Chapter 17: The Red Shoes
She woke to the scent of roses and cold stone. The linen of the narrow bed was cool against her skin. For a long moment, she lay still, eyes closed, cataloguing the aches. A pleasant, deep-set tenderness in her thighs, a soreness in the small of her back, a faint pulsing warmth between her legs. The clean, smooth feel of her shaven pussy was a new fact of her body, like a haircut.
Sunlight, thick and honeyed, slanted through a high, narrow aperture in the rock. It was well past morning.
Izzy pushed herself up. Her body felt both heavy and light, a vessel emptied and refilled with something simpler. A single, clear need hummed beneath her skin, a low-voltage current directing all thought. She stood, the cool air raising goosebumps on her bare skin. The simple robe lay pooled on the floor. She left it.
Naked, she padded from the alcove, back through the cavern of the sunken pool. The water was still, clear, reflecting the dead candles. She climbed the worn stone steps, pushed open the heavy studded door, and emerged into the lower corridor of the main villa.
The transition was abrupt. Rough-hewn rock gave way to smooth plaster, terracotta tiles cool under her feet. She moved through silent, sunlit hallways, a ghost in a lived-in house. The emptiness inside her expanded, seeking only one remedy.
She heard them before she saw them—clattering pans, the hiss of steam, rapid Italian. The kitchen. She walked towards the sound, pushed through a swinging door.
The room was a scene of ordered chaos. A young man diced onions, tears streaming down his cheeks. A woman, her back to Izzy, stirred a large copper pot. Another man was bent at the oven. The conversation died the moment she entered. The clatter of a knife falling stilled.
All movement ceased. Three pairs of eyes locked onto her.
She felt their gaze like a physical touch, but it didn’t register as alarm. It was just data. She was naked. They were clothed. It meant nothing against the need. She scanned the room, her eyes passing over their stunned faces, looking for something else. A flash of crimson caught her eye near a basket of lemons by the door. Her red shoes.
She walked towards them, the tiles slick under her soles. The kitchen staff remained frozen, a tableau of shock. She picked up one shoe, then the other. The five-inch heels, the delicate straps. Sitting on a low stool, she lifted a foot, struggling to hook the strap. Her balance wavered. She caught herself on the edge of the table, a lemon rolling to the floor with a soft thud.
Finally, both shoes were on. She stood, the world tilting, her perspective elevated and precarious. The click-clack of her heels on the tiles was a sharp, announcing percussion as she walked, tottering slightly, back through the door she came, leaving the silent kitchen behind.
The sound of her own heels was a metronome, measuring her progress through the villa. It led her towards the light and the murmur of male voices. She followed it out onto a wide, shaded veranda overlooking the valley.
Marco sat in a wicker chair, facing three other men. They were leaning over a tablet, graphs and figures glowing on the screen. Serious faces. Suits. Ties loosened. The air smelled of cigar smoke and espresso.
Izzy paused at the threshold, one hand on the doorframe. The need inside her pulsed, a second heartbeat. She saw the business, the focus, the wall of masculine deliberation. It did not deter her. A calm certainty settled over her. Her presence would not be an intrusion. It would be a translation. She would change the language of the room from numbers to nerve endings.
As if sleepwalking, she stepped onto the veranda.
The click of her heels on the stone flags broke their concentration. Four heads turned. The three strangers’ eyes widened. One man’s jaw went slack. Marco’s expression didn’t change, but a light ignited in his dark eyes. He didn’t stand. He simply opened his arm, a small, welcoming gesture.
Izzy walked to him, the men’s stares a warm pressure on her skin. She settled onto his knee, her bare back against the crisp cotton of his shirt. His arm came around her waist, holding her firmly. She felt his heat through the fabric.
“As I was saying,” Marco continued, his voice calm, conversational, “the volatility in the Southeast Asian market requires a hedged approach. You cannot be over-leveraged in pharmaceuticals alone.” His hand, resting on her hip, began to move. A slow, circular stroke with his thumb on the sensitive skin just above her pubic bone.
Izzy let her head fall back against his shoulder. A soft sigh escaped her lips. She watched the three men. Their attention had shattered. They tried to glance at the tablet, but their eyes kept snagging on the pale curve of her breast, the long line of her leg ending in the violent red shoe.
Marco’s hand glided upwards, over her flat stomach, his fingers tracing the lower curve of her ribcage. He never paused in his economic analysis. “The platform allows for a dynamic reallocation of assets based on real-time political sentiment analysis.”
One of the men, older with silver at his temples, cleared his throat and took a desperate gulp of his espresso. The youngest simply stared, his pen forgotten in his hand.
Marco’s fingertips brushed the underside of her breast, a feather-light graze that made her nipple tighten instantly. A small, hungry sound caught in her throat. The man with the silver temples flinched as if struck.
“So, you see,” Marco said, his voice dropping to a intimate timbre meant for the boardroom, yet his hand now cupped her breast fully, his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles over the peak, “the risk is not in the entry, but in the exit strategy. It must be… fluid.”
He had them. Their papers were forgotten. The tablet screen went dark. They were mesmerised, prisoners of the casual, proprietary caress happening before them. The negotiation was over. He had won something else entirely.
Marco shifted slightly. “Forgive me,” he said smoothly. “I must tell the kitchen there will be one more for lunch.” He gave Izzy the slightest nudge, a tiny press of his knee against her thigh, before gently standing her up. He paused, looking at her, then at the nearest man—the one with the intent dark eyes who had stared the hardest. A test. He offered no instruction. Just the nudge.
Izzy turned to the man. She met his gaze directly, bypassing every social protocol, every shred of her old caution. She didn’t smile. She simply looked at him, and in that look was a plain, silent transmission. I am here. I am available. You may have me.
His breath hitched. He blinked, then a slow, dawning comprehension washed over his features. Without a word, he extended his hand, palm up, an offering.
She placed her hand in his. His skin was warm, dry. He drew her gently down onto his lap. He held her stiffly at first, his hands resting awkwardly on her waist, as if she were a piece of expensive, breakable art. Then, as she settled her weight against him, feeling the hard line of his erection through his trousers, he softened. His arms came around her, drawing her close. She nestled into him, turning her face to nuzzle against his neck. He smelled of starched cotton and faint cologne. One of his hands, tentatively, began to stroke her bare arm.
The spell was broken, but a new one was woven.
Grazia emerged then, carrying a tray with a carafe of ruby-red wine and fresh glasses. Her eyes took in the scene—Izzy naked on a stranger’s lap—without a flicker of surprise. She set the tray down with a quiet clink. “Signori,” she murmured, and withdrew.
The opening of the wine was a catalyst. Corks popped. Glasses were filled. The serious business talk melted into a low, charged buzz of something else. The two other men, emboldened by wine and the first man’s daring, leaned in.
“You must be thirsty,” the silver-haired man said, his voice rough. He held a glass to Izzy’s lips. She took a sip, but he tilted it too far. The wine spilled, a crimson streak that ran from the corner of her mouth, down her chin, and onto her breast, dripping onto her peaked nipple.
She gave a small gasp, then a giggle. She looked at the droplet clinging to the tight, pink bud. Slowly, she brought her fingertip to it, collecting the wine. She held her finger out to the silver-haired man, her green eyes holding his. An offer.
He leaned forward, his tongue flicking out to taste the wine on her finger. His eyes never left hers. Then he looked at the spill on her breast. The message was clear. He bent his head, his tongue tracing the path of the wine up her sternum, lapping at the hollow of her throat, finally closing his mouth over her nipple to suck the last drop clean.
A shudder ran through her. She arched her back, a silent invitation for more.
Another man, the younger one, poured more wine. This time, he trickled it directly between her breasts. It ran in a cool, sinuous river down her stomach. She giggled again, the sound breathy and low, as the red line vanished into the smooth, shaven cleft between her legs.
The man on whose lap she sat watched, his hands now boldly roaming her thighs. The silver-haired man followed the wine’s path with his tongue, over her belly, lower. The youngest man, not to be outdone, began kissing her shoulders, her neck.
Hands were everywhere. Glasses of wine were abandoned. The last vestiges of pretence fell away. There was only skin, and taste, and the sound of ragged breathing. They took her there, on the veranda, in the dappled sunlight. One after the other, while the others watched, their hands and mouths keeping her alight. She came three times, the sounds ripped from her, each climax a deeper surrender than the last.
When it was done, they were all dishevelled, trousers undone, shirts stained with wine and sweat. Izzy lay across two of their laps, boneless, sated, a lazy smile on her swollen lips.
Marco’s voice came from the doorway. “Lunch is served.”
They ate in the cool, dark dining room. Plates of simple, glorious food—pasta with fresh tomatoes, grilled fish, bitter greens. Izzy, now wrapped in a silk kimono Marco had provided, was transformed. The dreamy wanton was gone. In her place was a vivid, laughing, intelligent woman. She discussed art, the perils of vineyard management, the novels of Elena Ferrante. She drew the men out, teased them, listened intently. She was the life and soul of the table, her earlier abandon now channelled into a radiant, captivating energy. The men were enthralled all over again, caught between the memory of her body and the force of her mind.
Finally, coffee was served. The business associates shifted in their chairs. The silver-haired man cleared his throat. “Marco, perhaps we could reconvene tomorrow? To finalise the details we… earlier discussed.”
Marco swirled his espresso, a small smile playing on his lips. He knew what they wanted to finalise had nothing to do with markets. “That is not for me to decide,” he said mildly. He nodded towards Izzy. “You should ask her.”
All three men turned to her, a hesitant hope in their eyes.
Izzy looked at each of them in turn. She stood, the silk of the kimono whispering against her skin. She walked to the silver-haired man first. Without a word, she slipped into his arms. She kissed him, tenderly at first, then with a deepening passion that made him groan into her mouth. She pressed herself against him, the smooth bareness of her sex a vivid promise against the hard line of his renewed arousal.
She moved to the next man, repeating the kiss, more fierce this time, her hips rocking gently against his. By the time she reached the youngest, the kiss was hungry, consuming. She was getting lost in it again, the embers stoked back into a flame. Her hands were in his hair, her body straining against his.
“Izzy,” Marco’s voice cut through, amused, firm. He was beside her, a hand on her shoulder. “I want my turn.”
She broke the kiss, her lips parted, breathing heavily. She looked at Marco, her green eyes glazed with a fresh, desperate need. She moved into his arms as if returning home. She kissed him, deep and slow, then pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, her voice thick with surrender.
“Anyone,” she breathed. “Anyone who wants me… who takes charge… can have me.”
Marco held her close, his hand splayed on her back. He looked over her head at the three stunned, aroused men. “You see?” he said quietly. Then to Izzy, a promise and a warning in his tone. “Remember that. Tonight, we go out into the world.”