Study Abroad — The Italian Tutor
I was 20, spending a semester in Florence, and my Italian was embarrassingly bad. The university assigned me a tutor — Lorenzo, a 23-year-old graduate student with dark curls, olive skin, and a smile that made me forget every word of every language I'd ever known.
We met twice a week in a tiny study room in the back of the library. He was patient, encouraging, and distractingly handsome. I spent half our sessions just watching his lips form Italian vowels.
One rainy Tuesday, the library was nearly empty. We were working on past tense conjugations when he set down his pen and looked at me with an expression I couldn't read.
"Abby," he said, switching to English, "can I ask you something personal?"
"Sure."
"Do you have a boyfriend back home?"
My heart skipped. "No. No boyfriend."
"Good." And then he leaned across the small table and kissed me.
It was the kind of kiss you read about in novels — slow, deliberate, his hand cupping my jaw with impossible gentleness. When he pulled back, I was breathless.
"I have wanted to do that for weeks," he admitted.
"You should have done it sooner."
He laughed. Then he locked the study room door.
He pulled me onto the table — the same table where we'd been reviewing vocabulary ten minutes earlier — and kissed me deeply. His hands slid under my sweater, warm against my skin. "Sei bellissima," he whispered. "You are so beautiful."
I helped him unbutton my blouse. He unhooked my bra with practiced ease. His mouth traced my collarbone, then lower, and when his lips closed around my nipple, I gasped and grabbed his shoulders. He alternated between my breasts, licking and sucking, while his hand slid up my thigh.
"Così bagnata," he murmured, surprised and pleased. So wet.
He unzipped my jeans and pulled them off, then my panties. I lay back on the table — cold wood against my bare skin, ancient library books surrounding us, rain streaking the window — and he knelt between my legs like a man at worship.
He ate me out with the same focus he brought to conjugating irregular verbs. Slow, methodical, paying attention to every reaction. When I was close, he slid two fingers inside me and curled them, and I came apart with a cry I barely muffled against my own hand.
He stood, undoing his belt. "I want to be inside you. Is that okay?"
"Yes. Please."
He entered me slowly, filling me completely. He was thick, and I was tight, and the sensation was exquisite. He fucked me on that library table with long, deep strokes, whispering Italian endearments I only half understood. His thumb found my clit again, and I came a second time, clenching around him.
"Dove vuoi che venga?" he asked, his voice strained. Where do you want me to come?
"Inside," I breathed. "Inside me."
He groaned and buried himself deep, pulsing hot inside me. We stayed like that for a long moment — him still buried inside me, both of us panting, the rain tapping against the window.
After that, my Italian improved dramatically. I still can't conjugate the past subjunctive properly. But I learned a lot of words they don't teach in textbooks.