Volare

Chapter 1

Volare (to fly)

The first thing Claire Rossini did was open the heavy drapes that hid the scenery. The small room had been very expensive because of its view. The trip to Atlantic City, the room, and the concert tickets had all been purchased long before Joe left her. She pushed that from her mind and savored the beautiful beach, and the equally beautiful bodies playing in the surf. Once she had a body like that, slim, youthful with breasts that stood up proudly, perky even. Now childbirth and slow erosion had turned her body into a middle aged though well kept package. How could she be expected to compete with a 28 year old? A blond 28 year old at that. Still, Joe did not say he wanted a divorce, just some time to think things through. So, here she was by herself in Atlantic City with two tickets to a concert she really did not want to see. It was not that she disliked the performer, not at all. In fact, in her private moments, she acknowledged that she found his music wonderful. The words he wrote, the music he composed touched her very deeply. That he was Italian and she had to sit with an Italian to English dictionary to translate most of the words did not matter. Once a few years ago, before everything with Joe, before the kids were married, she wrote him a fan letter. Silly, she acknowledged, but she wanted him to know how his music touched her. Sillier still, once she got used to using a computer, she actually joined his fan club. The main branch was in Rome, but there was a chapter in New York.

Here, in this hotel the New York chapter was sponsoring a meet and greet for the members. Claire felt foolish, not quite able to bring herself to go. Why would a 50-year-old woman belong to a fan club? This wasn’t Bon Jovi, or even Bruce Springsteen. Massimo Carando was a singer of Italian songs. A foreigner for God sake.

In spite of all her silent protests, she showered and fixed her hair. Short brown locks with bangs that just swept her eyes, brown eyes to match the hair, of course the color of the hair now came from a bottle. The expressive brown eyes were still the same. She peered at her face in the steamy bathroom mirror. Not bad for an old bag, she thought. Her skin was still smooth and almost line free. She had been wearing sunscreen for more years than she wanted to count. An interesting face, a lived in face, that smiled easily, or at least had before Joe became an asshole. She sighed as she painted on all the crap needed, toner, moisturizer, concealer, makeup, blush, eye crap and last lipstick, which she would lick off long before anyone noticed she was wearing any.

What to wear, what to wear. She had packed a number of different outfits. Summer in New Jersey could be unbearable, air-conditioning could be as well. She settled on tight black jeans and a white crepe top that was sheer on the arms and neckline but lined where it was needed. She tried the top on with a strapless bra but did not like the way it looked, tried a regular bra with tiny straps, what the hell, she thought, I am in style. A spritz of cologne and she was ready.

Ready to meet a bunch of screaming women who had the hots for Massimo Carando. Claire never screamed, not for music, not for sex, not even at her children. She screamed at Joe, but she actually needed to do that. Her life had been one of control, only once straying from her marriage, and that was a disaster, the few kisses and touches left her guilty for months.

She wandered towards the elevator after making sure the door was locked; she actually tried the key card a few times to make sure it worked. Her high-heeled sandals made no sound as she walked on the plush carpet to the elevator. The meet and greet was in what was called the little ballroom on the 19th floor. Up she went without thinking too much otherwise she would change her mind.

The little ballroom was huge. People of all shapes, sizes and colors milled about. She heard Italian, French, Spanish, English and what could only be Russian. There were pictures of Massimo Carando all around which was strange. On his early albums, tapes and later, CD’s his face was rarely photographed. Claire did not know what he looked like until the local New Jersey station starting carrying Italian programming and he appeared at a San Remo festival years ago. She studied his picture now. He had a mass of thick black hair, bushy black eyebrows and what could only be called an aggressive nose. His lips were mismatched and since he was sitting down in this picture, she could not tell how tall or big he was. She had no clue except that his hands were long fingered and sturdy looking as he held his guitar. There had never been a hint of gossip about him. Joe’s family had come from Italy and they read the Italian paper and magazines from Italy, no gossip, no word of family, nothing. Joe joked that he was probably gay and all those beautiful love songs were to another man. Claire did not care; anyone who could write words like that had to know love.

An inquiring face approached a friendly face, round and filled with good humor. Hello, I’m Dora, the president of the New York chapter of the fan club. And you are?

Claire Rossini. She responded.

Dora shook her hand, Come lets find your nametag. She gestured to her rather substantial bosom where her nametag sat, proudly proclaiming her as president. Claire followed behind and allowed the stranger to stick a nametag on her blouse. That done, Dora offered a glass of wine, which Claire took almost gratefully. She had never been good at small talk, had a hard time meeting new people. She was only hoping to see someone who would sit next to her tomorrow night at the concert. She milled about, smiling at people who caught her eye, but trying to look inconspicuous as if she knew what she was doing. Once she made her way across the ballroom she leaned against the brocade covered wall and looked around. Mostly women loomed about, breaking out in little bursts of laughter occasionally. There were a few men about, husbands mostly who looked out of place, wanting she was sure to be down stairs gambling not here dancing in attendance to their starry eyed wives. Joe would not be here, in fact she never told him about being a member of the fan club. That was just too weird. She could not even explain it to herself.

Waiters were passing around with trays of delectable looking Italian antipasti. Claire declined; she did not want to drop anything on her crepe blouse. Ever practical, she would do without. There was always room service once she got back into her room, which she was contemplating doing soon.

Two giggling women plowed into her, causing Claire to lose her balance and almost fall, but the taller of the women reached out a long arm and steadied Claire. Unabashed, Claire read their bosoms. Allora and Nancy, Allora being the taller of the duo. They were both younger than Claire, not by much, but younger still won. Light haired and eyed, they appeared to be as American as Claire was until they spoke, Russian accented English, but friendly.

Don’t you just love him? Allora sighed. He is so dreamy.

Never having thought of him as dreamy, Claire said nothing.

Do you think he will choose someone tomorrow? Nancy asked.

Intrigued, Claire asked, Choose someone, whatever do you mean?

The two friends exchanged meaningful looks. Sometimes, at his concerts, he singles out a woman to spend the night with him. Last time in Connecticut, he chose me. That was Allora.

This is my first concert. Claire said to explain her faux pas.

Again the exchange of looks. You do not look like his type. Nancy told her. He usually picks women who are taller, because he is so tall."

And broad. Allora said.

She must really know what she is talking about Claire thought, never intending to be in a competition for anyone’s attention. She wanted to ask why they singled her out for this bit of information. Perhaps she looked better than she thought. On the other hand, perhaps they were just being kind to the silent stranger.

They engaged in conversation, naming favorite songs and albums. Claire did not have a favorite, she loved them all. His music touched her life in so many ways. Attending the concert would be her way of paying him back.

The talk continued with Allora leading the conversation. She had a great knowledge about all the music he wrote, even the songs for other artists and in other languages beside Italian. He was popular in more countries than Claire had known. And not gay according to her companions. Suddenly she wished she could share that bit of knowledge with Joe. Lonely, lonely woman she thought.

A collective gasp seemed to shimmer from the arched doorway to the opposite end of the ballroom. Eyes turned to the door, everyone quieted. Claire held her breath. Tall, Allora had said, but Claire was not prepared for the sheer volume of the man.

Nancy grabbed her arm almost painfully. I can’t believe it, she whispered, He usually never shows up at the meet and greet."

Claire felt her body respond, a response she did not expect. She felt her blood turn to liquid fire. Tall and broad, he oozed machismo from the lions mane of hair that grew back from his smooth forehead to his almost hawk like features, only that mismatched mouth saved him from being terrifying. He wore light colored pants and an untucked short-sleeved shirt that revealed well-muscled lower arms covered in downy black hair.

People swirled around him, shaking hands, while he politely greeted everyone. He had one arm draped casually over Dora’s shoulders, she beamed proudly.

Her companions straightened their clothes, checked each other’s teeth, and applied lipstick. Claire did nothing. She could only watch as Massimo Carando made his way through the room. He would pause to sign an autograph when paper and pen were thrust at him but he did not let Dora leave his side. She was at least familiar.

Claire looked for an escape route. She did not want to be one of the hoards. She respected the talent, she did not have to respect the man. Yet, when she looked at him, she did not see a womanizer. In fact he appeared shy even uncomfortable with the adoration surrounding him.

Dora tried to maneuver him away from the eager hands of his fan club and signaled for a glass of wine for him. He took the glass and drank thirstily he scanned the rest of the room. His eyes fell on Allora and Nancy and he smiled a true smile for the first time. Then his eyes fell on Claire, he said something to Dora and moved away.

He’s coming here! Nancy squealed.

If he was, he certainly was taking his time about it. He paused to eat something off a proffered tray engaging the waiter in conversation.

Claire heard his voice for the first time not on a record. Pebbles hitting glass, she had once said of his voice. It was true. He had a gruff voice, more attuned to rock music than the popular music he composed and sang. Yet for him it worked. Realizing she had not taken her eyes off him yet, she looked down trying to remember how old he was. She had read the brief bio the fan club had sent. He was born during or just after the war, which would make him near 60 if not there yet. The raw power that clung to him belied his age. He gave the appearance of a much younger man.

Her companions left her hugging the wall and went to join him. They fell into an easy camaraderie. Relieved, Claire moved away from the wall and started towards the doorway. She had enough of this; he was only a man after all. However, his eyes rested on her again and she felt foolish skulking away. Instead, she took another glass of wine and tipped in his direction to acknowledge him.

He grinned almost boyishly, and Claire pleased, grinned back. Flirting like a schoolgirl she thought, but it felt good. She had forgotten she was a woman with wants and needs, Joe had seen to that. However, this stranger who she only knew through his music was bringing that feeling back.

As he moved away, Allora tried to hold his arm back; Massimo took the offending hand from his arm and gave it a quick kiss on the back of the hand. Allora blushed and let him leave.

Such nonsense, he said when he reached Claire. His voice though heavily accented was easy to understand. I usually avoid these things. Today I had the feeling that I needed to be here. He glanced meaningfully down at her. Their eyes met and Claire felt a quiver snaking from the pit of her stomach through her groin and even down her legs. This man had it. Sex appeal. Sensuality, whatever it was now being called. He could bottle it and sell it. Thank God for high heels, Claire thought inanely. With them, she came up to his chest, if she had chosen flats she’d be staring at his navel. Quite possibly had she worn flats he would not have even seen her. She smiled at the thought and watched his black eyes crinkle in response to her smile.

His eyes went to her chest. At first, Claire wanted to take offense, and then she realized that he was only reading her name.

Claire Rossini, he said, is there a Mr. Rossini?

Yes, She responded, he is with his girlfriend. They are not here.

He must be crazy. Massimo murmured into his glass.

Claire agreed silently, finished her wine. Almost instantaneously, another replaced that glass. Too much wine made her pazzo and she was about to refuse, but something inside of her propelled her hand to take the glass.

Meanwhile other fans joined them. Massimo greeted some by name, spoke several different languages to many. He had a good will about him; no one was left out of the conversation. If you did not speak the language being used, he translated into the one you needed. Claire, thanks mostly to her in-laws understood a great deal of Italian, her in-laws and her Italian American dictionary. But Sicilian dialect could get you just so far. Perhaps now she should leave, before even sipping the third glass of wine. Her eyes moved towards the arched doors, it would take a few moments to get there, but no one’s attention was on her. With quick movements, she put the glass of wine down and maneuvered towards the door.

Dora caught her arm as she was about to leave. I’m going to the ladies room too; I’ll show you the way.

Claire started to protest that she was leaving, and then mentally shrugged her shoulders. At least here there were people, back in the room she would be alone with the television and room service or worse, the honor bar.

The ladies room was filled to capacity; the exciting chatter centered only on Massimo Carando. Claire thinly veiled her surprise, she loved his music, but these women were acting as if he was some Adonis. He was sexy sure, but this was crazy! Was it just his music that struck a cord in the rest of these women? Or did they really want to be with him sexually? She had even heard one man say that he would not mind if his wife shared herself with him!

Dora finished her business in the ladies room and joined Claire in the lounge. I wait all year for this; I love to have Massimo here in this country, here in Jersey. From here, he will go to the fans in Chicago. They eagerly await him too. She smiled at Claire, Isn’t he just fascinating?

This is the first time I ever met him. In fact, this is the first concert I have ever been to, ever.

Dora’s eyes registered shock. She looked Claire up and down. I judge you to be about my age, I am 43, and how can it be that growing up here in this country you never went to a concert?

I met my husband when I was only 15; we were married when I was 19. Never had the chance.

Why isn’t your husband with you? If I recall, when you requested tickets you did say they would be a birthday gift for him.

Amazed, Claire looked at her. You remember that?

She smiled smugly. It is my business to remember.

Claire sighed, tired of the story now. We separated not too long ago. My sons insisted that I not sell the tickets and cancel the room. They think I need a vacation.

Dora patted her arm in commiseration. Believe me Claire, I understand.

Feeling friendly towards the woman, Claire continued. Believe me this is so unlike me. I would never go anywhere by myself, I can’t even understand why I joined a fan club. I love his music but… she shrugged her shoulders.

Don’t worry. Dora told her. He knows just how you feel.

Okay, that confused her even more. He did not even know her! How could he know how she feels? Then it dawned on her that over the years of his performing he must have met many women in a situation like hers. Did that mean she would be a push over if he wanted her? She did not know.

As soon as they went back into the ballroom, Dora left Claire to find Massimo. Claire watched as he bent his head to listen to what Dora was saying. His eyes shifted in her direction and Claire could feel the sexual pull of him. No more, she thought. With no one around to stop her, Claire left the ballroom. She ran quickly to the elevator bank, chest heaving with exertion. She had never taken the course, Running in Heels and was thankful that she did not break her face.

As she pressed the button for the elevator, she looked down the corridor half expecting to see him running after her. No, he did not show up. Claire did not know if she was disappointed or not.

Her quiet room was her solace. She closed the drapes, it was dark; there was nothing left to see. However, she could hear the waves breaking against the shore. Undressed and washed, she climbed into bed, forgetting to eat.

Chapter 2

Hunger pangs woke her. Pushing the covers off, she sat up and stared at the honor bar. She could eat peanuts, chips, or even chocolate, but she wanted food. Real food. There was room service, but she wanted to see people. Being alone sucked.

A shower and clean clothes made Claire feel better. Today she wore her most comfortable pair of jeans and a black tank top. Admiring her biceps in the mirror, she thought, not bad for an old bag like me. There was no hanging flab thanks to the curls she had done since her last child was born. Curls, sit-ups and race walking, all contributed to her well-being. That is why at 50 she still looked attractive in the mirror. However, not to Joe, no longer did he look at her with love in his eyes. Claire felt herself tear up. Ah hell, I miss him. As soon as that thought came, she pushed it away. Perhaps her sons were right in insisting that she take these few days to herself. Maybe now she would finally be able to make a decision.

Her first decision was to have a big breakfast. The coffee shop was on the beach side of the hotel. It was bright and airy, filled with the good smells of coffee shops everywhere. Claire chose a booth instead of the counter so she could open her newspaper and read without being in anyone’s way. She ordered a cheese omelet with home fries and white toast, plenty of coffee accompanied the meal.

While waiting, she opened her paper, the New York dailies; she could not stand reading the Jersey papers. Even though she had been living in New Jersey for almost 12 years she never did learn to appreciate the Jersey papers. New York tabloids, that is what she always read, sports then comics and advice to the lovelorn, and don’t forget the gossip.

She was just finishing her second cup of coffee, her plate clean and pushed away when she felt his presence. Her hair actually stood up on the back of her neck. He had been the lone jogger she had spied while she ate. She recognized the clothes he wore. Tan sleeveless sweatshirt and tan jogging shorts. No socks, his feet were encased in well-worn Diadora sneakers.

He approached her and she knew that he knew she was here. Scusi, he said as he neared the table.

Claire looked up pretending that she did not know he had just come through the door. No one could miss a man that big, with that much charisma. Good morning.

Do you mind? He gestured to the opposite seat.

She shook her head. Not at all. In fact, a little voice said deep within her, I welcome you. Please ravish me. Claire had to smile, thoughts like that never plagued her before, but this man stirred up something in her that was dormant. Even if it went no farther than these casual conversations, she was happy.

He sat, his knees bumping the table. Occupational hazard when you are that big. In addition, what fine knees they were, along with the rest of his legs, well-formed, defined calves thick ankles and covered in what looked to be soft downy black hair. The hair matched the hair on his lower arms. She found herself staring at his upper arms as he ordered coffee. Thickly muscled, she doubted her hands could span one. Visions danced in her head of resting on that arm, allowing him to enfold her in an embrace and feel the power in him. Her throat gave a little catch but she covered it by coughing lightly.

Those black eyes lighted on her. You disappeared last night.

I went to my room. I don’t like crowds. Too many people, too many scents, and all those languages, I get nervous. I’m just not a party animal.

You like intimate parties, eh? His eyes danced with pleasure. I will see what I can do about that.

Fissions of pleasure ran through her at his words.

The ringing of his cell phone interrupted anything she might have said. Scusi, he reached in his pocket but instead of answering the phone, he turned it off. Such an annoyance. Everyone in Italy carries one. As if everyone in Italy was so important. Here too, no?

Here too yes. Claire gestured to her pocketbook. She did not tell him that her phone was always off. She only carried it because her youngest son bought it for her and paid the bill. He did not like the fact that she was working in Scotch Plains, which was 20 miles from where she lived. He wanted his mother protected.

The server brought fresh coffee, Claire declined. Massimo however drank quickly and asked for a refill. He drank the coffee black. Its times like this I miss back home. We drink espresso morning noon and night. None of this crap for us. This coffee is only for the touristi who come to Italy to see the ruins. Have you ever been to Italy?

Sadly, Claire shook her head. We were going once many years ago, but something came up and we had to cancel the trip. My passport remains unused.

Signaling the server again, his eyes scanned her face, noticing every nuance. Don’t you have family there?

My husband does, assorted cousins, but I am not Italian. My ancestors were, but both my parents families had been living in this country for many years. I am what is considered a true American.

Nonsense, you look like any Italian woman strolling down the Via Veneto. He peered down at her jean-covered legs, Of course, in Rome such attire would be frowned upon. Our women dress up most of the time. We are not as casual as you Americans.

Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Was that a shot?

He laughed, heartily. A shot, I love your American vernacular.

Claire laughed with him. I love that you know words like American vernacular.

She could tell her words pleased him. His color deepened and his hand reached out to all but swallow one of hers. Claire looked at his hand as if in a trance, her voice seemed to come from far away, not inside her at all. I wrote you once. A long time ago, I wanted you to know how much your music touched me. How important it was in my life. Her eyes shifted from their hands to his eyes. Your music was the background, the score of all the mundane things. Your words took them and made them less mundane, more exciting. You gave me a soundtrack that made my life more bearable. She stopped speaking, but did not want to break the mood so she allowed her hand to be held tightly in his and this time she did not feel like an unfaithful wife.

Grazie, he said gently. I very rarely read fan mail.

All too soon, fans entering the coffee shop clamoring for his attention disturbed them. Claire excused herself and went back to her room. She knew her face was flushed, her heart was certainly pounding. She wanted him. One night. She thought, what could one night do? If he asked, she would say yes.

It was not difficult to keep busy here in Atlantic City. She could gamble, walk the boardwalk, swim, and even use the gym. However, since it was a vacation, and it was Joe’s money, she decided to gamble. Guiltless, she changed a one hundred dollar bill for quarters and sat at a quarter machine. She played for a bit before the machine lit up and music began to play. She had hit for a substantial sum of money. Laughing, she cashed in everything and decided to splurge on a shopping spree. Even then, she did not have to leave the hotel. She strolled the shops in the lobby and admiring an outfit, went in to buy it, just like that. There was no Joe to talk her out of it. It was a deep bronzed pantsuit. The jacket was double breasted with a deep V, she needed the right bra to emphasize her cleavage, and the little boutique had that too, along with the matching panties. The pants needed a hem, but the sales clerk reassured her that the suit would be ready before 5pm. She bought Via Spiga shoes and matching bag for the first time. Never before had she had this kind of money to spend. Joe made a good living, their house was paid for, but Claire a daughter of frugal parents, never learned how to spend money on herself. On her kids sure, and if ever there were grandchildren, but herself? Never.

Back in her room, she slept for an hour, at 5pm the suit was delivered. She ordered room service, she needed to eat something, this was going to be a late night.

Anticipation built up in her as she showered and dressed. Tonight she would see and hear Massimo Carando and pretend he was singing to her only. She hoped he played his guitar; she liked his more playful songs as well as the deeply felt love songs. She even enjoyed the songs that poked gentle fun at Americans.

The supper club was in the shape of a horseshoe, the stage below the seating so everyone could see the acts that came to perform. Claire expected to be seated with everyone in the back but the Matre’d led her to a small table in the front of the stage. A single red rose lay across the table with a key card underneath. Her heart pounding, Claire sat. She was the chosen one tonight. Poor Allora and Nancy. Her eyes scanned the crowd and she thought everyone else who was not her tonight. A thought came, unbidden, what if he expended all of his energy here tonight and could not do anything later on? She had to remind herself that he was truly an older man. However, wasn’t 60 the new 40? She had heard that on some talk show. She certainly hoped so.

The applause signaled Massimo’s approach. It reached a fevered pitch as he took the stage. He acknowledged the crowd smiling. The music began and everything fell away except the sound of his voice and his words of love, loss and hope. Well into the set, he picked up the guitar and encouraged people to sing along with him.

Claire was entranced, she watched as he moved across the stage, lightly, his tuxedo cut to fit him perfectly moved like second skin. When he settled at the piano a hush fell over the crowd, he adjusted the microphone, Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight I present you with my new composition. I wrote the words years ago, the music just came recently.

His fingers tickled the piano, he played alone, the band remained silent. He sang in Italian and Claire was having a difficult time trying to translate, but she did get the gist of the song. It was about music being the soundtrack of life. She knew then that he had received that letter all those years ago. Tanti anni fa. She did not know if she wanted to laugh or cry. She picked up the rose which she had ignored before now and touched its tender petals.

The song ended, Massimo rose and bowed. The concert was over. People were clamoring for an encore so he came back to the stage, seated himself and grabbed the guitar. For another 30 minutes he entertained the crowd, singing in Italian, French, Spanish, English and even a brief phrase or two in Russian. The people were going wild but Claire only saw Massimo, only heard his voice. This night would be her sweet revenge on Joe and his bimbo and they never had to know!

When he took his final bow, he looked meaningfully in Claire’s direction. She waited as the place cleared out, seeing Allora and Nancy, she waved, then Dora whose husband looked just like her, waved her over. Claire did not want to move, but she did taking the rose and hiding the key card in her new pocketbook.

Well, Dora said, what did you think?

Wonderful, Claire was not a gusher.

Do you think you will come to more concerts in the future?

Definitely.

They nodded and moved on. Claire waited until the last person had left the hall then slowly made her way to a bank of elevators. She pulled out the card to see the location of his room. Penthouse A. How did you get there? There were no listings on the elevators for the Penthouse. She supposed she could go to the concierge and ask, but then the concierge would know why she wanted the penthouse.

Very discreetly, a young man approached her. Signora, if you will follow me.

He led her to an elevator that stood by itself away from the corridors. This is what you want.

She thanked him as the doors smoothly shut. She stood in front of Penthouse A for a few moments debating if she should knock or use the key card. Finally, she used the card. It slipped into the lock and released the door. She walked into the most magnificent suite of rooms she had ever seen, except on television. She had the impression of gold and cream, not sure in the dimly lighted outer room. Her high-heeled shoes sank into a thick plush rug. Couches, there were many of them made small groupings for those inclined to have conversations. Drapes and busts of dead Romans decorated the walls.

Massimo moved out of the shadows from another room. He wore a pair of sweatpants and a white tee shirt. A towel was draped around his neck. Evidently he had just showered, his hair hung thick and wet away from his face. Claire, he extended his hand towards her capturing her hand and closing the door with the other one. She had left the door hanging open like a gawky schoolgirl.

Come, he led her into another room, this one smaller, more intimate. A small table had been laid out with fresh strawberries and champagne. The bottle was already uncorked; Massimo poured and held a glass out to her.

She took the glass but noticed that he did not pour one for himself. She was about to question him when he threw a piece of lemon into a glass and poured bottled water in.

For my throat, he told her.

Claire looked down at the champagne. You don’t have to get me drunk. She giggled foolishly. I don’t like champagne.

Good, because it is sparkling wine, from Italy. He gestured to the bottle. Much better than anything the French can do. That’s our secret in Italy, the French have the name, we do everything better.

She sipped the wine. I just bet you do. She hadn’t meant it to be suggestive, but it was and her face darkened with embarrassment.

He was smiling gently at her. It is all right. His hand captured hers and led her to a couch. Please sit. Let us get to know each other. That way you will be at ease with me. Tell me about Claire.

They sat side by side. Claire did not know what to expect, but it certainly was not conversation. She shrugged her shoulders. There is not much to tell. I am married but I don’t know for how much longer. I have three sons. Two are married. I work in a law office as a clerk.

What do you do for fun?

What an interesting question. What did she do for fun? She pondered that for a moment. Did she even remember fun?

He watched her through hooded eyes, watching the play of emotions roll across her face. Don’t you ever play?

Play? she questioned. With who? Grownups don’t play.

His arm went halfway around her shoulder, to caress the skin at the nape of her neck.

Claire shivered, his touch sending chills through her body.

Playing can be useful. Didn’t you and your husband ever play in bed?

Again, she took a moment to think about that. If you mean sex, shy don’t you say so?

Because, play is so much more than sex. Giocare, to play to fool around, tease each other.

Her marriage had never been fun, it had always been work. Even when sex was new and exciting. Joe was not a playful type, There was no joy. She admitted softly. As painful as that was to admit, it freed her.

Life should be filled with joy. He told her, even for only one night. His fingers stopped their caressing as his arm moved to encircle her, drawing her closer to him. Claire closed her eyes expecting a kiss. No, no, he protested. Open your eyes. See, feel, experience. His lips hovered over hers but there still was no kiss. Instead, he moved his lips to hover over her eyelids; her cheeks and back to her lips and finally when she knew she could take no more, his lips touched hers, lightly as if testing for response.

Claire responded; the moan she emitted surprised her, sent her reeling. She had never been a moaner. Clearly, this man did not just want a night of sex. He wanted a conquest. His mouth slanted over hers, the pressure increasing, until she felt teeth and tongue. Her lips parted admitting his tongue into the recesses of her mouth. He tasted of lemon and salt so different, unusual that she felt herself sucking on his tongue to get more taste. When she pulled away from him, she was shaking. It was supposed to be easier with a stranger, everyone said so. A stranger did not judge you and you could let yourself go. This was not easy for Claire. She wanted him. There would be no going back. But how much could she let go?

Evidently, Massimo was thinking along the same lines. He got off the couch and kneeled in front of her to take off her shoes. That accomplished, he held one foot and lightly massaged it from toes to instep to heel, then he did the other one. These crazy shoes you women wear. He chided.

We wear them because men like them. Her voice sounded husky, even to her own ears. She was not used to having her feet caressed. This shed a whole new light on pedicures. She laid her head on the back of the couch and allowed herself just to feel his fingers playing along her skin.

He was smiling at her response. Nice, no? he questioned.

Nice yes. She responded. She felt his hand creep up her pants leg to caress the skin of her calf.

We really must take these clothes off you. He murmured, his fingers stroking, probing the soft flesh.

When Claire moved to undress, he halted her. Non, I will do it. I want you just to enjoy.

Two buttons and the jacket was gone, tossed aside, unnecessary. He pulled her to her feet to unbutton the pants and they too fell away. She stood before him clad in a beige lacy bra and matching bikini panties. No man had ever seen her undressed besides Joe.

A blush deepened the already creamy color of her skin under his hot gaze.

He knelt before her pressing his face into the softness of her belly. You are truly a beautiful woman. He rose and lifting her carried her into the bedroom.

Again, Claire had the impression of cream and gold surrounding her, the bed had been turned down and he laid her gently onto the soft Egyptian cotton sheets.

Panic gripped at her as she worried that she would not be enough, she had no experience outside her marriage, except for a few kisses a long time ago. What if she disappointed him? Or worse?

He passed a hand across her face, No, don’t think. Just feel. Forget everything, this is our first time. That is all that matters. He looked deeply into her eyes, reading her fear and her excitement. He understood both. He lived a long time.

Her hands reached up to touch his cheeks; the first voluntary touch on her part. He nuzzled her hands and moved closer for a kiss. Their lips met and opened, their tongues danced and twirled, Claire’s tongue seeking the recesses of his mouth, to imprint it in her memory. She would replay this moment forever.

Massimo did not just kiss her, he devoured her, left her weak and panting and eager for more. His mouth ran a hot path from her mouth to her neck to her ears, always sensitive to touch, made her cry out grasp his arm and pull him down for another assault on her mouth. She had been right about one thing; her hands did not span his bicep.

Somewhere during that assault, Claire realized her bra was gone. She did not feel it being opened much less removed until his hot mouth breathed fire onto her bare breasts. The first touch of his tongue on her already puckered nipple made her cry out, her body arching wanting more of his mouth on her. As he suckled one nipple, the pads of his fingers played with the other nipple, teasing, tantalizing, while Claire, overcome with desire actually orgasmed just from nipple play.

He was not through; although he felt her quake, he knew he could wring more out of her, so much more. He captured her wrists and held them over her head while he nuzzled the delicate skin of her underarms. Vaguely, Claire thought about sweat and deodorant, but it was an illusive thought that came and went with the feel of his tongue against her flesh, flesh that had never been touched before. His tongue traveled a path down her side stopped only by the panties that she still wore. Slowly he eased the panties down.

Wait, wait! Claire cried. Give me a chance to catch my breath! She clutched at his hair, that lion’s mane of hair that had been tickling her stomach.

His movements ceased and he eased up to cradle her in his arms. You are not going to run away are you? he asked teasingly.

No, she paused, trying to find the words to explain why she needed a moment. She breathed deeply. I suppose that it is obvious I don’t have much experience. I have been married to the same man for 30 years. Faithful all that time.

You owe me no explanations. He told her, pulling her against him.

Claire was aware of the pounding of his heart and the erection that pressed against her buttocks. Impressive. Do you think you could remove some clothing? It was a request, but it would make her feel better if he was naked too.

He sat up and pulled off the tee shirt that covered his chest. Claire blinked a few times trying to get the whole package in focus. Well cut and covered with soft black hair, she was amazed by the sheer size of him. Her hands reached out to caress him, gingerly at first, as he watched her eyes and then her hands. Her fingers played through the black hair circling his large nipples and finally laying her head against his chest to taste him there. Everything about was so different from what she was used to. Not just the size of him, but the taste, the smell and the soft hair that covered his chest. Acting with sexual need only, she mimicked his actions, tongue laving his nipples until she could hear those soft moaning noises in his throat. It amazed her that he was sensitive there.

It took all of his control not to throw her down and enter her, but this woman was worth a lifetime of waiting for, her gentle explorations only fueled his desire. When she grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants, he halted her. Not yet. He did not want to frighten her with his size. She needed more arousal; she needed to orgasm several more times, before he would dare to take his pants off. Her hands fell away as if burned. Her embarrassment was hidden by the flush of sexual excitement on her cheeks. She looked at him veiling her turmoil.

His hand cupped her cheek and his smile was gentle, I need to play more.

But when do I get to play? Her question, coyly asked amused him.

You get to feel now, let me love you the way a woman should be loved. Later, you can play.

That doesn’t seem very fair. Claire’s voice came out in a choke; Massimo’s hands were busily cupping her buttocks, his mouth breathing fire on the lacey material of her panties that covered her. She was wetter than she had ever been, and she had not even been touched yet. She raised her hips as he rolled down the panties exposing her mons.

Beautiful, he exclaimed.

That one word, never uttered by her husband left her weak with desire. Massimo could murder her now and she would die happy.

He knew just what to do with his mouth and tongue. There was no hesitation, he parted her labia and gently licked her clitoris, savoring the taste of her arousal. As he felt the orgasm build in her, he raised his head, don’t tense, open yourself up to the feelings, relax Claire, relax. Then his mouth resumed its assault.

Claire released the pent up tension she was feeling as her orgasm built. She let the sweet surrender flow over her entire body, rippling through her fingers, her toes. She cried out calling his name, the first time she said it aloud. As she came back to herself, she anticipated his getting up and going into the bathroom to gargle as Joe would do, but he did not move. Sensing that she was ultra sensitive, he