He Taught Italian

He taught Italian. That was all I knew about him.

He sat in the Cathedral, coffee in hand, staring at me. Every morning, Monday through Friday, I'd see him there. I'd be studying, trying to milk the most from the precious time between my morning graduate class and the afternoon class I taught. I loved being there, the morning light filtering through the stained glass windows would make me feel mystical. Perennial.

He watched me. I'd sit at an old wooden table, and he at another just diagonal from mine. He made no efforts to hide his appraisal. I'd blush, fastidiously trying to keep my eyes on my books and not on him and his steamy, sun-kissed olive skin. My own eyes hopelessly trying to avoid his brilliant russet eyes and curly dark hair. After the first week of this routine, I thought about finding a new place to study but the feel of his eyes on me varnished my skin and made me glow.

During the second week of the term I found myself standing behind him in the coffee line. I heard him laugh, a light but husky laugh, and say to the barrista, "Si il miglioree". I had taken two semesters of Italian in undergrad, but I'd be damned if I knew what it meant. I cornered my friend, an Italian major, later that day to question her. I described the man who was now haunting my thoughts. "You must mean Giovanni," she replied, "He's one of those 'Italian' Italian professors. The real deal."

Two weeks later, that was still all I knew of him. Our routine seemed comfortable. Familiar. On Wednesday, our eyes met. In my ever present clumsiness I dropped my book. He rushed over to help me retrieve it. His hand met mine as we scoured the floor. It rested there for a heartbeat and our eyes met. I felt as if every vein in my body had busted, every drop of blood rushing in a tsunami of beat and breath. "Thank you," I uttered.

"Prego, luce mia," he replied, the accented words rolling from his tongue.

When he smiled, I was done for. I knew in an instant he was going to seduce me. I was going to let him.

"You're very beautiful. I can't keep my eyes off of you. I must admit, I've been watching you. Tu sei il sole del mio giorno. Facciamo l'amore."

That was all it took. I grasped at words- you are...sunshine...day. Love. I nodded my head, not sure how to respond, and he took my hand. He helped me up and whispered, "Andiamo."

His grip was firm and his hand warm. We were nearly running. My head was spinning when he pulled me behind a door and assaulted my mouth with his. His tongue searched me. His hands chased and groped. My breasts. My ass. My skirt was being hiked over hips and his fingers were diving over and into my panties. I felt the moist fabric drift to my ankles as he began lowing to his knees, his tongue figure skating down my stomach, licking a trail of figure eights around my navel.

"Oh God," I sighed.

"Breve orazione penetra," was his reply. God listens to short prayers. I heeded his advice, saying several more before his devil tongue found the lips of my pussy. He delved in, teasing and taunting, circling then charging. His fingers invaded me. They were steel being melted and reforged in the furnace of my desire. My orgasm broke quick and my nails dug rivulets into the wooded door.

He fed my body to the floor of the classroom and covered mine with his. His fiery eyes betrayed his passion. He lifted my shirt and flipped the cups of my bra to bear my breasts. He feasted on each milky orb, nuzzling and sucking as I gulped down moans mixed with prayers. He seized my shirt, ripping it over my head. His hand grazed my face. I needed to taste him- this man whose gypsy tongue could get me out of my panties so quick. He tasted of salt and red wine. I pulled his thumb into my mouth, sucking on it, capturing his taste in my memory.

I heard the faint unzip of his jeans and, seconds later, the invasion of his cock in my tunnel. I was desperate for his touch. He moved his hips in a trance-like rhythm, bringing me to orgasm again and again. He was a tantric lover and I wanted nothing more than to be the Bergman to his Rossellini.

"Please," I begged.

"Tempo al tempo, innamorato." All in good time, lover.

He continued whispering love notes in his native tongue, while our hips danced in a forbidden waltz. His hands mingled with the sunlight for possession of my skin. We were locked in mutual worship- he, my adonis, and I, his goddess. I felt the muscles of his arm tighten as he gripped my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine, both our hands pressed hard against the cold wood of the floor, as his cock exploded atop me, launching his seed onto my stomach at the same time I found my climax yet again.

We lied there, panting on the floor, hands tied together, the sun warming our bodies as we basked in our post-coital bliss. I closed my eyes and took in the lullaby of his voice.

"Bravissimo, amore mia, bravissimo."