8. CRAZY FOR YOU
The sun shimmers through long, white drapes, and I take a moment to understand where I am. This bedroom isn’t mine. It’s enormous with floor-to-ceiling glass panels making up the far wall. I glimpse a wraparound outside, one I’ve danced on, but I’m unsure if there’s a door giving to it or not.
What would a bed bigger than king-sized be called? I think there’s a California size too, but I’d go with sultan-sized for Ciro’s.
Yes, Ciro and I are on a sultan-sized bed with an upholstered headboard. Deep red satin sheets and pillows create the only splash of color in this utterly white room. He has a fireplace here. Fat, white candles we didn’t take the time to light when we went to bed. These sheets smell like warm skin and pine and man.
My sex-induced coma must have made me fall out of his arms. I grabbed a t-shirt from his dresser when I went to the bathroom earlier. It reaches me mid-thigh as I crawl toward him and accommodate myself on my knees, fists against the mattress.
Ciro lies on his back, facing the ceiling. His arms and hands are spread open, a finger twitching now and then in dream. Full of energy, he pursued me for a month and a half, and now he has me. Boy, does he have me. He’s got me so hooked I even dreamed about him last night. There were all these images of him on boats with girls—I was there too—everyone naked, touching, kissing, and drinking. I shake the dream off.
I can’t stop staring. In sleep, he’s carefree with every feature smooth like he’s somewhere beautiful. I wonder if he styles his hair into that just-fucked ’do sometimes or if it always falls like this naturally. Now it drapes from the even planes of his forehead toward the pillow, and I want to pull my fingers through it.
Those lips. Are so sensual. They look like they can do crazy stuff to a girl, and guess what? I know firsthand that they can make you lose your shit.
What happened last night is surreal. He was so sure, knew exactly what to do to me, and his body moved like some professional athlete’s.
This man has intrigued me since I first met him. Yes, he’s a stud, but he’s kind too. He’s caring. Add sensuality and mystery to his list, then top it off with the hunter instinct of a man who knows what he wants, and—I didn’t stand a chance.
If I think about it too much, it’s scary as hell. But this morning, I just want to feel blissed out. I’m full of how he treated me last night. I’m crazy over him. In lust, crushing, in love, who knows. I guess I’m a little bit obsessed right now, which does nothing to suppress the impending doom in my chest.
As if he hears my thoughts, thick lashes flutter apart. Beneath, silver flecks seem to glow in the early morning light. I wonder if they’re his calm happiness spots, while the golden ones are his desire spots?
“Morning, girlfriend.” He groans contentedly and reaches for me with a hand that’s dusted with golden hairs. “How aren’t you in my arms?”
I smile and swallow my misgivings. “Because I did an outing to your bathroom—impressive, by the way—and also, your bed is ginormous, and I move a lot in my sleep.”
“Funny.”
I love the sound of his voice. During the day, it’s rich, a midrange baritone. Now, I’m swooning over his morning voice, which is deeper and a little hoarse.
“Come here,” he says, lacing our fingers and hauling me in. “Cute shirt.” A quick kiss to my temple, and then he pulls me down so that I’m stretched out on top of him. His morning wood presses against my stomach. It instantly sets my body on fire. I actually hold my breath against an unseemly grunt.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah. I dreamed about you.”
“You did?” Besides looking a little more awake, he doesn’t seem surprised. “Did I behave?”
No. Well, yeah. Depends on what you mean.
“You were being naughty.”
“Sounds like me.” He rubs himself lazily against me, and I can’t help pressing down toward him. With me wearing just a t-shirt, he could slide right inside me if he wanted to. I don’t know if I’d have the will power to stop him.
He cups my butt through the fabric and massages me. I close my eyes and sway with his touch. Hard muscle forms to my shifts, adding pressure and heat in the right moment, in the right places. It’s too perfect.
“Ciro, it’s like you were made for this. For, you know...”
“Fucking?”
“Well, I guess. Though I’d probably have chosen a different word.”
“We’re all made for it.” He punctuates by thrusting us together. “If we weren’t, we’d be extinct.”
“Silly. Everyone can do it, but not everyone looks like and performs and completes the act as if they were made for the sole purpose of making love.”
His arms glide up until he can cup my face and kiss me. “You make it sound like it’s a bad thing.”
“Is it?” I blame my yacht dream if I sound cryptic. My mother was never a stable influence, but a few of her sayings are golden nuggets. Like, “Dreams come from thoughts that are so daunting you censor them during the day.” I believe it.
“Did you enjoy what we did last night?”
I bite my lip against the flashback to euphoria. “Yeah. Maybe too much.”
“I don’t believe you can enjoy something too much. Not if it doesn’t hurt anyone.”
“Well, obsessions can damage you.”
“What did you say?” He searches my face. I feel shy again and avoid meeting his gaze.
“Just as an example, you know. Obsessions are unhealthy. Make people crazy. Not saying that...”
“…that you’re obsessed with me?” His pitch is so low it makes me shiver when it caresses my ear.
“Right. No, I’m not.”
Ciro quiets. He doesn’t object, but I feel it when his smile grows against my cheek. “Okay, then. But so you know, I’m not afraid of obsessions. Because you”—he holds me out to kiss my forehead before he lowers me back again—“were made for me.”
I have to get off him before I melt into a puddle. Said puddle would not have the ability to think for herself. He makes my mind blank and my body sing, and it’s far out of the roam of nice and still and Status Quo.
I peck his mouth and sit up slowly, faking blasé until I straddle his midsection. He waits, following my moves calmly. He shouldn’t be watching me from down there, all pagan-god-like. I touch his nose with a finger to make this moment smaller. It’s playful and silly and easy, something people do to children. He blinks slowly, examining me with eyes that glitter.
Stop it.
“Tell me about your last film. The one in the Caribbean. What’s the storyline?”
“Hmm, it won’t be released in a while. You want me to ruin the suspense for you?”
“Yes, do it.” I try to seem lighthearted, but I’m not the actor in this room.
“Down to the happy ending?”
“Yes, everything. Wait, it’s romantic?”
“Very.” He kisses the inside of my hand.
“And you’re the lead or a side character sort of person?”
“Lead. My leading lady is, sadly, Donnella again.”
“Sorry.” I dance inwardly because I’m a terrible actor’s girlfriend. Guess I need to work on that.
“Do you kiss her?”
“Yeah. Gotta do some kissing.”
And I definitely need to work on my jealousy. It’s just a kiss for crying out loud. One kiss, Savannah. Or several?
I want to ask more details about the kissing, how many times, if they’re snuggling on a bed, if they have to fake nakedness on that bed, oh god, maybe on deck? I cannot for the life of me—
Shhhhh. He doesn’t even like her.
Meditation. I used to meditate when I was younger. I need to start up again. Or get a hobby. Pottery is a safe, uneventful hobby unless you break something.
“Are you listening?”
“Huh?”
He laughs, passing my fingertips over his lips for individual, toe-curling kisses. “I started telling you the story of Caribbean Nights.”
“Sorry, I spaced out. Tell me.”
“Donnella’s character accepts the offer to get on a yacht with a friend and the friend’s boyfriend, me. We’re on deck, drinking and having a ball with the captain and a few crew members until we enter an electrical storm. The yacht has a mast, which is hit and kills my girlfriend and the captain. The boat with the rest of us onboard are being thrown into a time loop. Suddenly, we’re back in the eighteenth century and are boarded by pirates, Jack Sparrow-style, only they’re not as nice.
“There’s a female pirate there, who starts to vie for my attention. I narrowly save Donnella’s life from the pirate, who becomes possessive after having spent a night with me. But it’s Donnella I supposedly love. Thanks to a school of electric eels, a crew guy and I manage to recreate the electrical storm and send our boat, with Donnella, the crew, and me on it, back to modern times. The story ends with Donnella and I making love in her apartment back in New York.”
“Whoa, that’s an intricate story. Lots of stuff going down. Big budget?”
“Medium.”
“Will the movie look real, you think?” I chomp down on my tongue feeling rude for asking, but he just smiles.
“Honestly, the script wasn’t my style, and I doubt it’ll turn into the most realistic film I’ve ever made. It was good money, though, and thankfully most of it was easy and fun.”
“The Donnella stuff?” I ask.
“Easy. Not fun.”
We share a smile while I think that the pirate girl was probably cute as heck. They always are in the movies. I try not to think of her.
I’m in love. Crazy in love. I have a boyfriend, and he’s freaking amazing. Twice, we’ve visited my ADHD mother, and she’s rapidly falling in love with him too. He encourages her green thumb and eats her olives, which are never all the way done. The man even studies her abstract clay sculptures to the point of having suggestions as to what they represent.
Some old proverb talks about food being the way to a man’s heart. If there’s one about women, I hope it recommends being awesome with our mothers.
I admit that Mom is nuts and that it’s the reason why Dad and she finally divorced. My father, a levelheaded small business owner, still runs his accounting firm back home.
Mom used to be his ethereal counterpart, speaking poetry he didn’t understand and having babies completely different from one another. My siblings and I don’t see eye to eye on how to treat Mom, so we fell out of touch when I moved here in an effort to minimize the potential damage she’ll inflict. It’s the right thing to do, to be here for her. My mother, she’s crazy in a sweet, generous, genuine way.
“Sheep balls,” Mom says now. She’s wearing a dress she’s made herself, sky blue with beige trims, and— Am I seeing this wrong or is there a cape falling partway down her back? It’s made of tulle, so it’s hard to determine.
Ciro lifts his spoon between us. A grey lump wobbles on top of it in the broth. “Are you saying the meatballs are made from ground sheep?”
“Yep,” my mother says. “I discovered this soup at IKEA a long time ago. Isn’t it just the loveliest flavor? Then I read up on it on the internet, and it’s from over there, in Scandinavia. It’s a very hearty soup, don’t you think?”
“Very hearty,” my boyfriend agrees, winking at her. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. “And delicious. You know what else is hearty and delicious?”
“I don’t.” My mom sits up straight, folding her hands in the most attentive version of herself. I swear she’s always at her most charming with Ciro. “Do tell.”
“‘Hearty’ means good for your heart, I believe.” Ciro’s hand wraps around one of my chair legs and pulls me closer without looking at me. Eyes softening, he still watches my mother. “And ‘delicious?’ I’ll attempt my own definition of that. In my opinion, it means ‘so tasty you’d never want to be without it.’”
I gasp as his arm snakes around my waist and nudges me flush against his body. Then the burn runs up my cheeks.
God, I hate it when my mom notices that I’m embarrassed. In the right mood, she’s an expert at it too. Not even the pre-stage—the pinking of the tips of my ears—escapes her then.
Mom beams. Oh yes, her hands clasp in one of those virginal displays of joy from old movies. “Yes, and...?” she prompts.
“Mom, please!”
“And your daughter is that for me. Good for my heart. Good for my palate. If I can help it, I’ll never be without her. Wish me luck.”
My face feels like I just broke out with chickenpox. Ciro pulls me impossibly closer. “Don’t ever make me suffer, baby girl. Okay?”
I let out an awkward laugh. It’s just my mother, for Christ sake. I can take this. What I can’t take are the phone calls in which she swerves the subject toward my relationship and gives intimate advice on how I can keep the spark alive. If it’s the death of me, I’ll be keeping her in the dark about Ciro’s relentless spark.
When she’s not hidden in herself, Mom reads people—especially her daughter. This is Ciro and my second Sunday visit together, and he drove me to the stars and back last night. Three orgasms. Three! I’m still not used to his size. Sure, he feels amazing while we’re together, but afterward? Let’s just say, the feeling lingers on.
The other day, Il Signore asked what was wrong with my leg. I couldn’t exactly tell him my leg was fine but that my love canal had gotten a workout, so I mumbled something about a pulled muscle. Today, my mother follows my return to the table with a vigilant stare. “Savannah, sweetie. Did you twist your ankle?”
It’s a wam-bam, two-step process: suddenly hot face and drops sprouting from my hairline. No, three steps. Add lame tongue to the list.
“She fell off her step ladder last night,” Ciro lies for me when I don’t speak up. “I gave her a poster she wanted to hang up herself. I caught her before she hit the floor, but she overextended a few muscles.”
“Oh my! Did you see a doctor, Savannah?”
Mouth open, I shake my head, but Ciro cuts in. “I had her see my physician. He says she’s okay but needs to stay off ladders for a while.” He smiles sweetly and pats his lap for me.
When we leave Mom’s, I say, “No more ladders for me, huh?”
“That’s right.” He lifts a finger, wagging it slowly at me. “Enough with the climbing already.”
“I feel that you owe me a poster.”
“Oh I’ll get you a poster.”
“Of one of your films, please.”
Frieda squints her eyes studying me. We’re having a rare night home alone. Lin has a tutoring session with a young German student in his room. They actually just locked the door, which makes me wonder what kind of tutoring he’s receiving. Not that it’s any of my business.
“I don’t understand it. Your dude’s freaking the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t get me wrong—I mean nothing bad against you because you’re awesome and super-beautiful and everything too.”
“Stop it. I know: I’m just the girl next door and that’s it. Ciro’s way out of my league.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Frieda, get over your excuses. No need to spend energy on them, because I’m not upset. Really, I’m as puzzled as you are. What does he see in me?”
“You’re just a little introverted is all, and once people get to know you, they adore you. Don’t ever forget that you’re sweet, real, and full of, like, morals. You’re a really good person. Plus, you have a cool sense of humor. Plus, you’re smart.”
“Plus, like, I’m like everyone else,” I joke.
“Oh stop it. All I was thinking was, how did he pick you out in the restaurant and decide he wanted you? It’s fucking romantic and awesome that he knew right away. But isn’t it just nuts though? I mean, what if you weren’t there, and... say, Vickie was there instead? She’s blonde with big eyes too.”
“Wow. Did you just say that?”
“No. Nu-huh, I didn’t. That would’ve been rude. I don’t know what I say after a few tequila shots. You poured me the third one, so really that was your fault. Sorry, sorry. I love you. You know I luuuuvvve you.”
She’s right though, and not only about Vickie. We have Frieda herself, Charlotte, and a slew of staff who works at Mintrer’s while auditioning. Some of them model on the side hoping it turns into a full-time job. Truth is my restaurant has a catwalk of beautiful employees, and I’m just the next-door girl with the anxious stare.
“Honestly, Frieda, I can’t explain why he’s into me. And he’s moving so fast. We’ve been together for two weeks, right—”
“Two months.”
“No, officially we’ve been boyfriend-girlfriend for two weeks.”
She scoots me a margarita and nods. “Right, the proposal with the hot sex.”
“Stop it. No proposal. Just the GF/BF thing.”
“And the mind-freak sex.”
I grin. Just thinking about him makes me warm down there. He’s left again, though, on another location shoot. This one’s four days long, and he’s been insisting for a week, now, that I find someone to step in for my shifts so we can go on a vacation together afterward. I mean, vacation? What? I don’t do vacations.
“Lin wants to fuck him.”
“Shut up! Omigod.” I snort out laughing. She lifts her second margarita at me, eyes dancing with laughter.
“I’m serious! He told me the other night when you were at the opera or whatever with Ciro. We did peach vodka straight up, and boy, does he have a lot to say on a few shots. One: he’s sure Ciro has a cock the size of a girl’s forearm. Says he can tell from the outside because Ciro goes hard when he stares at you.”
“Omigod!” Between Frieda and the booze, I’ve become the omigod-girl. “Lin stares at his zipper?”
“As far as I understand, he stares at a bit more than his zipper.” She squeal-laughs it out, and we both fall apart, leaning over the counter and half-hugging. Of course Lin ballerina-toes into the kitchen, tugging his shirt into position over his pants as he does.
“Oooh, the girls laugh. What you talk about? Flours?” He winks at me. Everyone is happy that Ciro has stopped trying to barricade me in behind a wall of desire-red arrangements. Sam actually shook his hand thanking him the other day.
“Just you and your crush on Ciro,” Frieda slurs out.
“Clush?”
“You want to have sex with Ciro.”
“Ah, yes, yes.” He bows his head politely and waves princess-fast before he backs out with a bottle of rum. “You tell Lin when you sick of Ciro, Savannah. But first I tutor.”