Queen for a Day
"There, bella , that is where we are taking you."
Franco Bassani joined me at the rail of his father's boat, his muscular, golden brown arm extended toward a blurry point on the horizon. At the edge of my vision, I saw his shoulder flex and knew that one of his sculpted pecs had just winked at me. They had been winking at me from the moment I boarded the boat, which coincided precisely with Franco deciding the day was already too hot to keep his shirt on.
"So that is Isola di Parisi ?" I asked, edging toward my right to keep a little distance between our bodies.
Bumping into Benito, the equally shirtless but much larger brother of Franco, I froze. The two men had been subtly crowding me since my arrival at the Venice airport. While they had made no overt physical transgression, their gazes boldly touched wherever their hands were forbidden to graze.
Muscular, golden-skinned, with ruggedly handsome faces weathered by the sea, their attention would have been flattering had I been in Italy on vacation. But I wasn't on vacation. I was trying to save my business from dying before I could even officially launch it. I didn't have the bandwidth to be flattered. I also couldn't afford to meet Silvio Parisi, my potential investor, with a pussy hot and dripping with need. My limited exposure to the man was more than enough to know I didn't want to be around him with my body already primed for sex.
" Sì ," Franco answered before his brother's low, melodic voice interrupted.
" Isola di Paradiso, bella. "
I looked at Franco for an explanation. Not that I couldn't understand the word "paradise" rendered in Italian, but I definitely had the feeling I was missing out on a private joke -- one I likely wouldn't find amusing given Benito's speculative tone.
"Signore Parisi owns the most beautiful of the islands in the lagoon," Franco shrugged. "Nothing less than paradise can describe it. The gardens are perfection. The grotto will steal your breath. And the beach is so magnificent that it hosts only the most beautiful of birds."
Benito, who Franco claimed spoke almost no English, chuckled as his brother finished, and then he added something long and lilting in Italian. Whatever Benito had said, it brought a pink flush to Franco's sun-kissed skin.
"What was that?" I asked.
My fingers pulled nervously on the ankh I wore on a chain around my neck. The men didn't frighten me. My body's favorable reaction to their obvious flirting was the sole cause of my anxiety. I was deep into a very long, very dry spell when it came to the more intimate aspects of being in a man's presence. For over two years, my mother's failing health, and then the handling of her estate, had demanded almost all my time. After that, I had been too busy with the business sparked by our renewed relationship to even notice that a man had taken an interest in me.
Sandwiched between two hot blooded, mouthwatering Italian males, my body was achingly awake to their suggestive looks and sly conversation.
"The figs," Franco explained, briefly reaching around me to slap at his brother. "He said the figs on Signore Parisi's island are so good, they melt on your tongue like sugar and honey."
"Really," I asked, incredulous that Franco had chastised his brother for complimenting Silvio Parisi's fruit.
Franco's mouth pursed in a delicious manner before he answered. "I can only say that I have spent all day licking at their insides and still wanted more -- always more."
Franco's accent thickened and his gaze took on a sensual haze that threatened to make my panties grow even wetter. Before I could do something embarrassing, like whimper or moan, their father tapped his pipe against the window and pointed toward the bow.
Grateful for the distraction, I turned and looked. We were almost to the island. Not only could I clearly see the dock, with two of its three slips filled with bigger boats, but I spotted a gray-haired male in a heavy black suit standing
"There, bella , that is where we are taking you."
Franco Bassani joined me at the rail of his father's boat, his muscular, golden brown arm extended toward a blurry point on the horizon. At the edge of my vision, I saw his shoulder flex and knew that one of his sculpted pecs had just winked at me. They had been winking at me from the moment I boarded the boat, which coincided precisely with Franco deciding the day was already too hot to keep his shirt on.
"So that is Isola di Parisi ?" I asked, edging toward my right to keep a little distance between our bodies.
Bumping into Benito, the equally shirtless but much larger brother of Franco, I froze. The two men had been subtly crowding me since my arrival at the Venice airport. While they had made no overt physical transgression, their gazes boldly touched wherever their hands were forbidden to graze.
Muscular, golden-skinned, with ruggedly handsome faces weathered by the sea, their attention would have been flattering had I been in Italy on vacation. But I wasn't on vacation. I was trying to save my business from dying before I could even officially launch it. I didn't have the bandwidth to be flattered. I also couldn't afford to meet Silvio Parisi, my potential investor, with a pussy hot and dripping with need. My limited exposure to the man was more than enough to know I didn't want to be around him with my body already primed for sex.
" Sì ," Franco answered before his brother's low, melodic voice interrupted.
" Isola di Paradiso, bella. "
I looked at Franco for an explanation. Not that I couldn't understand the word "paradise" rendered in Italian, but I definitely had the feeling I was missing out on a private joke -- one I likely wouldn't find amusing given Benito's speculative tone.
"Signore Parisi owns the most beautiful of the islands in the lagoon," Franco shrugged. "Nothing less than paradise can describe it. The gardens are perfection. The grotto will steal your breath. And the beach is so magnificent that it hosts only the most beautiful of birds."
Benito, who Franco claimed spoke almost no English, chuckled as his brother finished, and then he added something long and lilting in Italian. Whatever Benito had said, it brought a pink flush to Franco's sun-kissed skin.
"What was that?" I asked.
My fingers pulled nervously on the ankh I wore on a chain around my neck. The men didn't frighten me. My body's favorable reaction to their obvious flirting was the sole cause of my anxiety. I was deep into a very long, very dry spell when it came to the more intimate aspects of being in a man's presence. For over two years, my mother's failing health, and then the handling of her estate, had demanded almost all my time. After that, I had been too busy with the business sparked by our renewed relationship to even notice that a man had taken an interest in me.
Sandwiched between two hot blooded, mouthwatering Italian males, my body was achingly awake to their suggestive looks and sly conversation.
"The figs," Franco explained, briefly reaching around me to slap at his brother. "He said the figs on Signore Parisi's island are so good, they melt on your tongue like sugar and honey."
"Really," I asked, incredulous that Franco had chastised his brother for complimenting Silvio Parisi's fruit.
Franco's mouth pursed in a delicious manner before he answered. "I can only say that I have spent all day licking at their insides and still wanted more -- always more."
Franco's accent thickened and his gaze took on a sensual haze that threatened to make my panties grow even wetter. Before I could do something embarrassing, like whimper or moan, their father tapped his pipe against the window and pointed toward the bow.
Grateful for the distraction, I turned and looked. We were almost to the island. Not only could I clearly see the dock, with two of its three slips filled with bigger boats, but I spotted a gray-haired male in a heavy black suit standing
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