going on here. I have always appreciated a guy that truly enjoys a long tease instead of visible counting down to how long he needs to waste on foreplay before sticking his dick into me. That isn’t now, though, or him. Now I am the one wanting things to go faster. I am wet and ready for him, I have been since before the plane landed, and the spark of need inside me has been building and building ever since. The heated glances since finally meeting Russ in person, the gentle touches whenever he gave me a cup of coffee or helped me into my jacket, all stoked that fire that is burning oh-so-hot within you now.

I am regretting my choice of clothing. The black leather top is normally a go to for me. I look great in it, it shows a lot of skin, and I like the feel of being wrapped in leather. It thick enough, though, that it gets in the way of his caressing hands, and it’s too stiff to just push to the side.

“I’ve wanted to peel this off of you since the moment I first saw you wearing it,” Russ says between kisses.

“I put it on so that you could take it off of me,” I reply.

His eyes meet mine, heat passing between our gazes, before looking down at my clothing. He hesitates and I smile. “There’s buttons and a zipper on the back,” I say and laugh a moment later as he promptly rolls me over onto my front.

“So fucking sexy,” he says under his breath and I smile into the bedspread. I know what he is seeing right now, and that is not very much at all. The halter is mostly backless, only joining together at the small of my back. The straps tie at the back of my neck, but they are hidden by my hair.

He pushes my hair to the side and presses a kiss to that spot right at the base of my neck. Ok, maybe he doesn’t need to race to undress me. His kissing me there feels so incredibly good. He unfastens the halter then kisses me again, inspiring another long moan, and proceeds to slowly kiss his way down my back.

My back has always been a special place for me. A gentle hand on the small of my back, a lingering finger trailing down the length of my spine, or a kiss on my shoulder blade almost always arouses me. Now, when I am already turned on like a light switch, it’s almost enough to make me cum on the spot.

Almost.

My hands are crossed across my chest under the now loose leather panels of my top, pinching my own nipples so hard that I am gasping. I am squirming in place, my legs rubbing together in need. My pussy is so hot and wet right now that I can feel my juices leaking out. Russ, encouraged by the noises I can’t help but make, continues to kiss and trail his fingers down my back, lingering the place where its most sensitive, and just when I don’t think I can take it anymore, he undoes the buttons of my halter and the zipper beneath.

I try to turn over, eager for him to see and touch me with no fabric between us, but he holds me in place and begins to undo my miniskirt. I allow him to pull it down over my legs and grin when I hear him groan in appreciation of what he sees.

I have a great ass. I exercise a lot to make the most of what God has given me and it is, I like to think, the best part of my figure. I always try to dress in such a way as to show it off and today’s black leather miniskirt does a an especially good job of that. It is just the icing on the cake, though. What lies underneath is the filling (or maybe it’s the cake? Is my ass itself the filling? So confusing!) and I have been waiting for Russ to see not just the expensive black lace panties I am wearing but also the matching garter belt and stockings under them.

A garter belt and stockings are my go-to underwear choice when I want to feel extra sexy. They add a touch of class and elegance beneath any outfit, and give a special, seductive surprise to anyone fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of them. This set (and the matching bra that I didn’t wear today) are my favourite and I had grinned when I had slipped them on in the airport bathroom. I really, really, wanted Russ to see me wearing this particular set of lingerie and now he is. Just my underwear and nothing else.

I roll over and raise myself up on my elbows, looking up at Russ as he kneels on the bed. The approval and hunger in his eyes as he rakes his eyes up and down over my mostly naked body is beyond gratifying. Every woman enjoys feeling sexy and appreciated by their lover and right now I feel like a queen. A slutty, slutty queen. Slowly, deliberately, I spread my legs and he can’t help but stare at the black lace panel (with a large damp spot in the middle) that lies between them.

“So fucking sexy,” he repeats.

Grinning, I raise myself onto my knees and advance towards him. “You’re pretty sexy, too,” I murmur as I pull him into a kiss. It’s easier to do this, to act, instead of reacting. Giving has always been better than receiving, for me. I lower my hands to his belt and rub my hand across the bulge there. “You’ve had your fun,” I tell him, giving him a mischievous smile. “I want my turn.” I push him backward onto the bed and he falls willingly.

I straddle him across his thighs, taking a moment to enjoy the view before slowly leaning forward and dragging my hard nipples up his stomach and chest. It feels really good and I’m not sure who is more turned on by the time our faces are even with each other. I kiss him, slowly and deeply, and give a happy moan when his hands slide up to my breasts and gently squeeze them.

I let him continue and rub the front of my lace covered pussy against his hard erection. The deep groan he gives is its own reward and I continue to stroke him until he releases a deep sigh. I release his lips and begin to lower my body down his. I kiss his chin, the rough skin of his neck below his beard and then linger on the hollow of his throat. His breaths are fast and deep and his hands slide along my chest to my shoulders and then my neck. He trails his fingers along my head and then threads them gently through my hair.

His chest is warm and firm. He gives a sharp intake of breath through his nose when I tongue first one of his nipples and then the other. My fingers are clenched like claws digging into his pectorals and he gasps when my fingernails almost draw his blood.

“You really like using those nails, don’t you?” he says in a half whisper. His fingers had tightened in my hair when I had almost scratched him but now, they relax.

“I like the sounds you make when I use them,” I say in reply, raking the nails in question down his stomach. I smile at his tortured groan and kiss the centre of his chest. My hands are down to the belt of his pants and he groans louder when I gently cup his balls and rub the base of my palm against his cock. I place a few more kisses on his stomach and treasure trail and then, when his bulge is in front of me, I undo his button and lower his zipper. The tent in his underwear is clearly visible and can’t help but smile. Size isn’t everything, but it is something, and Russ has nothing to be ashamed about.

With no further ado, I ease the waistband of his underwear down, freeing his dick, and take a moment to appreciate the sight of it. I like it. It’s on the larger side of average, the shaft two hand width’s long, it has a nice girth with a large, swollen, deep purple head. He isn’t circumcised. It has a slight rightward curve that reminds me of a banana. My lips curl into a smile at the thought and then, looking up at his face and making sure I meet his eyes, I take him into my mouth.

I’ve always enjoyed giving head. It’s pompino, in Italian, or fare un servizietto if you want to be more polite about it. I like how a guy’s cock feels in my mouth, how it tastes and smells, and, especially, the sounds and words I draw out of them when I do my thing. It’s intimate in a way that actual sex isn’t, as strange as that may sound. I always feel especially feminine when I take a lover’s cock into my mouth, especially when I make him come.

“Holy shit, that feels good,” Russ says in a gasping groan, his hands stroking my hair. He watches me for a little while, his eyes locked with mine, before his head falls back onto the bed.

I swirl his dick’s swollen head with my tongue like it’s a candy, tonguing his hole briefly, before bobbing my head forward and taking him deeply into my mouth. I’ve always liked feeling the smooth skin of a guy’s shaft slide against my tongue. I move up and down on him a few times, slowly and sensually, memorizing its shape and its feel. “Alessia,” he moans, his voice drenched with need, and I pull away, giving the head one final lick. I cup his balls gently and caress them while licking up and down his shaft and then pull away.

He looks up at me, hunger mixing with confusion on his face.

“I want you naked,” I say, pulling down on his pants and underwear. He lifts his ass off the bed cover, letting me pull them both over his hips, and he watches me as you pull the rest of his clothing off his body. His hips are slim and lean. He has strong legs and thick calves, and while I haven’t had a chance to see it bare yet, I’m sure that ass they are attached is tight and muscular. His legs are hairy like the rest of him but not too much so, and, on the whole, I am very pleased with the look of the naked man on the bed in front of me. Before our vacation is over, I am going to lick, touch, and memorize every square centimetre of him.

Having disposed of his clothes, I am standing at the end of the bed and wearing only my panties, stockings, and garter belt. Russ is watching me and, knowing that, I lower my hands to the waist of my panties and slowly draw them down my legs. I put them on over the garters so taking them off is no problem. I can see in his eyes that he likes what he sees and seeing his desire emanate from him turns me on even more. Channelling my inner cat, I begin crawling onto the bed and up the length of his body. His hard dick is pointed towards the ceiling like a flagpole and I briefly take it into my mouth once more before continuing up his length until our faces meet.

I kiss him deeply, channelling my hunger, need, and satisfaction with him through my tongue and lips before pulling away. Both of us are panting.

“I really need you to fuck me,” I tell him, my voice husky. “Right now.”

A moment later I am lying flat on my back. My arms are up by my head and his hands have firmly clamped down on my wrists. My legs are spread wide and he is kneeling between them. “Green light?” he asks in a low, sexy growl, and I nod enthusiastically.

“So green. All the greening. No speed limits.”

His dick is already poised over my wet pussy, its head probing gently against my sensitive lips until it finds where to go. He doesn’t reply or hesitate, just thrusts all the way inside me with one strong thrust.

“Madonna!” I arch my back and cry out in ecstasy.

“Oh, god, that feels so good,” Russ gasps. “You’re so wet.”

“I’ve been wet for you since before I got off the plane,” I say, my voice breathless.

He is fully inside me now, his hips pressed against mine and it feels so amazingly good. He rocks his body against mine and I moan when he grinds his pubic bone against my clit. He kisses me and I respond eagerly, our tongues wrestling. I want to touch his chest but my wrists are trapped in his firm grip. I know that I’m not really trapped, that saying two words would get him to release me, but on an essential, primal level it feels like he’s taking me, like I are his to use as he desires, and that is so amazingly, fucking hot. “Fottimi, per favore,” I moan, sliding one foot along the inside of one muscular calf before I intertwine my legs with his, locking him in place. “Scopami più forte.” The last word is nothing more than a gasp.

His eyes are intense, and you feel trapped by them. He has just a hint of a smirk on his mouth. “Say that in English,” he orders.

It takes me a second to get my brain to think in words. “Fuck me hard, please,” I translate after a moment, desire soaking my speech. “I need you to fucking me. I’m so close.”

His smirk is a full-blown sneer, now. “Since you said please,” he says, and then he matches action to words. He fucks me.

I wasn’t lying a moment ago: I am close; achingly so, in fact. I also meant it when I told him that I’ve been wet for him since before getting off the plane. Most of the last leg of my journey was spent fantasizing about everything that might happen between the two of us over the next nine days and no small part of that was centred on what might happen right after I got off the plane. If I hadn’t been in a giant metal tube surrounded by middle aged guys leering at me, I might have draped a jacket over my lap and fingered myself until I came.

So far, reality is proving just as good as anything I might have imagined.

I cry out with every thrust and struggle slightly against Russ’s grip, which doesn’t loosen or move even slightly. He feels so good inside me, not just his hips slamming rhythmically into mine (which feels fantastic!) but just feeling his dick inside my tunnel, filling me up. This is what I wanted, what I needed, and what I’ve been craving for days now. Just the idea of going on a sex vacation with someone I’ve never met in person before is enough to turn me on and ever since getting onto that first plane to Rome, I’ve been obsessing over it.

So, it’s no real surprise when I have my first orgasm after Russ has thrusted into me only a few times.

“Oh, si,” I had said in the moments leading up to it. My mouth is on automatic. I’m not thinking or caring about language. “Guisto…si…cosi bueno…sono quasi…o si…io…SI!!! SI!!! Uuuhhgg!” My back arches, my head presses back into the mattress and I clench and squeeze Russ with my legs and the walls of my pussy. If my hands had been free, I probably would have drawn blood on his back.

I let go completely and my mind and body explode in pleasure. It’s fireworks, it’s a choir singing exultations, its feeling everything and nothing at the same time. It’s electric shocks of ecstasy jolting through my body from inside my pussy out to the tips of my fingers and toes. It’s one hell of an orgasm and it is so potent that I even feel it in my hair.

I drift for a while, lost to the sensations, reveling in it, but, eventually, I return to my senses. I don’t know how long I was out of it, but I think it was a while. My arms and legs are still tingling. My eyes are just beginning to regain their focus when an aftershock hits me and I twitch and moan in pleasure.

My awareness returns enough so that I can feel warm flesh beneath my hands as well as gentle fingers caressing my face. Russ isn’t gripping my wrists anymore. Instead, he is stroking my cheek and jaw with one hand while leaning on the other and my own are gripping and ungripping against his chest. His weight is pressing down on me and I realize that he’s still laying in the cradle of my legs on top of me. My pussy twitches and I can feel him still inside me, completely hard.

He kisses me with aching gentleness. “That looked intense,” he says, his voice soft.

“I feel like I’m being filled up by sunshine and rainbows,” I say, and then giggle. What a silly thing to say! I might still be a little cum drunk.

He rocks his hips a little which slides his dick inside me in a delicious way and I purr from the sensation. “I’ve never heard it called that before,” he says. I can hear his smile in his words.

I don’t reply. I’m not even sure that I can right now, in any language. Instead, I raise my hips, sinking his dick into me just that small bit more. “Keep going,” I urge. “Just…slowly for now.”

Russ places his hands on either side of my head and rocks his hips. “Like this?”

My groan of pleasure comes from somewhere deep. I grip his back and tighten my legs around his thighs, pulling him deeply inside me. “Just like that. Keep going. You feel so good there.”

“Not half as good as you,” he replies, his voice low and gruff. “Jesus Christ, Alessia. You are so fucking hot.” He thrusts into me again, deliciously slow, and I clench down on him as yet another echo of my orgasm passes through me.

“It’s so good,” I moan. “I could do this forever.”

He gives a breathy chuckle. “I’m definitely not going to last that long.” There is nothing really to say after that, just moans and deep heavy breaths. His body is covered with a thin layer of sweat just like mine is.

“Harder now,” I tell him, my voice high and breathless. Obligingly, his next thrust has his full weight behind it and I moan in pleasure. “Yes,” I gasp. “Like that. Harder.” I moan and whimper when he obeys, my hands tightening on his back. “Pui,” I say, clenching my legs. “Dammi di pui.”

Instead, he stops. “Nooo,” I moan. “Don’t stop. Che cazzo stai facendo?”

“You want it hard?” He raises his eyebrows in question. “And deep?”

“Yes!”

He reaches behind him and takes hold of one of my legs, then moves it until it rests on his shoulder. “Like this?”

I grin. “Oh, yes, please.”

He positions my opposite leg over his other shoulder and smirks. “Well, since you said please.” He rolls forward until my hips leave the bed and my knees are almost level with my head. I can feel his weight settle onto me and, more importantly, his dick presses deeply inside me.

I gasp and moan at the sensation. “Oh, It’s so good.”

He takes my hands into his and laces our fingers together. Our joined hands are pressed into the mattress on either side of my head. I am held completely in place under his weight. I am completely at his mercy and its fantastic.

“I’m going to fuck you so hard our neighbours have to call the front desk,” he growls. My face flames in embarrassment at the idea, but it turns me on, too. A lot. “I’ll make you scream so loud that you go hoarse.” He presses into me, his dick sinking even deeper than before and I moan. He backs out, his dick almost completely withdrawing, and then slams back in. our bodies make a slapping sound from the force of the connection.

“Please,” I moan, not sure what language I am saying it in. my eyes are locked with his. “Please, make me scream.”

He seems to understand me, regardless. He fucks me. Hard.

I can feel another orgasm coming, getting closer and closer like a hungry T. Rex in the rear-view mirror. Unlike in the movie, though, I want it to catch me, want to be consumed by it. My fingers are clenching him hard, my legs likewise. I can’t even form words, just incoherent moaning cries that I give out with every wonderful thrust.