The first threads were pulled, the rest of me is waiting to follow.
The door opens and Carla pokes her head around the corner and looks at us in surprise. “Oh, Claudio. How are you still wet? You’re going to need another shirt.”
At least it’s keeping her attention from my pants, where my dick is fighting to get out, aching for Grace and impossible to control.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her.
“Ah, here,” Carla says, walking across the room and pulling out a basket from the shelf. She hands me a blow dryer from inside it. “We have this in case any paintings get wet. Here, dry it off.”
I take it from her hands. “Grazie, Carla.”
“Grace,” she says to her sweetly, “can you help me set out the Prosecco?”
“Of course,” Grace says quickly. She follows Carla out of the room, shooting me a quick, furrowed glance as she does so.
I stare at nothing for a few moments, trying to compose myself. I then unbutton my shirt, taking it off so that I can dry it with the blow dryer. It’s a shame Grace had to leave. I remember the way she looked at me when I took my shirt off around her before, back in my studio. She did what she could to hide the lust in her eyes, almost as if it shamed her. I want to bring that lust back, no shame, just surrender.
And yet when I was kissing her, she was giving herself to me.
She was surrendering.
I just hope that the kiss won’t push us back.
I want to move forward with her.
But I don’t know what she wants.
When the shirt is somewhat dry, I pull it on and head back into the gallery.
I thought that things would settle between us after we kissed, that I wouldn’t feel as nervous anymore, but the anxiety is back and bigger than ever.
Everything is set up, with Grace and Carla having a glass of Prosecco and chatting. For a brief moment, I think about how they would make wonderful friends, and I picture a future in which Grace never has to leave.
It makes my anxiety wane, just a little.
Jesus, how will I ever get over that kiss?
“Here is the man of the hour,” Carla says, plucking a glass of Prosecco off the table and handing it to me. “Cin cin.”
The three of us make a toast and clink glasses, but my eyes are locked on Grace. She’s been such an open book, but right now, when I really need to know, I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
“Looks like we have our first guest,” Carla says excitedly.
A little too excitedly.
Before I turn around to look at the door, I already know who it is.
I turn and see none other than Lorenzo Ducati step inside, Carla practically drooling on him.
“Who is that?” Grace whispers, her eyes expressively wide.
My heart seizes with jealousy. It’s always been possessive.
“That,” I say, gesturing to the giant man in a charcoal shirt who’s walking toward us, “is Lorenzo Ducati.”
“He’s … big.”
She’s not wrong. Lorenzo is taller and more muscular than I am, and covered in tattoos, so he intimidates most people. I’ve known him since I was young, so he’s always been Lorenzo to me, and despite his appearance, and his quiet nature, he’s actually a man with a heart of gold. Just takes a bit of digging to see it.
“Claudio,” Lorenzo says in his deep voice, giving my hand a strong shake. We quickly embrace and I slap him affectionately on the back.
He glances appreciatively at Grace. “Who is this?”
His eyes linger on her chest for longer than I would like. My jaw tightens for a moment, but I manage to say, “Lorenzo, this is Grace.”
I should add that she’s a guest of my ex wife’s, but I don’t. What I want to add is that she’s the woman I nearly fucked in the storeroom. My muse. Somehow I manage to rein it in. He may be bigger than me, but I have no problems in asserting my territory.
If I need to.
“Nice to meet you,” Grace says, then adds, “Piacere.”
It’s a pleasure. Her Italian is coming along nicely.
“Grace is an author,” I tell Lorenzo. “She’s extremely talented.”
“Is that so?” he asks in English. “What kind of books?”
“Murder mysteries. So far.”
“Any translations in Italian?”
She nods and gestures to me. “Claudio has read them all.”
Lorenzo studies me for a moment and then nods. “Ah.”