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My eyes close and he leans in to kiss me.
Wrapper off. Desire in focus. A rush through my veins when his mouth touches mine. Nothing has ever come close to this. The taste of him.
I’m not sure what I’m doing at first. But my tongue. It’s touching his. And his is touching mine. They’re swirling. I’m swirling. There’s a breathless feeling in my chest. Ten times stronger than what I felt on the strongest ride. It feels like I’m falling into him. Melting? I don’t know. But nothing else exists. It feels like something is twisting inside of me. It’s tangling with his.
My hands reach out. I need to touch him. To experience him. I need more. I’m breathing him in. I can smell him while we kiss. But I need him to go deeper.
I make a noise. It’s not breathless. It’s pleading. Wanting. Craving. Starving. He returns it, but it’s different, almost a growl, and somehow, I’m over the seat, straddling him. I’m rubbing myself against him. The bulge in his pants causes friction between his body and mine. There’s a pulse between my legs pounding as fast and hard as my heart. It’s making me feel sensitive. All over. My nipples are hard, and they feel so good against my bra.
My skin is crying out. I hope he feels the vibration of it.
We’re moving so fast, but not fast enough.
I don’t want this to stop, but I can feel it. He’s slowing down. Pulling back. He starts to kiss me slower, his hands caressing my face instead of fisting my sweater like he wants to rip it off.
In this moment, I realize the power we have over each other. A kiss led me to straddling him, and he somehow kisses me until I'm back in my seat. But our lips are still moving. It's like he wants me to stop. Maybe because he can't.
I do. Only to take a breath. He starts moving his mouth over my neck, sucking. I'm almost squirming in my seat.
“No one will disrespect me that way,” he says.
It takes a second for my mind to catch up. Reality is slowly returning. Sights. Smells. But it's still him. All him.
“You mean me,” I say, connecting his comment to what happened.
“No, me. Because what happens to you happens to me.”
He kisses a trail up my neck, till he reaches my mouth. One last kiss that makes the world fade…and then we leave.
LUCILA
PRESENT DAY
My hand was pressed against my neck, where it had been all day. Where it had been since that memory took me back. The night Aren had taken me to Coney Island. The way Lilo’s lips had felt on my skin…
The memory was as hurtful as it was healing.
A throat being cleared made me focus. I was in Valentino’s. I had a job to do.
“Anything else?” I asked the lady standing across from me.
She was on the other side of the counter, gazing into the case, trying to figure out if she wanted more cookies. But her eyes kept flicking to my hand, where it rested on my shoulder. It seemed like she wanted to ask me if I was in pain. If I had somehow hurt myself.
Our older customers were always concerned. Always asking us questions about everything. Valentino’s was a family-owned bakery, and it had a family feel to it. We had regulars who we boxed up goods for weekly. If they were too old to make it in, Michele made sure they would get their things. Even if he had to deliver them himself.
I almost wanted to tell her, Yeah, I am hurt. But the root of the problem was internal. It just got so bad that it spilled over into the physical. One minute my skin rejoiced at the remembered feel of his lips. The next, it shrank from my rejection of it.
I gave her the best smile I could. Like it was no big deal. “I slept on it wrong.”
“Ah,” she breathed, nodding. “That happened to me once. Let me tell you what I did…”
Too bad she didn’t have a cure for heartache.
“Oh!” she said as I packed up her things. “Can you add a loaf of St. Joseph’s bread? I don’t see any. That’s why it slipped my mind. It’s the one thing I came here for, too! My husband would be so disappointed if I got home and we didn’t have it for Sunday…”
St. Joseph’s bread is usually served on St. Joseph’s Day (Feast of San Giuseppe). It’s celebrated in Sicily with elaborate altars filled with food and religious items. Some of the bread is shaped in different patterns, such as crosses and even fish. It all dates back to when a famine ravaged Sicily and the citizens asked St. Joseph to intervene on their behalf. Rain came and they were graced with an abundance of fava beans. In honor of him, the tradition began.
It was brought to the states after a rush of Italians immigrated. Michele’s grandfather, Giovi, had stopped in New Orleans before he settled in New York. He told Michele that he loved how the New Orleans Italians opened their churches and homes, inviting everyone to eat at their altars in honor of St. Joseph.
