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The Tuscan sun was quietly burning off the last wisps of grey morning mist from around the rising cypress spires in the near distance as two cars arrived at the villa, grinding the gravel under their wheels like strong waves breaking on shingle. My mother lifted the palms of her hands towards my face and allowed them to brush the outline of my veil, as though anything more than the lightest touch would cause it to disperse into fine white powder and drift away into eternity. She stood back a little, clasped her hands together and pressed them into her chest, as though in supplication to the goddess of proud moments.

“Faith,” she said, “you look... absolutely stunning, my darling! Roger is going to be so proud of you.”

I turned towards the full-length mirror to my left and took in the twenty-three year old woman in the reflection. It was everything I had ever hoped it would be on my wedding day. In spite of a week in the Chianti region, and probably watching calories rather less cautiously than was advisable in the days leading up to your wedding, my off-the-shoulder, mermaid-style wedding dress deliciously caressed each curve and contour of my body to near perfection.

“Roger is the luckiest man in the world,” my mother gushed, sounding for all the world like the nauseatingly clichéd mother-of-the-bride. “And you, Faith, are the luckiest girl. Imagine! In a couple of hours you will be married to a charming and, of course, wealthy, man who will provide the kind of stability my daughter deserves, for the rest of her life.”

For all her myriad faults, my mother was not wrong. An heir to a multi-million pound publishing business in London, Roger was every inch the perfect fiancé; loving, attentive, dependable and almost frustratingly stable. Unlike many husbands-to-be, he had personally arranged virtually every detail of the entire wedding, leaving me with only one decision to make: my choice of wedding dress. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I congratulated myself on having made the perfect one.

“Well, darling, the cars have arrived. I am going to set off now so I’ll see you in an hour or so.” My mother’s face was glowing with enough excitement and expectation for both of us.

“Wish me luck!” I said as she walked through the front door and into the embrace of the late spring sun. I watched as she slid into the back of the first of the two cars waiting outside, which then moved off down the expansive drive and through the imposing wrought-iron gates at the entrance to the villa, before making the turn left towards the town of Castellina, some twenty miles away.

“Well, now she’s gone, how about a glass of the region’s finest?” a voice behind me said as I began to close the front door. “We are in Chianti, after all.”

I turned around to see Roger’s younger brother, Tom, stood a few feet behind me holding in one hand a small fiasco of the region’s best-known product, clothed in its traditional straw basket, and in the other two wine glasses. His crisp white shirt was tucked uncomfortably into the waistband of his black suit trousers, and his black bow tie was hanging loose around his neck like sad, thin scarf.

“I don’t think so,” I replied. “First of all, I don’t think Roger would be particularly impressed if our first kiss as a married couple was laced with wine.”

“Oh yes, I’d almost forgot. Roger doesn’t drink, does he? We wouldn’t want him running the risk of losing control over a wine-drenched kiss, now, would we?” I threw Tom a disapproving look, which he obviously disregarded. “And secondly?”

“Secondly, this dress cost well into five figures. Do you honestly think I am going to take the chance that I might spill red wine down it, an hour before my wedding?” Tom just stood there, smiling.

“I see that twelve months with my brother has apparently turned you into the kind of cautious, some might say overly fearful, young woman that I am sure will suit him down to the ground for the rest of your life.”

Putting the gleaming wine glasses down on a small mahogany table next to the front door, Tom proceeded to pour a few mouthfuls of wine into each, before picking one up. He held it up in front of his face towards me.

“Well, here’s to the bride!” he said, before taking a mouthful from his glass. “Absolutely beautiful!” he continued, cleaning the remainder of the glistening red liquid from his lips with his tongue and smiling at me. “And the Chianti isn’t bad either.”

“Don’t you think it’s time to get ready? If you get a move on you will just about have enough time for a quick shave. It looks as though you haven’t had one for at least two days.”

Tom had arrived at the villa on his motorcycle the evening before, having ridden from Marrakech to Tuscany via Sicily. He was, in short, almost everything that Roger was not. I had only met him on three or four previous occasions, usually when he was passing through London on his way to or from some remote and exotic location. Roger had never considered asking Tom to be his best man. For one thing, Tom was the living embodiment of unreliability, and nobody could ever really have been certain whether he was even going to arrive in Tuscany in time for the wedding. Besides that, Roger had always maintained that he wanted his best friend Charles, whom he had known since their days at public school together, to fill that particular role.

“It’s only a bit of stubble, Faith,” he said, rubbing his chin with his hand. “And look on the bright side. It’s not as if you are going to be kissing me, is it?”

“I think we should be going,” I suggested. “It’s twenty miles to Castellina and we don’t want to be...”

“Late? No, we couldn’t have that, could we Faith? I mean, my brother would start to get so terribly worried, wouldn’t he, and end up crying uncontrollably onto Charles’ shoulder.”

“You are a real cynic, aren’t you Tom? Sometimes I wonder why on earth Roger asked you to give me away. More than that I actually wonder why you agreed to do it!”

“He probably asked me to give you away because he couldn’t bear the thought of your mother doing it. It would break far too much tradition.”

“And why did you agree to do it?”

“Come on, Faith,” Tom said, picking up the fiasco of Chianti and his empty glass. “Shall we, quite literally, get this show on the road?”

Tom opened the front door and we walked out into the sunlight. As I stepped off the concrete steps, my pristine white heels began to sink into the loose gravel, causing me to lose my balance a little.

“Here,” said Tom. “If we have to do this, at least let’s do it properly. Take my arm.” I moved my hand slightly reluctantly onto Tom’s forearm. Under my fingers I felt his muscles, tense and firm, and somehow felt quietly reassured.

“Well, well, well! My brother really is pushing the boat out for you, isn’t he? A black Porsche Panamera Turbo S? That really will get you to the church on time, Faith, and no mistake.”

As we approached the car, the olive-skinned Italian chauffeur, who had been assiduously polishing one of the wing mirrors with a white cloth, moved to the rear passenger door and opened it. Holding the bottom of my dress off the gravel, I slid my bottom onto the seat and pulled my legs up inside. I was instantly struck by the stark contrast of the spacious, black leather interior against the intense whiteness of my dress. Within moments, Tom was sliding in next to me from the other side.

“That’s strange,” I said, turning to Tom. “I thought Roger had booked a BMW.”

“Really?” Tom replied. “Ah, well. That’s Roger for you. You can always rely on him for a bit of last-minute spontaneity. Are you complaining?”

“God, no. Of course not, but...”

“Well, there is no need for ‘buts’ then, is there?”

No. There was no need for ‘buts’. This was supposed to be the happiest day of my life and there I was, in the middle of sun-soaked Tuscany, and being driven in the sumptuous height of Italian luxury to my perfectly arranged wedding. What more could I ask? I turned to Tom.

“You never answered my question, Tom. Why did you decide to give me away?”

“I suppose the perfectly obvious answer to that question, Faith, is because your father can’t be here to do it.”

“No, he can’t.”

“And why is that?”

The truth was I had no idea where my father was. Many years earlier, almost before my earliest recollections, my mother and I suddenly left our home in Portland, Oregon and moved to England, where I grew up. I had once asked my mother about him, but she told me never to mention him again, and I didn’t.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Now, are you going to do up your bow-tie and put on your jacket?”

“There’s plenty of time, Faith.”

I looked at the clock on the dashboard. Yes, there was plenty of time. It was only just after quarter past eleven, and the ceremony was not due to start until mid-day.

Suddenly the car turned off the main road to Castellina and onto a more undulating, dusty track.

“Where are you going?” I said to the chauffeur. “This isn’t the way to Castellina.” His deep, dark eyes met mine in the small confines of the rear view mirror.

“It’s okay,” said Tom. “Relax. If we go on the main road we’ll be there half an hour early. I asked the chauffeur to take a slight detour to kill some time.” I sat back in my seat and sighed.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to share a drink with me, Faith? I mean, it is the last opportunity you will have before you become my brother’s sole and exclusive possession.”

“Possession?”

“I’m sorry? Did I say ‘possession’? I meant ‘wife’.”

“No you didn’t. You meant ‘possession’. What on earth makes you think that?” Tom slowly poured a glass of Chianti from the fiasco and took a sip.

“Okay, Faith,” he said. “Name me one thing that Roger has that he doesn’t regard as a possession.” I thought for a few moments.

“His relationship with Charles?” I suggested. Tom looked at me and smiled.

“Yes, you have me there, Faith. I really can’t argue with that.”

“Oh, and my wedding dress.”

“Yes, it was kind of him to leave you with at least one major choice on your wedding day. A very good choice, too, if I may say so.”

For one moment I felt more than a little flattered.

“And did Roger give you free choice as to what you wear under it, Faith?”

For another moment I felt more than a little taken aback.

“Do you really think that is something to ask a bride on her wedding day?”

“Do you really think I care about that, Faith?”

“Actually, you should.”

“Well, the fact is, I don’t. So are you going to tell me what you are wearing under it?”

“For God’s sake, Tom, of course I’m not!”

“I think you are.”

“And what on earth makes you think that?” Tom lifted the half-full glass to his lips.

“Well, because that very expensive dress looks so perfectly... white. And here I am, precariously holding a glass of Chianti in the back of a car on an uneven and treacherous piece of road. I mean, the slightest bump and, well... a red wine stain wouldn’t look good down the front of it at this moment, would it?”

“You wouldn’t dare!” I spat.

“Accidents happen, Faith. Now are you going to tell me what you are wearing under that dress?”

Tom was now holding the glass perilously close to the skirt of my dress. I could see the contents of the glass swilling ominously close to the lip of the glass with every motion of the car over the increasingly uneven terrain. I was becoming unbearably nervous.

“White stockings,” I said. “I’m wearing a pair of sheer white stockings. Now move that glass.”

“Delicious,” Tom replied. “What else?”

“What do you mean ‘what else’?” I saw Tom move the glass closer to the bodice of my dress.

“Don’t be coy, Faith. You know very well what I mean. What else?” Suddenly a small splash of wine leapt wildly over the top of the glass, landing on Tom’s trouser leg just inches from the skirt of my dress.

“White satin panties and a suspender belt,” I spluttered. “I’m wearing a pair of white satin panties and a suspender belt. Now please...”

“Yes, Faith. Now... please?” I felt my face melt into a confusion under my veil.

“Please what, Tom?”

“Please show me.”

“You have got to be joking.”

“Do I look as though I am joking, Faith? And my fingers are getting just a little moist in this heat. Who knows whether I will be able to keep a tight hold of this glass for much longer?”

“God, I can’t believe...”

“Lift the skirt of your dress, Faith. I want to see what you are wearing underneath.”

My eyes were still on the rolling, red contents of his glass as I began to hitch the skirt of my dress up my legs. Slowly I felt it move up over my knees and thighs, exposing them to Tom’s obviously eager eyes.

“Higher, Faith,” he instructed, coolly. “You really do have the most amazing legs.”

I pulled the skirt of my virgin-white dress higher, until the smooth flesh above the lace tops of my stockings was just visible. Tom moved his right hand under one of the ribbon strips of my stocking straps and teased it away from my leg.

“If Roger had any idea how to have fun, Faith, he would be in for an incredible night tonight, wouldn’t he?”

“This shouldn’t be happening, Tom,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. I lifted my eyes once more to see them met by two more in the rear view mirror. I watched as the chauffeur then lifted his fingers to the mirror and lowered it slightly. It was obvious that he was angling it carefully in order to get a better view of my legs. I squeezed them tightly together.

“What’s the matter, Faith? Have you forgotten how to be desired? Surely it can’t have been that long?”

I could no longer see the chauffeur’s eyes but could nevertheless feel them. They were burning and straining to go deeper under the skirt of my wedding dress in order to catch the faintest hint of my white silk panties. Next to me Tom was draining the last drops of Chianti from his glass as he continued to tease my suspender strap.

Seeing the immediate threat of a wine-stained dress was now gone, I was about to lower my skirt when suddenly I heard a loud bang from underneath the car, and felt it almost leap from the rough dirt road. The car seemed to skid and slide sideways for a short distance before coming to a juddering halt against one of the trees that lined both sides of the narrow track.

“Oops” Tom said. “That didn’t sound too good, did it?” It was a few seconds before I had recovered my composure sufficiently to agree with him, although my nerve endings were rather more raw and exposed.

“What happened?” I said to the chauffeur, who lifted the rear view mirror and looked at me once more.

“I don’t know, Signorina,” he replied in a rich Tuscan accent. “I think I was distracted momentarily. “I’ll get out and have a look.”

“Italians!” said Tom. “They really can’t keep their minds out of their pants for a minute, can they? Or, more accurately, out of yours.”

Both Tom and the chauffeur got out of the car and walked around it. After a few moments Tom returned and knocked on the window.

“It doesn’t look too good,” I could hear Tom say through the glass. “It looks like one of the front tyres has a puncture.”

I was becoming more agitated by the moment. I looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after half-past eleven. I sat in the car as Tom and the chauffeur first of all had a discussion before looking again at the front of the car. It seemed to me that they were doing a lot of talking and examining, but not much else. Eventually, I opened the car door and stepped tentatively into the coppery-coloured dust of the rough track.

“How long is it going to take to fix?” I asked.

“Mario here thinks it may take fifteen minutes,” Tom replied. I let out an involuntary growl of frustration.

“Well, can you just get on with it? I have a wedding to get to.”

I watched as Mario removed his jacket and threw it onto the front passenger seat. He then removed the spare tyre and a number of tools before jacking up the car. As he began to work under the strengthening Tuscan sun, small beads of sweat began to form on his face. Gradually his thin white shirt began to cling damply and provocatively to his obviously muscular torso.

“Of course, you’ve only got yourself to blame for being in this situation, Faith,” said Tom. I began to feel my blood simmer in my veins. I lifted my veil up and dropped it over the back of my head in order to look Tom directly in the eyes.

“Me?” I replied. “And how, pray God, do you come to that conclusion?”

“Well, if you hadn’t been quite so busy giving Mario a show of your legs, and a glimpse of your panties, he would probably have been paying more attention to the road.”

“God, you have a bloody nerve,” I retorted. Before I knew it the palm of my right hand was swinging wildly towards Tom’s left cheek. As though anticipating it, he lifted his left hand and grabbed my right wrist firmly. I moved my left hand to it to try and free it. Almost as soon as I had raised it, Tom had grabbed my left wrist too. He then took both my hands over my head and pressed me back towards the side of the car. I continued to struggle against his restraint.

“You’re a feisty little bitch, aren’t you Faith? I bet that this is the most passion you have had in the past eighteen months, isn’t it?”

“What the hell do you know, Tom? Roger is twice the man you are.”

“Yes, he’s twice the man and a fraction of the lover.” Tom’s piercing blue eyes began to burn into mine. They looked deep and hungry.

“Tell me; when was the last time Roger gave you a really good, hard fucking, Faith?”

“There’s more to a relationship than sex, Tom.”

“There has to be in his case.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh please, Faith. Do me the courtesy of not playing the stupid bride. It really doesn’t suit you.”

Tom had a tight hold of both my wrists. I was using my whole body strength to try to break free from his grip. Under my feet I could feel my heels sinking into a soft, powdery dust. Suddenly Tom let go of my wrists and I felt my body overbalance. The next thing I knew I was face down in the dust, lying near to Mario at the front of the car.

“If you wanted to fuck Mario that badly, Faith, you should just have said so.”

I pulled myself up from the floor slowly. As I did so, I saw the fine cuprous dust liberally covering the front of my white dress. I felt a mist as red as the dust fall over my emotions.

“Are you satisfied now?” I shouted.

“No, Faith. Not yet. It takes rather more than looking at a woman in a dust-covered wedding dress to satisfy me.”

I clutched the skirt of my dress and hauled it up my legs a little, before kicking both shoes off in his direction like some wild animal. He deftly avoided the irregular trajectory of both shoes. Seeing the self-satisfied look on his face, I ran towards him and tried to slap his face. Once again he grabbed both my wrists and pushed me up against the side of the car.

“No, Faith,” he said, his voice low with lust. “I am not satisfied. But, then again, neither are you, and that is part of your problem.” I felt my back pressing against the side of the car as Tom pushed himself closer into me.

“When was the last time you felt a hard cock pressed against you, Faith?”

“I’m marrying Roger,” I protested. “You are just jealous.”

“The only person who is jealous around here is Charles, Faith. And I can assure you, Roger is going to make sure that Charles isn’t upset for too long.”

“You are lying,” I spat.

“I may be many things, Faith, but lying is something I really don’t do. Roger has been in love with Charles for most of his life. Roger just wants you as his ‘respectable’, trophy wife; the good little wife who makes everything ‘normal’ for him, whatever the fuck that is. And deep inside you, you know it.”

“Prove it!” I said.

“Oh, I will,” he replied.

In one swift move Tom moved his hand onto the skirt of my dress and began to gather it deftly between his fingers. I felt it slide deliciously up my thighs.

“It’s my wedding day,” I said.

“Do you really think I give a fuck about that, Faith?”

Within moments I felt Tom’s fingers grazing against the sheer white nylon of my stockings which encased my inner thighs. I felt his fingernails put the faintest hint of a ladder down the stocking on my right leg.

“Oh dear,” he said. “I hope you have another pair in the car.”

“You are unbelievable,” I said.

“You have no idea,” he replied. Tom moved his left leg between my thighs and his right leg against the side of my left one. Beneath his trousers I could feel his hardness growing as he started to rub himself lasciviously up and down my left thigh. On my right leg I could feel his fingers moving up and down, playing with the lace tops of my stocking and teasing the silk-soft skin just above. I felt my legs part a little more as Tom pressed his left leg ever more insistently between them.

“Does Roger do this to you, Faith?” Tom growled lewdly, his mouth close to my ear. “Does he rub his hard cock against your thigh to get himself ready to give you a good, hard fucking?” I let out a little, involuntary moan of pleasure as I felt the fingers of Tom’s left hand snake up between my legs and begin to slide over the front of my silk panties.

“Oh god!” I moaned. I could feel my thigh beginning to push firmly against his engorged manhood as he continued to rub it higher up my thigh. I arched my back a little and pressed myself against his fingers as they pressed and probed my sex through the confines of my panties.

“These gorgeous, soft panties would have been wasted on Roger,” he teased. “A woman like you needs to be appreciated. A woman like you needs to be lusted after, taken and fucked.”

The wildness of Tom’s words was sending a rush of sexual heat through my body. Between my legs I could feel myself tingling and moistening with every touch of his fingers, as they pressed against the material.

“You’re a bride, Faith; a bitch on heat. You need to feel a strong, hard cock fucking you, don’t you?”

In the torrent of unexpected emotion and dirty words I had been unaware that Tom and I had been inching towards the front of the car. It was only when I felt him press the weight of his upper body against me a little more firmly that I realised my back had no support and I lost balance. Within a moment I was lying on my back on the bonnet, feeling shiny, metallic warmth against it. I saw a wicked glint dancing in Tom’s darkening, hungry eyes.

“I think you’ve had those panties on for long enough,” he said. Before I could say or do anything, he had pushed up the skirt of my dress once more, hooked his fingers into the waistband of my knickers and deftly slid them down my legs, exposing my glistening, recently waxed sex to his lust-fuelled gaze.

“What are you doing, Tom?” I asked.

“Isn’t it obvious, Faith?” He leant forward slowly and placed his hands on my inner thighs. “These stockings feel fucking amazing, Faith; so smooth. But I actually want something much smoother, and much wetter.” With one movement of his hands he pulled my legs apart before lowering his mouth between my legs. I felt his firm tongue, like a thick, strong paddle, slide up the drenched lips of my sex, causing me to lay back on the bonnet, close my eyes and arch my back, and offer myself to the demands of his greedy mouth.

I turned my head to the right and opened my eyes for a moment. With everything that was happening I had forgotten about Mario, but as my eyelids opened I immediately became aware of him again. It would have been difficult not to be. He was stood just inches away from me, rubbing his hand brazenly over the crotch of his black trousers and caressing the obvious bulge within.

I let out a little moan of delight as the tip of Tom’s tongue found my clit, now swollen, out of her hood and very, very sensitive. My body was responding beautifully with every caress of his strong, smooth tongue between my legs. As I raised my hips and pushed my labia more firmly against his mouth, I could hear Tom’s own moans becoming more frequent and more animalistic as he licked and lapped my flooding sex. I felt him lift my thighs from underneath and drape them over his shoulders, opening my wet lips to his slithering, selfish tongue.

“I think I know what you want,” said Tom, allowing himself a brief respite from my wet pleasure. “Why don’t you just reach out and take it?”

Inches from my eyes, Mario was continuing to rub his hard bulge ever more firmly. As I felt Tom’s tongue drive between the slick, soft folds of my sex, my body and mind finally surrendered all pretence of restraint. I moved my hand over to Mario’s and pushed his fingers away, replacing them with my own. Under the thin material of his trousers I could feel his growing manhood twitching and jerking into full, firm length under my playful fingers.

“Take him out, you horny bitch,” urged Tom from between my legs. “Take his hard, dirty cock out and feel it.”

Tom’s words were all the encouragement I needed. My fingers found their way to the zip of Mario's trousers. Lowering it I eased my fingers deftly inside and within moments they had found their way to Mario’s smooth, solid length. I pulled him from within the confines of his trousers and released him to my wanton gaze.

Slowly I began running my fingers up and down his viscous, slick shaft, now glistening with pre-cum which was leaking profusely from the little eye at the tip of his angry, purple helmet. I felt the strength of his arousal and desire burning through every inch under my fingertips, and began to smear the oozing lubricant around the shaft until he was completely covered in his own sleek, wet anticipation. Slowly, I pulled the head to my mouth and parted my moist lips.

“Roger has no idea what a wanton little whore you really are, does he?” Tom growled. “It’s about time she came out to play.”

As I parted my lips, Mario pressed his hips forward and slid his hard length into my soft, wet mouth. As I took in inch after inch, I began to taste his hot lust on my tongue and began to add my own moisture to his own. As his length reached the back of my throat I reflexed slightly. He withdrew a little and then pushed in again; and again, and again.

“Fuck her mouth, Mario,” Tom urged, “She fucking loves it.”

Tom was right; I did love it. The taste of Mario's musky lust was filling my mouth and driving my own sexual desires to new levels. I reached my fingers back into Mario’s trousers and began to feather and tease his delicious, full balls. He began moaning uncontrollably. Suddenly I could feel his length stimulated to a new urgency in my mouth and knew that he was moving ever closer to his inevitable climax.

“Where do you want his cum, Faith?” Tom teased. I moved my head back and released him from my mouth.

“On my leg,” I replied.

“Mario,” Tom ordered, “bring your cock here.” I became aware of Mario moving around the car. I then felt the lace top of the stocking on my right thigh being pulled away from my skin. The next thing I knew was Mario had slid his length into my stocking, against my smooth thigh, pushing it down into my stocking, then back up, slowly building up a rhythm.

“Tell me what you want him to do, Faith.”

“I want him to cum down my stocking,” I moaned. “I want him to drain his lust into the nylon.”

I heard Mario moan and felt his length begin to twitch and judder uncontrollably. Within seconds I felt him spasm against my thigh and then his cock pulse and pump wave after wave of hot, thick cream down my thigh.

“You dirty fucking bitch,” Tom moaned. “You hot, dirty fucking bitch.”

As Mario pulled his still tumescent length from the lace top of my stocking I felt another hard, bulbous head pressed against the yielding, wet lips of my pussy, and realised Tom had released himself. He teased it against my clit, which was by now so sensitive that it could barely stand to be touched. I squealed a little and writhed on the bonnet. I felt Tom’s hands take a firm grip of my hips.

“You’re now going to know what it’s like to take a hungry fucking cock, Faith.” With one strong thrust of his hips, Tom’s huge, hard, thick length separated my soft pussy lips and drove inside. He went deeper and deeper until I thought it would never stop. I moaned uncontrollably under the hard thrust of his ravenous length as it devoured every inch of my pussy and stretched it deliciously.

“You needed to be fucked, didn’t you Faith,” Tom grunted as his lust and need overtook him. “You craved a thick, hard cock inside that tight, respectable pussy, and now you’ve got one.”

“Oh god, yes,” I moaned. “I needed it.”

“What did you need, you hot slut? Tell me.”

“I needed a thick, hard cock deep inside me.”

“Whose, Faith? Whose cock did you need?” Tom’s rhythm was building to a crescendo on top of me.

“Yours,” I moaned. “I needed your cock.”

Almost before my words had left my lips, I felt Tom’s length spasm inside me and knew it was time. Between the knowledge that he was lost to his climax and pouring it out were those inevitable, delicious fractions of a second. With one final drive he burst deep inside me, filling me with the hot seed of his lust in waves. My own climax broke over me almost simultaneously, our hips bucking and moving until the last throes of our need were utterly spent.

Mario climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine while Tom and I slid onto the back seat.

"I ought to tell you," Tom said, "that Roger actually had ordered a BMW. I cancelled it and ordered this one. It seemed far more...you."

"Where the hell did you get the money from?" I asked.

"Roger isn't the only with with money, Faith."

“Where are we going, Signorina,” Mario asked. I turned and looked at Tom.

“It seems to me that you have two choices, Faith,” Tom said.

“And those are?”

“Well, you can either straighten your dress and go to Castellina, or...”

“Or?”

“We can go back to the villa, pack a few things and you can come with me back to Marrakech.” I felt a warm flood of hot cream slip from between my legs.

“I’ve never been to Africa,” I said. “And I’ve never been on the back of a motorcycle.”

“I promise you, Faith, you will enjoy the ride.” I smiled. Mario turned the car around and we began to make our way back to the villa. I rested my head into Tom’s chest as he put his arm around me. It felt warm, natural, and yet somehow exquisitely dangerous.

"Should I be scared, Tom?"

“Have faith,” he said. I smiled.

“I think you know you already do.”

Copyright: All of my stories are written entirely by myself. Please do not copy or repost them.

Copyright 2015: claire2013 All Rights Reserved. This story may not be copied, reproduced or linked in any manner without the express written permission of the author.