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I want to kiss every single one of the scars that are scattered, innumerous, over her body. I want to trace the defined lines of each of her muscles. I want to go to sleep encased in her warm body, protected and safe. I want to wake up the same way. I want to learn how to make love with her. And I desperately, want her to fuck me, how ever she wants.

How do I get what I want?Tomorrow I can refuse to marry Elio for the thousandth time, but while the earth feels like it shifted for me tonight, nothing will have changed for those who are pushing our unhappy union.

I want her, not him.What would happen if I said it?Everyone accepts she’s gay because she has always beensocompletelygay. A walking collection of lesbian stereotypes, no one has ever questioned her sexual orientation and if they did she would probably knock them the fuck out. But me? I’m a mafia princess. I’m feminine and dainty and exist solely to be married off. I dread to think what my father would do if I came out.

Came out. Come out as what? Obsessed with Giovanna? I can’t exactly come out as a lesbian when I haven’t so much as been kissed by another woman. Even though I feel in my soul that kissing Giovanna would be earth-shattering. Heavenly.

Besides, I’m not, not attracted to men. I find some men attractive and have had enjoyable sex with men. I guess that makes me bisexual. Ugh, I hate that.

The idea of ‘coming out’ as bisexual makes me cringe. Probably because of all the negative stereotypes of bi people as greedy, cheating, attention-seekers. I don’t want a threesome or to show off to men. To be honest, spending time with Massi in gay clubs and parties hasn’t helped with that perception. It seems lesbians and gays are as suspicious of bisexuals as heterosexuals can be.

It is wild that I am worrying about this shit mere hours after nearly being murdered on a deserted road next to a golf course, but this shit feels existential.

Imagine if I had died without knowing what Giovanna’s lips felt like pressed against mine. Imagine if I never allowed myself even the chance to take what I want from her.

I breathe deeply and slowly exhale, turning slightly, I place my hands tentatively on Giovanna’s chest. Our faces are only inches apart and I can’t stop thinking about how she looked standing over my attacker’s body. She killed a man in front of me, I repeat the thought over and over

“Thank you,” I whisper, holding her gaze and filling it with as much emotion as I can.

“What for, beautiful?” She frowns a little and I’m struck again by how incredibly gorgeous her serious face is. Dark features tugged into a frown, that scar in her eyebrow just begging to be touched.

“Saving me. Protecting me. Holding me.” I shrug, uncertainly. I’m going to need more than a cup of tea to stop my shaking hands and racing heart now.

Giovanna lifts a hand to my cheek and I lean into it, my eyes flutter shut briefly. She tucks a piece of hair behind my ear and then softly moves her hand to cup my chin. My heart races even faster as her gaze drops to my lips. I nervously bite my bottom lip.God, please just kiss me.

Painfully slowly, she pulls me closer by the chin until her lips hover above mine. I can practically hear her thinking. Second-guessing herself. Talking herself out of doing what she desperately wants to do.

When she finally closes the remaining distance and our lips come together, the electricity between us gives me a thrill like nothing I have felt before. Her tongue slides into my mouth and I can’t help but moan against hers.

I’m no Virgin Mary and have been kissed many times before, but I have never felt like this. My whole body reacts to hers and I’m dizzy with how hot it is. How did I not know that kissing could feel like this? Just a few seconds of locking lips with Giovanna has eclipsed every kiss I’ve ever had.

Threading her fingers through my hair, she grasps the back of my head and tilts my head to the angle she wants. Giovanna is in complete control and I love it. I let my hands roam over her chest, shoulders, and neck, and she growls, our kiss vibrating, when I drag my nails through her undercut.

“You taste like chocolate biscuits,” she mumbles against my lips with a small smile when she eventually relinquishes my mouth.

“There are worse things to taste like, I guess,” I smile back shyly, already desperate for her to kiss me again.

She chuckles and gives me what I want. This time our kiss is deeper and hungrier. My insides are molten lava and I’m so absorbed in how good everything feels that I barely register that this is the first time I’ve kissed a woman. Does it always feel this good? Or is it just because it is Giovanna?

All we do is kiss for what feels like a long time. The tiny piece of lace between my legs grows so wet I am sure that Giovanna will be able to smell my arousal soon.

I am sitting on her lap sideways so all I can do is squeeze my thighs together in search of relief. I wish I was straddling her so I could find a point of contact and rock against her, creating friction between my legs.

Giovanna smiles when she feels my thighs clench. Her hand lazily roams to my thighs, pushing aside the satin fabric and running her fingertips from my knee to the crease of my hips over and over again as we kiss.

Desperate for more, I slowly peel my thighs apart. I need her to touch me between my legs like I need my next breath.

“Please,” I whimper. Ordinarily, I would be embarrassed to be so needy and desperate, but with Giovanna, I don’t care. My body calls for hers and I need her to know.

Her hand sweeps to the inside of my thighs and my whole body tenses in anticipation. I’ve dreamed of those long, tanned fingers sliding through my folds more times than I can count. I can hardly believe that in a second I will finally experience it for real.

Of course, just as Giovanna’s beautiful hand, decorated with just the right amount of veins and big enough to envelop mine, delves tantalisingly close to my slick centre, there is a brisk knock on the door.

Giovanna yanks her hand from between my thighs and tosses the fabric of my dress back across to cover them.

“Come in,” she calls out remarkably calmly and tucks my head under her chin in a tight cuddle.

A solid, short woman in her fifties strides into the room. Her short greying hair is sticking up all over the place and she looks like she has just been roused from sleep. She wears matching purple cotton tracksuit pants and sweater and rolls a suitcase, the size of carry-on luggage, behind her.