I stroked harder, and my dick arched into my palm. I’d turn her around and slowly slide those bikini bottoms down over her round, perky ass that begged to be reddened by my hand. That was all I could take. My balls clenched tightly as I shot my load, the orgasm tearing through my muscles like both fire and ice. I was panting when I came down but still fucking horny. My entire sexual fantasy reserve was filled with images of Crosby, most of them real memories where I had been forbidden from touching her. In my dreams, I touched her relentlessly, giving her body endless pleasure. I was unable to write her a goddamned email, but in my dreams, my lovemaking was a never-ending love letter.
5
Crosby
Italy was a dream come true, beautiful beyond my expectations. I landed the internship at the famous fashion house Renetti and worked my ass off to prove I deserved to be there and wasn’t just some entitled American kid who wanted cool posts for social media. If all they had me doing for the day was making coffee and sweeping up fabric scraps, I became the best espresso-maker/floor-sweeper you ever saw. My favorite days were the ones when I worked the atelier, helping to pin and fit celebrities or the high society of Milan. While my name and my looks often garnered strange glances, my draping skills were on point, and often clients would ask for me by name when they’d return.
Every time I talked to Callie or my mom on the phone, they’d ask first about men—Italian men—and then mention school and my internship as an afterthought. Sure, Italian men were good-looking and laid on the charm and attention, but my heart had been forever claimed by that one kiss in my parents’ kitchen. Life in Italy was a perfect dream, but my dreams of Weston were where my heart truly lived and breathed. I didn’t date, didn’t flirt, didn’t even accept invitations to lunch. I already knew on a profound level that no other man would compare to my Weston at home. I’d loved him ever since I could remember, and that affection wasn’t going away. Nobody cared for me the way he did, looked out for me, protected me, and kept me safe.
Although, I didn’t know what would happen while I was gone. I supposed Weston could easily find someone else and move on. For all I knew, I could come home to find him married with children. And for that reason alone, I avoided the subject of him like the plague whenever I talked to my parents, Callie, and even Asa. I didn’t want to know what Weston was doing, didn’t want to know if he missed me. Walking along the Galleria in the sun on my break from work, I’d let my mind wander and imagine Weston there with me. His tall, muscular form, how he killed it in a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt, his forearms, his strong hands, supple and insistent lips, his copper-colored complexion, and that smoky gaze when his dark eyes became laser-focused on my face. His scent, his taste, the timbre of his voice. I could drown myself in memories of Weston if I wanted to.
I fed the rest of my panini to the pigeons, imagined stepping off the plane from Italy in sunglasses and one of the breathtaking gowns I’d helped stitch.
Weston would be waiting for me, leaning up against his truck like James Dean. He’d flick the cigarette and pull me into his arms like he owned me. Then we’d drive away into the sunset, and it wouldn’t even matter where. Just Weston and me and thousands of hours ahead of us to love the hell out of each other.
When Renetti offered me a real job, I thought I’d have to be either stupid or crazy to pass them up. So my last six months of school in Italy turned into a race for my visa, passing a GED equivalency course to graduate from high school in Hartford, and a visit from Mom and Dad to help find me a real apartment.
“BeBe, I just have this fear you’ll never come home now,” Mom said over sips of wine on the outdoor patio of a local restaurant.
“Wouldn’t blame her a bit,” Dad countered. He was between bites of linguini and on his third glass of wine. My parents were enchanted by Milan, so much so that I was ready for them to consider retiring there after they’d gushed for the hundredth time about how gorgeous the city was.
“Well, the boys would miss you. The energy isn’t the same without you around, BeBe. We miss your laughter around the house, and the boys miss your nagging and teasing.”
I didn’t have to guess who she was talking about. Weston was family to us, and Mom spoke of him like he was her second son. Meaning, my brother. They’d be so disappointed in me if they knew how much I loved him, lusted after him in a very un-sisterly way. I purposely didn’t ask about him. Whenever he came up, I’d change the subject.