Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Berlinable UG (haftungsbeschränkt)
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Serie: Italian Summer
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
Newly graduated from a Master's degree in Brussels, American expat Eddie has fallen hard for his handsome thesis supervisor Luc. Not knowing whether he will be able to stay in Europe, or whether he wants to pursue the life European, he embarks upon an Italian summer holiday with Luc and some friends of his. Eddie feels like the little brother tagging along on the grown ups' holiday, but it's well worth it to fall in love with Italy in the summertime. Perpetually hung up on not being well-hung, Eddie's insecurity is eased by his hot older man, whose appreciation for Renaissance art is matched only by his delight in Eddie's physique. Well, and his appreciation for Italian bread, which is nonetheless not quite as good as the baguette of his homeland. Whether it's on the beaches of Amalfi or touristing in Florence, the pair revel in the sights of their summer, but will this be enough to tempt Eddie to stay forever?
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 29
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
ITALIAN SUMMER
Episode 1
Nathaniel Feldmann
Artcover: Karolina Golis
Copyright: BERLINABLE GMBH
Berlinable invites you to leave all your fears behind and dive into a world where sex is a tool for self-empowerment.
Our mission is to change the world - one soul at a time.
When people accept their own sexuality, they build a more tolerant society.
Words to inspire, to encourage, to transform.
Open your mind and free your deepest desires.
All rights reserved. It is not permitted to copy, distribute or otherwise publish the content of this eBook without the express permission of the publisher. Subject to changes, typographical errors and spelling errors. The plot and the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to dead or living people or public figures is not intended and are purely coincidental.
We chose to swim in the iridescent waters. The azure surface impossibly smooth; the only wakes created by those of speed boats and the distant yachts en route to Capri. A paradise of constant sun and infinitely blue skies, so clear that it was difficult, near impossible, to locate the horizon, as if the oceans dropped off a sheer cliff and spilled into space.
“Positano,” Luc said, his accent French and so sexy to my American ears that it was probably why I fell for him in the first place. “Positively fashionable. Eddie, you know, it was the first place in Italy to import the French bikini.”
He spoke in a manner that lifted his brows, as if the idea of women clad in skimpy bathing suits was absolutely scandalous, or perhaps, he was referring to me in my tight speedo, a purchase he'd coaxed me into while perusing a shop in the city. A tourist boutique situated along the narrow winding road above the beach.
Something else was always on his mind. His hands found a way to caress my arms and along the side of my torso at precisely the right moment. Those heavy-lidded eyes somehow always directed my way, half closed, like he was preparing for a kiss; to fall into the heat of passion. No man had ever found me this irresistible.
The sun beat down on our backs as we swam from one side of the beach to the other. Cliff to cliff. I turned back to the rocky shore, just to check our towels, spread out, weighted down by our choice of smooth fist-sized boulders. The rocky beach made sunbathing an uncomfortable task, but we were too cheap to rent lounge chairs, already having to pay for access to the beach.
I couldn’t stop myself anxiously surveying our spontaneous camp, bracing for one of the pizza eating tourists to sneak over and start filing through our bag stuffed with a menagerie of clothes and Euros and sun lotion and car keys and cell phones. And yet, here I was, following Luc further out regardless of what we might lose.
“Worry less,” he said, his thumb tracing my jaw line, his hand almost twice the size of mine, his fingers long, his knuckles oversized as if he was bound for arthritis. His laisser-faire mentality was contagious under the sun; his touch soothed any stray thoughts of foul play and robbery. “We’re on holiday.”
I dove under the surface, flutter kicking for as long as I could hold my breath and surfaced to quickly take in some air only to lunge deep, again, heading towards the bobbing line of buoys that demarcated beach from sea. I returned to the surface and hung on the line, the rope slick with algae.
