Letters to the Baumgarters by Selena Kitt

taut, something in my belly
poised and ready to spring. “Oh now! Now, now, now!
    My pussy clamped down on his cock, spasming around his swollen length, a
wet, velvet trap. He cried out at the sensation, grabbing my breasts and
squeezing hard, his hips driving in deep, thrusting uncontrollably.
    “Oh mio Cara, mio amore, ” he whispered endearments into my ear,
wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my neck.
    Self-conscious now, I pulled my skirt down, the slick slide of his cum
caught only by the panties now bunched between my thighs. Nico zipped his
pants, still breathing hard, and turned me to face him, kissing me deeply. I
could taste myself on his tongue.
    “You’re a naughty girl.”
    “Me?” I gave a throaty laugh. “This alley was your idea.”
    “I can’t resist you, bella.” He kissed my lips, my cheek, my chin. “I’ve
never met a woman who makes me want her like you do.”
    Beside us, a door opened, and a tall man stepped out carrying a bag of
garbage. He took one look at us and rolled his eyes.
    “Rent a room!” he growled, striding past us.
    I looked at Nico and giggled. “You know we’re going to be late for dinner
at Il Ridotto !”
    “No we’re not. Come on.”
    “I can’t run in these heels!” I protested as he dragged me along.
    “Do you want me to carry you?”
    I squealed when he bent and then hefted me up over his shoulders in a fireman’s
carry, my hair flying behind me. It was only a few blocks, but he ran the whole
way with me on his shoulders, howling all the while.
    “Shhh, you little she-wolf.” He set me down and kissed me, barely out of
breath. The man was in incredible shape. I smoothed my hair and my skirt, still
flushed from being carried upside down—and from the sex. “Let’s go eat. I’m
starving.”
    Il Ridotto was so small it could only accommodate four couples and
two more groups of four. The tables lined one wall with candles and a single
flower in a vase in the center. The walls were light brick, the fixtures
nondescript. People didn’t come for the décor and the atmosphere—they came for
the food and the wine.
    A rotund man in an apron and a chef’s hat came around the corner as the
door closed, waving us in. There were two couples seated already, one of them
eating, the other talking over glasses of wine.
    “We have reservations,” I explained as the little chef came our way.
“Bianchi.”
    “Come in, come in!” He was boisterous and smiling, nodding his head as he
showed us to our table. “I’m Gianni Bonaccorsi, I’ll be your waiter—and your
chef.”
    Nico had prepared me for this fact. Dinner at Il Ridotto was an
intimate affair. Gianni handed over our menus and a wine list, excusing himself
to let us look over the fare.
    “Are you sure you can afford this?” I whispered behind my menu to Nico.
As a student, I didn’t make any money. I was living off savings and had to be
very careful with it.
    “Shush.” He waved my question away. “Anything for you.”
    And that didn’t exactly make me feel better about looking over the menu,
where the items were fresh, local, gourmet, and very expensive.
    “I can’t possibly decide,” I said, looking helplessly at Nico. “It all
sounds so good!”
    “I can order for us,” he offered, and so when Gianni returned, I let him
do just that, sitting back and enjoying the exchange between the two men.
    Both of them clearly loved food and talking about it. Gianni spent
fifteen minutes telling us about changes on the menu, letting us know what he
got fresh at the market just that morning. When they got into discussing wine,
I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I knew I had to be a mess—there was
only so much I could do without a mirror.
    I surveyed the damage as best I could in the little mirror over the sink,
adjusting my dress at the top where my bra strap was still showing, touching up
my makeup, running a comb through my hair. Satisfied that it was good enough,
in