Behind us was a three story confection of a villa—bright pink, with balconies and shutters galore, and the tackiest possible decorations inside. I was in love with it, and had been since the moment Angel’s new boss had asked if we wanted to house sit over Christmas so he could go to the Seychelles for the holidays with his new wife.
“We’re basically the Clooneys now,” I told Angel, leaning back against him.
“Mm,” he agreed, but his interest was still obviously elsewhere, as one hand continued to caress a nipple and his other hand slipped down my stomach to my briefs.
“Do you think your boss knows Amal—oh.”
Angel had slipped his fingers into the waistband of my briefs, grazing my swelling penis and stroking the sensitive tip until I shuddered against him.
“Feeling warmer now?” he asked softly as he worked my briefs down over my hips to my ankles and then off my legs altogether.
“A little,” I mumbled as he wrapped his long fingers around my erection. “Still a little cold.”
“Well, that just won’t do.” He moved us both a single step to the side, and then my eyes rolled back into my head. I stood in front of one of the gentle pool jets, and the jet was right at cock level, and oh my God . . .
My head fell back on his shoulder as he toyed with my dick in front of the jet, making sure the stream stroked and tickled me everywhere, moving me even closer so that the water was just forceful enough . . .
“Fuck,” I panted.
“Warmer now?” he asked in tones of grave worry, but I could feel the outline of his own erection pressed against me, feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest.
“Yeah.” I was beyond warm; I was simmering, boiling, made of sweet fire as my hips rocked forward and my hands came up to grip the edge of the pool. Now my balls were tight for an entirely different reason, and the pressure building in my core was almost unbearable.
Angel kissed my neck as he forced me to endure the torturously wonderful caress of the jet, his firm body holding me in place as I squirmed and moaned and twisted.
“How does it feel?” he asked in a low voice.
“It feels good. I’m—I’m about to—”
The climax came with a shuddering surge, and I curled forward, my hips bucking of their own accord as the pleasure pushed through my groin and up the length of my organ. With pulsing quivers, I came into the pool, my cock still being stimulated by the jet, which in turn made the orgasm last forever and ever and on and on—
I slumped back against Angel, who was practically shaking behind me. When I managed to tilt my head enough to look at his face, I was met with a hard mouth and burning eyes.
“Are you done?” he rasped.
I twisted in his embrace and pressed my face against his shoulder. My body was still trembling from the aftershocks. “Yes,” I said faintly.
He didn’t speak. Instead, he took my hand and tugged me back to the pool steps, onto the freezing balcony overlooking the lake, and then back inside the warm villa. We didn’t even make it past the kitchen before he had me slammed against the wall, his tongue in my mouth and his hands roaming all over my body.
I was still naked, and he was trying to tear off his trunks without his hands leaving my body for longer than a second at a time, and we ended up dripping a trail of water as we kissed our way to the bedroom, where Angel spun me around and bent me over a desk. When I looked up, I could see Lake Como stretched out like a sapphire field before me, the snow-capped Alps, the fresh clouds beginning to wreathe the mountains with something like fog.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” murmured Angel as I heard the plastic click of a bottle cap.
I wanted to give him a seductive smile, but I was still tingling and limp from my orgasm in the pool, and so all I could muster was a quivering moan as a slick finger found my entrance and caressed the muscle there. His mouth came down on my neck, biting, kissing, as he pushed inside me and began stroking.
I, of course, was always very aloof and cool about everything, but it was hard to be aloof when someone as sexy and naked as Angel was behind you, and even harder when I looked back to see him slowly working lube up and down his shaft with his free hand. My own dick was stirring to life, and I squirmed on the desk, watching him over my shoulder with my mouth open and my ribs jerking with short, heavy breaths.
“Ready?” he asked, a slippery hand curling around my hip as his other hand guided his erection to where I wanted it.
“Always for you,” I whispered and he gave me a wicked smile. Without his glasses, I could see with absolute clarity the sinful gleam in his eyes. The gleam that reminded me that however terrifying it was to make a huge step, sometimes the payoff was so incredibly and deliciously worth it.
“Good,” he said and began working his way into me.
The hot slide of him stole my breath away, and by the time his hips were flush to me, I had my face against the cool plastic of the vintage-but-still-hideous desk and was panting hard enough that my breath fogged the surface over and over again. When his hand found me, I was fully erect, and it didn’t take long before another climax was tearing its way up my thighs.
We came together, heavy and hard, him deep inside me, and me all over the ugliest desk in Italy. Outside, the first snowflakes were beginning to fall, dissolving over the heated pool and disappearing into the steam.
“This definitely beats Christmas in LA,” Angel said with a laugh that I could feel in my ass.
“Just you wait,” I told him, too come-drunk to sound smug. “I have plans for you tonight.”
“Sexy plans?”
“The next best thing.”
His voice brightened. “Food?”
“Sì, certo.”
After we cleaned up and then bundled ourselves in coats and scarves, we took the bus from the little village closest to us to Como proper, where the Christmas market was in full swing. Wooden stalls lined the vias and piazzas, Christmas lights sparkled everywhere, and the stone-paved streets were filled with people laughing and shopping and sipping mulled wine. Angel had roasted nuts in one hand and a paper cup of fried olives in the other, and I was on my second mulled wine, trying to calm my nerves. I was a survivor of eastern Oregon, Taylor Swift presale tickets, and rush hour on the 105. I could do this!
For the millionth time since getting off the bus, I patted the pocket of my ankle length wool coat, making sure the ring was still there.
I had taken a huge step in coming here with Angel last August, and it had been the best decision of my life. Prada had indeed welcomed me into their intern fold, and had even offered me a small stipend while I was there. They’d also hinted more than once that after the six-month internship, I should apply for a real position as a patternmaker, and I was considering it. There were a couple movies I wanted to come back to Christmas Notch for—the second Duke the Halls, and also an absolutely unhinged Santa Claus movie starring none other than former INK member Kallum Lieberman—but for the most part, my life was here in Italy. Because that’s where Angel was.
And Angel loved working for this studio. They were growing fast, and there was some talk of opening up an LA location, but neither of us were too anxious for that to happen. We loved our friends and family, but we didn’t miss the constant, desperate grind of LA, and also . . . well. There was something kind of honeymoon-ish about being on our own over here. Just the two of us exploring and fucking and hanging out with fashion and art people who hadn’t also known us as awkward undergrads.