Love Your Life(18)

“You know what they say,” I say softly. “Show, not tell.”

I don’t know what I’m inviting. A chaste, romantic kiss, maybe. Like Chester and Clara shared before he boarded the hay wagon. But as Dutch’s lips meet mine, all ideas of being chaste fly out of the window. I don’t want chaste, I want him. This mouth. This faint roughness of stubble against my skin. All of him. Right now.

    He’s deepening the kiss, expertly, intently, his hands at the straps of my swimsuit as though any minute he’ll yank it down. He tastes salty and manlike. Somehow our bodies have become melded together, damp skin against damp skin, with the sun blazing down on our heads and backs. He’s already hardening, I’m already melting, if we weren’t in public…

I hear someone laughing nearby—at us? But I’m too lost in sensation to move my head. It’s fine. We’re allowed to kiss in public. This is Italy, home of passion. They invented sex. And I can’t stop. My craving is limitless.

“Ciao, bella!” A screechy whistle makes me jump, and I glance round. It’s the teenagers, all clustered to watch us, about five feet away. Drat. They are laughing at us. And now they’re all wolf-whistling. We should stop. We’re probably in fact breaking a bylaw or something.

With an almighty effort, I wrench myself away from Dutch and stare up at him, breathing hard. I’m not sure I can speak, and he looks pretty dazed himself.

The teenagers are still catcalling us, and I try to block them out. Probably we shouldn’t have had our first sexual encounter in a public space with a jeering audience. But, then, everything’s easy in hindsight.

“So,” I manage at last.

“Uh-huh.” Dutch smiles again.

I know I’m supposed to have all the words, but I can’t even frame a sentence right now. I’m still too transfixed.

“I’m allowed a personal question too.” Dutch’s low voice takes me by surprise. “Right?”

One hand is roaming beneath the seam of my swimsuit while the other caresses my ear. His touch is somehow soft and firm at the same time. He knows what he’s doing, crosses my mind, and for a moment I savor this delicious thought. Then I realize he’s waiting for me to reply.

    “Uh, yes.” I come to. “Yes. I guess.”

What does he want to ask?

I wait for Dutch to speak—but he’s silent for a few moments, his eyes gleaming as though with secret thoughts. “Good,” he says, and touches my nose gently. “Might save mine up for later on.”



* * *



—

That afternoon, I feel as though I’ve unleashed a fearless genie inside me. We rock-jump again and again, yelling and waving at each other, midair. We splash and swim and kiss in the sunshine, mouths salty with the sea. Then, when we’re exhausted, we head off the main beach into the shade of a nearby olive tree and spread our towels on the ground. The sun is dancing through the branches and I close my eyes, loving the feel of it on my face.

“I think Italian sun is different,” I say dreamily. “They fob us off in England. They keep the good sun in a cupboard because they think we’ll get spoiled if we have it too much. Then they let it out but only for twenty-four hours. And never when we expect it.”

Dutch laughs. “No wonder the British are obsessed by the weather.”

While we’re talking, he’s idly constructing a tower from the big, smooth pebbles that lie scattered around. As I watch, he places a large, fairly ambitious pebble on top and the whole thing falls down—whereupon he laughs and begins again. When he pauses, I add my own pebble to the stack, and he glances up with a grin.

    “How many do you think we can stack? I say eight.”

“I say ten,” I counter at once, reaching for another pebble.

For a while we’re silent, concentrating on the task. But at last we have a teetering pile of ten stones. Dutch reaches his hand out to high-five me, but impulsively I shake my head.

“One more! Let’s make it eleven.”

“Eleven!” Dutch raises his eyebrows teasingly. “I like your style. Go on, then.”

As I reach for another pebble, I suddenly feel ridiculously nervous. I know it’s only a game, but we made this pebble stack together, and I really don’t want to knock the whole thing down when I could have settled at ten. In fact, I’m not sure why I even wanted to add another pebble. I guess it’s that voice inside me, constantly asking, What else could I be doing?

Tentatively, I place the new pebble on top and withdraw my hand—and it stays put!

“Result!” Dutch lifts his hand again, and this time we do high-five and I feel absurdly elated at our joint achievement.

“This takes me back to my childhood,” says Dutch lazily, lying back down on his towel. “I love architecture, design, that kind of thing. Guess it began with building sandcastles on the beach.”

“I used to love building sandcastles on the beach!” I say eagerly. “And I love design too. I collect interesting furniture. It’s, like, a hobby of mine.”

“Furniture?” Dutch lifts his head with interest. “What kind? Because I’m—”

    “Wait!” I cut him off with a horrified gasp. “Sorry! I shouldn’t have said that. We’re not supposed to reveal our hobbies.”