The elevator doors closed behind them, and Giovanni put his arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. His lips smashed against hers, and she finally got to run her hands through his hair—soft, thick, and curly, even more luscious than she had imagined all night in the bar and afterward, in the trattoria where they ate dinner. She could taste their entire evening on him—the citrusy Prosecco, the people smoking on the patio, the yeasty bread, the smoky meats, the platter of tiny strawberries they’d eaten for dessert. Giovanni had broken off chunks of a chocolate bar and fed it to her while they sipped espresso, stroking her thigh with his other hand. It all came together now, his powerful arms around her, the whiskers on his chin scraping her tender lips.

The doors opened and she backed out of the elevator, still clinging to him, unwilling to take her hands off his body after restraining herself all evening. They stumbled down the hallway, her walking backward and Giovanni balancing them by dragging one of his hands against the wall. When they reached her room, she looked down to her purse to fish out her key, but Giovanni kept his lips on her body, running them across her collarbone and up her neck. When she finally found the key, she reached behind her, blindly trying to find the lock, while Giovanni pressed his body closer to hers, leaning her back into the hotel room door. Finally, driven mad by frustration, she turned away from him to unlock her door. Giovanni stood behind her; she could feel his hardness pressing into her back. He ran his hands from her hips up the sides of her stomach, cupping her breasts and then dragging his fingers through the top of her hair and pulling it away from her neck, while feathering gentle, wet kisses along her exposed skin. Everywhere he touched her lit her skin on fire.

She shoved the door open and walked inside, dropping her purse on the ground and yanking her sweater over her head. She turned back to see him standing in the bright hallway.

“Are you coming in?

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. Now.”

“I want to be sure.” He remained in the doorway of her room, not crossing the threshold, but he unbuttoned the top of his shirt, never dropping his gaze from hers. “I got you home safely, as I promised. Now, if you would like, I will go.” He had unbuttoned his shirt down to his navel, and he pulled it out of his slacks now. Tabitha’s body trembled with desire.

“You have a six-pack. I mean, of course you do.”

He smirked and looked down at his muscled stomach. “This? It is nothing.” He let his hands drift slowly down his sides, and she could see the strain in his pants when his hands came to rest on his hips. He was torturing her.

“You’re probably right, Giovanni. I’m pretty tired. Maybe we should just say goodnight now, and never see each other again.” As she spoke, she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. Her breasts tumbled out of the cups, and she dropped the pale pink lace on the floor. She ran her hands through her hair in a long stretch, and then let her fingers trail between her breasts and rest on her hips, matching his stance. She never dropped her gaze from his eyes. Two can play this game, Mr. Pasta alla Sexio.

They faced each other for a long, torturous minute, and then Tabitha broke first. She took two steps toward him and put her hand behind his neck, pulling him into another kiss. Giovanni’s arms went around her waist and his chest crushed against hers. He kicked the door closed behind him and pressed her against the wall again. She wrapped her legs around him, felt his heart beating in rhythm with hers, and let her body melt into his.

She woke to brutal sunshine; they’d forgotten to close the curtains, and the sun poured into the room. Tabitha glanced at the bedside clock. Six a.m. Shit. Two hours’ sleep? Tops? They’d gotten back to her room at eleven, fooled around most of the night, and only drifted off a couple of hours ago. The man didn’t seem to have an off button.

The man. Giovanni. His body was draped around hers, and she rolled over in his arms to look at him. She raked her eyes hungrily from his glossy black hair, down his angled face, and along his beautiful bronze skin. Her body stirred with desire, even though she ached from all their activity the night before.

He stirred next to her, cleared his throat, and stretched. His mouth touched her shoulder, softly, and her skin came alive. He moved gently on top of her. A man who wakes up at attention, she thought with a small thrill. Take that, Royal, you lazy, limp motherfucker. Giovanni stroked her skin gently. Delicately. She arched her back to meet him, keeping her eyes closed, letting herself keep him in her dreams. His kisses moved down her neck over her breasts.

“Tabitha,” he whispered. “Ti piace? Do you like?”

God, she was so tired. She lifted her heavy arms around his neck, letting her fingers dance down his back and move over his perfectly round ass.

“Sì, sì,” she murmured. “Molto bene.”

He chuckled and whispered a correction in her ear. “Molto buono,” he breathed, and she gasped in pleasure as he moved inside of her.

She stretched in the morning light, glanced at her phone but then ignored it. She knew the screen was loaded with messages from Cori, texts from her sister about the winery, probably even texts from her mother, offering business advice.

Not advice. Her mother never advised. Jillie Jones Lawson directed.

And lordy, did she have a lot of direction for Tabitha.

Tabitha grinned and pulled the sheets up over her chest. What on earth would Jillie say if she knew her daughter had spent a night in bed with a strange Italian man? On a work trip, no less. Tabitha did not like to think about her mother’s sex life, but whether it was adventurous or not, one thing she was sure of was that Jillie Jones Lawson did not get distracted from her work. Ever. Not even for an Italian.

Tabitha had to work. A report should have already been filed to Cori; purchase orders needed to be accounted for. And yet she’d spent the morning luxuriating in Giovanni.

She heard the key in her door and sat up. Giovanni had gone downstairs to the hotel lobby for breakfast. He set the tray on the bed and then stripped before joining her again. He handed her a brioche con cioccolato, and Tabitha laughed at the shower of sweet crumbs that had fallen on the bed in between them.

Royal would lose his mind at this mess, she thought but didn’t say out loud. She took a deep breath and made an internal vow: This is the last time I spend a moment thinking about Royal Hamilton and the Pussy Parlaiment while I am in bed with this walking god of a man.

“Why are you smiling?”

“I was wondering if you would turn into a troll in the light of day. Like, maybe you looked so great to me last night just because I was so thirsty.”

“You needed a drink.”

“Yes, sir, I was parched. But you’re not a troll in daylight. I think you might be even sexier by daylight. How is that possible?”

He smiled a far-too-modest smile for a man with his looks, and ripped off a bite of his brioche con marmelata and put it in her mouth.

“So, are you on Viagra or something?”

He looked up over his cappuccino, a confused look on his face.

“What is this?” he asked.

She laughed. “The blue pill? You know?” She mimicked placing a pill on her lip, swallowing, and then put her finger down near her crotch, extending it out toward him. His eyes widened, and he made a moue with his lips.

“Ah, sììì, sì, sì. This is what American men need to perform in bed?”

“I don’t know. Some of them. Usually they don’t have as much, um, stamina? I guess is the word? You don’t seem to stop.”

He gulped the rest of his coffee. “I am Italian.”

“You are telling me all Italian men can do it five times in one night?”

“What if this is true?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to move here.”

He set his coffee cup down and leaned over to nibble on her earlobe.

“All night you tell me the smart way to taste wine, and now you have finally said something truly intelligent.”