Frances had done what was expected of her for most of her life: a good student, private school, art classes, and a degree from a top university. Now, finally, she had gained her independence and was living life on her own terms. Her friends and colleagues called her Frankie now. She had a job as a project manager in a design firm, had rented her first apartment, and was dating someone her father would disapprove of if he were to know. Her mother would probably secretly envy her not carrying on the example that she herself had set of being entirely conventional.

Frances had met him because her firm was designing a new restaurant. Everyone called him by his family name, Mancini, but his name was John, Gianni really. He was almost twenty years older than Frances but still wore tight jeans with his beautifully tailored Italian blazer. He had flirted with her for weeks and called her “Francesca mia”. She had resisted, telling him to leave her alone lest she find that one day he had laughed her into bed. That was prescient. He always made her laugh and that was exactly how it had happened after a dinner on a spring night that had included a couple of bottles of wine and her first taste of grappa.

On paper he was not the ideal boyfriend. There was his age and the differences in their backgrounds. He was divorced and had children only a few years younger than her. But there was something about him and the way he managed to make everything an adventure. He loved teaching her about food and wine and took her shopping in the Italian market every weekend. Then he would show her how to prepare wonderful Italian dishes which they would eat before they devoured each other. He also was a patient lover, unlike a lot of younger men, and certainly was giving her a master class in lovemaking.

It was a beautiful summer evening and they were going out to dinner to a restaurant owned by Marco, one of Gianni’s friends. They did not have a reservation, but did not need one. Marco greeted them warmly, hugging Gianni, and kissing Frances on both cheeks. His eyes moved up and down as if he were taking inventory of Frances. She was tall, as tall as Gianni, with shoulder length blonde hair, a creamy complexion, and icy blue eyes that pierced like a laser, taking everything in. He could see the silhouette of her shapely body beneath the pale lilac linen dress she was wearing, including her voluptuous breasts. Her long legs were displayed with every step she took by the slits that ran up the sides of the dress.

Marco thought that Gianni was a very lucky man and told him so in Italian. He began speculating about what Frances was like in bed in complimentary but earthy terms. He said that it would be like eating a ripe, juicy peach warmed by the sun and having its nectar all over your face. Frances maintained a bland expression on her face and smiled as she looked around the room. Gianni did not give his friend any information, just a sly wink.

Marco led them to their table and conferred with Gianni about their meal. Frances laughed and gave Gianni a playful smack on the arm after he left. “I understood all of it, you know,” she told him.

Gianni smirked and said, “I know that but he doesn’t. He thinks you are a great beauty, but a non-Italian one.”

“You didn’t stop him talking about sex with me. That wasn’t very gentlemanly, Gianni,” she replied.

“Let him wonder and be jealous of me and mia Francesca. And believe me, he is,” Gianni said. “Now let’s think about what we want to eat and drink.”

Frances noticed that there was a Mediterranean seafood platter on the menu. It was done for two and included every kind of shellfish, grilled with olive oil, lemon and herbs: clams, mussels, shrimp, calamari, giant tiger prawns and lobster. “I will let you order almost everything, but please can we have that?” she asked.

Gianni was happy to share the seafood and ordered antipasti of grilled vegetables and chicken liver crostini to start and angelotti filled with squash and sage for the pasta course. He reviewed the wine list with Marco and appropriate ones were chosen.

The parade of food and wine arrived at their table. Frances and Gianni ate and drank, talked and laughed. They were well matched despite the obvious age difference, and oblivious to the glances from those around them. They were noticed by the other diners in the restaurant, not because they were too loud, but just for the enjoyment that they clearly had for their meal and especially with each other.

Frances looked even more beautiful in the soft light of the restaurant, wisely chosen by the owners to have just this effect. Her eyes sparkled as she listened to Gianni and his raucous stories. She did not eat daintily as some women did. She dove in with enthusiasm, just as he had taught her. There seemed to be a glow about her; she was literally switched on. Gianni thought there was a lesson for him in this epiphany, that her mind was as important to him as her looks. She did not let him get away with coasting on charm and called him on his occasional embroidery of facts.

Frances loved that nothing was ever pastel with Gianni. For him, life and everything in it was perceived in primary colours, to be consumed and revelled in. It was this joie de vivre that set him apart from other men, and his refusal to give in to ordinary life as most men his age would. Every day was cause to anticipate a new experience to laugh about. His looks were not conventionally handsome, but he was more than appealing. It was like comparing the almost too pretty looks of some American male movie stars with the more rugged looks of those from France or Italy. Frances was a fan of old European films and he reminded her of Yves Montand.

They finished their meal and were lingering over espressos. The food and wine had been superb, but they had had enough. Gianni wanted to take Frances home and feed other appetites. He gave her a look that said, “Let’s get out of here” and she nodded. He settled the bill with Marco and left Frances to chat with him for a moment while he went to the washroom. He listened to their conversation as he returned. Gianni bid his friend good night and Marco responded giving him a manly hug and kissing Frances’ hand.

The drive to her apartment was not a long one. It was a beautiful evening and they went by way of the park and the mountain that are part of the centre of Montreal, seeing the city laid before them under the dark sky sprinkled liberally with stars.

Frances’ high rise apartment was lit by the full moon shining through the floor to ceiling windows so they needed no further light. Gianni embraced her and kissed her, first gently and then more deeply.

“Francesca mia, did you have fun tonight?” he asked.

“I most certainly did,” she responded, “but now I am a little buzzed from the wine and just want to be with you.”

They undressed each other while maintaining their embrace. Gianni led her to the bedroom as they left a trail of their clothes behind them. There was a breeze coming in that caused the gauzy white drapes to billow. The bed was an old maple sleigh bed that was dressed in white linens and was laden with many pillows. It was luxurious in an understated way, just like Frances, Gianni thought, not all frills and girly. She had books on her bedside table and a malachite box that he had bought her as a present, complete with some adult toys inside. There were things he was still intending to teach her, but that would be on another night. Tonight he wanted to take her slowly, to make her aware of every stage of sensuality with his mouth and tongue and hands, and finally, his penis.

Gianni pushed Frances onto the bed and stood there, just looking at her. She looked opalescent in the moonlight. Her skin shone like the interior of a shell. Her eyes glittered and she had that look that he loved, a hint of a smile that still held mystery for him. Her head and shoulders were supported by cushions. He climbed over her and began kissing her: her face, her eyes, her mouth, her earlobes and neck. She sighed softly when he kissed her shoulders and moved to her breasts. He loved caressing them as he moved his head back and forth licking and sucking her nipples. He kissed down her torso to her abdomen and then her sex. She began to reach for him but he told her to keep still and let him take her piece by lovely piece.

Frances was not one to do as she was told, but she had no will to assert herself now. She gave in to him with pleasure that would turn to abandon as his lovemaking intensified. Gianni parted her legs and his fingers were touching her now, her labia moistening in response to this and his more urgent kisses on her mouth. They were now exploring her from one end to the other, seeking her clitoris and finding it with an accompanying gasp from her. She could feel herself surrendering to desire.

Gianni’s fingers were replaced with his tongue, lapping at her and using its tip to stimulate her button. She was getting closer and closer to orgasm and Gianni could see and feel it. Her eyes closed, heightening her other senses as she allowed herself to be overcome by him, ceding control completely. The tide of her orgasm came in waves, each one stronger than the last until the ultimate crash of its impact. She felt herself lost and falling, trembling as Gianni caught her and held her safe. Frances was remarkably quiet, but her soft sighs and moans and the taste of her in his mouth told Gianni everything.

Gianni loved watching her yield to him. She was more sensual than most of the women he had known, and yet there was an innocence about her that beguiled him. It was not just that she was young, but that she had a vulnerability that made him want to please her and protect her. Instead of thinking about his satisfaction, he was concerned with hers. He was gentle with her tonight. There had been nights when he had been less so, but he always wanted to take care of her, not just with the first orgasm, but in every way. It had taken his Francesca to disarm him of his Casanova ways. He never would have predicted it, but he knew it was the truth. She aroused and delighted him, and touched his mind and heart in ways that none of the others had or could.

Frances’ quivering stopped as he held her beside him. She leaned into him and kissed him on the mouth and then made a circle of kisses around it. She reached for him and felt his arousal. His penis was engorged and slick at its head with pre-cum. She felt its length up and down, massaging his balls on each down stroke.

“I want you inside me now, Gianni,” she whispered a little hoarsely. “I want to feel you there and for you to fill me.”

He let her climb on him now, straddling him and placing his penis between her labia. She pulled on it and rubbed its head in her essence to ease its journey into her. Then, ever so slowly, she began to move up and down on him, with greater depth each time. Now it was Gianni who groaned with pleasure. He could feel the heat of her surrounding him, taking him to his own nirvana. Suddenly, she stopped.

“I want you to come in me from behind, “ Frances said.

He slid from under her off the bed, and saw at her on her knees and elbows, luscious tush up, ready for him. He inserted himself into her, moving slowly but inexorably to the heart of her. He felt her engulfing him, pulling him in more, clasping him from the inside. Their bodies were moving together as their tempo increased, and he held off until he knew she was there, feeling her flood him. At last he ejaculated seemingly endlessly, with spasm after spasm of semen into her. It was so intense he thought he might have lost consciousness for a moment.

They collapsed breathless on to the bed, lying beside each other. He loved holding her now, unlike other times with other women, wishing silently that the woman he had just fucked would disappear. This wasn’t just fucking and the last thing he wanted was to be with anyone but Frances.

Normal rates of breathing returned and they began to talk.

“Oh, Francesca mia, you are quite something,“ Gianni said.

“In what way?” she asked.

“I loved what you did tonight,” he said.

“That is what you always tell me after sex, “ Frances mused.

“No, not that. I am talking about what you were saying when I came back from the washroom. I heard you telling Marco that dinner was delicious in perfect Italian. Do you know what he told me when he hugged me after that? He realized that you had understood everything that he had said earlier and he said, ’You have to keep this one.’ “

They both dissolved in laughter.

“I think I love you, Francesca mia,” Gianni whispered as he held her close to him.

“I think I love you, too, caro,” she said quietly, smiling that smile again.