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pattisdollie · 11 days ago

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Non Lasciarmi (Don’t Leave Me)

Pairing: Gia/Reader

Words: 7.4k

Summary: Your friends left you at the café without a second glance—again—but this time, when they walked away, Gia didn’t. She didn’t ask if you were lonely; she simply took your hand, brought you home, and never let go.

Warnings: Older Woman/Younger, WomanEmotional Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Italian dirty talk, Praise Kink

AO3

AN: I used two different translators for the Italian so I haven’t a clue if the translations are correct

Italy was supposed to be magical. The kind of trip you dream about during grey winters and long shifts—sunlight warming the old stones underfoot, church bells in the distance, afternoons with espresso and gelato and people who made you laugh. Your friends had sold you on the idea with promises of adventure, of “just us girls,” of living.

But ever since you landed in Rome, you’d been the afterthought. The one they “meant to text” or “figured was resting” or—today’s excuse—“taking too long to get ready.” They were always vanishing, giggling their way through hidden alleyways and wine tastings, leaving you with vague dropped pins and empty chairs.

Now you sat alone at a table in a quiet piazza, half-shaded by the faded green of an old awning, your plate cooling in front of you. The pasta was good. The wine was mediocre. And you were trying not to cry in public.

You didn’t notice her watching you at first. You were too busy trying to look like you didn’t care. Too busy poking at your food and pretending not to glance toward the street every few minutes. When the chair across from you scraped back, you startled slightly—and then looked up.

She was older. Striking. Sunglasses tucked into her silvery curls, mouth painted a rich red that made her skin glow under the Roman sun. There was something about her presence—effortless, unapologetic—that made everything around her seem suddenly irrelevant.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” she said, voice low and sanded smooth with age and expensive cigarettes. “But I’ve been sitting over there—” she gestured vaguely to a café terrace across the piazza “—watching those so-called friends of yours ditch you for the third time this week.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. You flushed. “You’ve been watching me?”

“I notice people,” she said, sliding her sunglasses back on like punctuation. “Especially ones who deserve better company.”

She didn’t wait for permission to sit—she just did, like she always got her way. She glanced at your mostly full glass of wine, then at you. “Let me guess. You told the waiter you wanted whatever was local and cheap, and he brought you this disaster.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Pretty much.” She nodded to the approaching waiter. “Two glasses of the Barbera. And bring the good bottle—not the one you give to tourists.”

The waiter flushed slightly but nodded, disappearing back into the café. You blinked, still not sure what was happening.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” you said. “Didn’t offer it yet,” she replied. And then, with a small, wry smile: “Gianna Amato, but you can call me Gia.”

Her eyes lingered on yours—curious, assessing, but not unkind. You gave her your name in return. She repeated it once, carefully, like she wanted to commit it to memory.

“Well then,” she said, folding her hands on the table like this was always how her afternoon was meant to go, “why don’t we make your little Roman holiday worth the airfare?”

And for the first time since you’d arrived, you felt something click into place.

The wine arrived. The good kind, dark and smooth, clinging to the sides of the glass like it knew how to behave. You took a sip and sighed—not just because it tasted good, but because something in you was loosening, unknotting under Gia’s steady presence.

She watched you with that same sharp gaze, sipping her wine like it was just another performance—one she’d done a hundred times but still enjoyed. When she finally spoke again, it was without ceremony.

“So, what’s the story? Bad breakup? Quarter-life crisis? Or just too polite to tell your friends they treat you like their luggage?” You almost choked on your drink. “Wow.” She tilted her head. “I’m not wrong.”

“No, you’re not,” you admitted, a little dazed. “But how do you—?”

“I’m a psychologist,” she said, almost too casually. “Retired. Mostly. But old habits die hard.” Your eyebrows lifted. “Seriously?”

“Unfortunately.” She smiled faintly, tapping one manicured nail against the base of her glass. “You spend enough years listening to people unpack their mess, you start seeing the patterns everywhere. Especially in people like you.”

“People like me?” you echoed, unsure if you should feel flattered or exposed.

“Kind eyes. Shrinks into herself when spoken over. Laughs at things that aren’t funny just to smooth the mood.” Her gaze softened, just a fraction. “And still says thank you when people ditch her for the third time in a row.”

You went silent, unsure what to say. A breeze curled around the piazza. Somewhere nearby, a church bell chimed once.

Gia leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Let me guess—you’re the one everyone counts on to be chill. The ‘easygoing’ friend.”

“…Yeah,” you said quietly. “How’d you know?” She shrugged. “Because I used to be her, too.” That startled you. Her?

Gia, with her elegant clothes and commanding voice, had never seemed like the kind of person who got left behind.

She caught your look and gave a knowing smile. “Age doesn’t always come with wisdom. But it does come with lower tolerance for bullshit.”

You laughed—really laughed this time—and she let it linger before sipping her wine again. “I should’ve gone solo,” you murmured, half to yourself. “I was scared it’d be lonely.”

“And now?” Gia asked. You looked at her. Her perfectly unbothered expression. The way the sunlight kissed the silver in her hair. The way she made you feel like someone worth noticing.

“Now I think I might’ve met someone who makes solo feel a little less lonely,” you said. Gia’s smile was slow and just a little crooked. “Careful,” she said, voice low. “I might take that as an invitation.”

“Come on,” Gia said, setting down her glass with finality. “You’ve wasted enough time letting amateurs drag you around.” You blinked. “Where are we going?”

“To see the only kind of beauty that never disappoints.” Her eyes flicked over you, warm and assessing. “Art.”

And just like that, you were on your feet, trailing behind a woman who walked like she owned every street she crossed. Gia didn’t rush, but she never lingered either—she moved with purpose, head high, her scarf fluttering a little as the breeze picked up.

She didn’t take you to the crowded places. Not the big-name museums packed with selfie sticks and murmured audio tours. Instead, she led you through alleyways and half-forgotten courtyards, past faded doors and into chapels so quiet you could hear your heartbeat.

In one, a Caravaggio burned like a secret. Gia stood beside you in the hush, arms crossed, eyes pinned to the canvas. “You see the light?” she whispered. “He didn’t paint it on—he pulled it out. Like he knew where it already lived.”

You glanced at her. The way she stared, not like a tourist, but like someone reacquainting herself with an old lover. “You sound like an artist.” She smiled faintly, but didn’t look away from the painting. “I was. A long time ago.”

“You stopped?”

“Not really,” Gia said. “I just… traded in one set of brushes for another.” A soft, self-aware laugh. “Started painting with people’s problems instead.”

You stared at her.

She turned to you, catching your gaze. “Don’t look so surprised. Art and therapy? Same thing. You try to understand what someone was trying to say before they were brave enough to say it.”

Something in that hit too close to home.

You moved from one chapel to the next. She showed you angels no one looked at anymore, frescoes fading into the walls like forgotten dreams. Every time she stopped, she told you something—about the artist, or the time period, or the reason a hand looked wrong but felt right. You were no expert, but her passion pulled you into it. And she wasn’t just showing you the work—she was showing you how to see.

The last stop was a tucked-away studio museum, once the home of a lesser-known sculptor. Dusty light filtered in through high windows, casting long shadows over half-finished figures.

Gia lingered by a marble bust—just a woman’s face, eyes closed, mouth slightly parted. She brushed her fingers gently over the edge of the pedestal.

“I used to come here in my twenties,” she said. “When I thought I’d change the world with canvas and oil.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She looked at you then. Something soft flickered behind her eyes. “I realized I didn’t need to change the world. Just wanted to understand it.” A pause. “And maybe be understood, too.”

You stood there in the quiet with her, surrounded by ghosts of creation, and you felt the shift. Not just in the day, but in yourself.

She turned back to you slowly. “So,” she said, voice gentler now. “Tell me what you see.” You looked at the sculpture again. Then at her. “I see a woman who still creates,” you said softly. “Just in a different way.”

Gia didn’t smile at that. Not right away. But she stepped a little closer. Close enough that you could smell her perfume—heady and warm, like spice and cedar. “I think I like you,” she murmured. Your pulse jumped. “I think I like you too.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

As the sun began to dip, Rome turned to gold—everything bathed in that last stretch of warm light, shadows lengthening across cobbled streets. You and Gia walked in companionable silence, the space between you charged with something neither of you dared name just yet.

“I should head back soon,” you said, finally. “We had dinner plans. Supposedly.” Gia arched an eyebrow. “Supposedly?”

“They said they made a reservation. It’s a whole thing—they want to ‘dress up and be seen.’” You gave a sheepish shrug. “I told them I’d meet them at the apartment.”

Gia slowed a little as the two of you rounded the corner toward your street. “And you still trust they’ll be there?” You gave her a look. “No. But I want to believe they will.”

“That,” she said, dry but not unkind, “is your first mistake.”

You reached the building and stopped at the steps, already half-expecting what you saw next: no lights on upstairs, no flutter of movement behind the curtains, no sound from the open window. The place was silent. Empty.

You pulled your phone out. A message sat waiting. Short. Rushed. Went ahead—sorry! See you there? Your jaw tightened.

Gia didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at you, taking in your expression. You weren’t surprised—but that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. You slipped your phone back into your bag slowly. “Well. That’s that.”

“Let me guess,” Gia said, crossing her arms, “they forgot you didn’t have the address.” You blinked. “They didn’t tell you where they were going, did they?”

You hesitated. “…No.” Gia exhaled through her nose, soft but sharp. “Of course they didn’t.” You stood there a moment longer, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands, your heart, your whole evening.

“I could just grab something near here,” you said, trying to sound breezy. “Doesn’t matter.” Gia stepped closer, her voice low. “It does.” You looked up at her, and there it was again—her steadiness. Not pity. Not surprise. Just this calm, quiet certainty, like she’d already made up her mind about something.

“I’m not letting you end your day like this,” she said. “You deserve better than cold pasta and a cheap apology.” You felt the tears threaten, then. Just barely. Not from sadness—but from being seen.

“Come on,” she added, gently now. “I know a place. Not far. Good wine, real food, and no one’s going to forget you exist.”

You swallowed. “Are you sure?” Gia offered her arm without hesitation. “Sweetheart,” she said, eyes gleaming, “I’m sure about a lot of things. This is one of them.”

The walk was quiet for a little while. Not awkward—never awkward with Gia—but steady, grounding. She didn’t fill the space with chatter. She just let you exist beside her, the soft sound of her heels clicking rhythmically on the stone.

The streets started to buzz again as night fell. lamplight glinting off glass, silverware clinking, the scent of fresh basil and olive oil hanging in the air. Rome was beginning to hum.

And then you heard them. Laughter—too loud. English—too fast. Voices that cut across the piazza like they owned it.

You didn’t have to look to know. You knew those voices. You’d spent weeks listening to them talk over you, past you, through you.

But you looked anyway.

Across the way, seated at a café with garishly bright menus and glowing wine glasses, were your friends—already tipsy, leaned too far across the table, screeching with laughter. One of them turned, squinting into the evening light.

“Hey!” she called out. “There she is!” Another one swiveled. “Finally! We thought you ghosted.” Then, loud enough for the whole block to hear: “Who’s the old lady?”

You froze. Your stomach twisted, hot with embarrassment. You didn’t even have time to respond before Gia—who hadn’t so much as flinched—turned her head slightly, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses again, lips curling into something razor-sharp.

“Oh,” she said, voice cool as a chilled martini, “just a couple of disrespectful American tourists. Loud, tacky, and drunk before dinner—how charming.”

The girls didn’t hear her clearly, but the tone cut clean through the air. You heard one of them mutter “What’d she say?” and another laugh again, already distracted.

Gia didn’t even glance back. She reached for your hand. Not your arm. Your hand. Her fingers laced through yours without hesitation.

“Come,” she said, like it was a promise. “Let’s leave the noise behind.” You let her lead you down the street, your heartbeat still skipping from the sting of it all, but your hand warm in hers. She didn’t let go.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” you murmured after a moment. “I didn’t,” Gia said. “But I wanted to.”

You looked over at her. She wasn’t smiling, not exactly—but her jaw was set, and her grip firm. “They don’t see you,” she added softly. “Not really. But I do.” And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel invisible. You felt wanted.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The restaurant was small, candlelit, and clearly not meant for tourists. A far cry from the noisy piazzas and laminated menus you’d grown used to. The scent of garlic and wine hung in the air, soft music playing in the background, barely louder than a whisper.

You sat across from Gia, the two of you tucked into a quiet corner. When the waiter brought over the menus, you smiled politely and tried to make sense of it—but it was all in Italian. Real Italian. No translations. No helpful pictures. Just elegant, handwritten text.

Your brow furrowed. “Um… what’s melanzane alla parmigiana?” Gia leaned in, her voice warm and low. “Eggplant Parmesan, but the real kind. You’d like it.”

You nodded, grateful, but a little self-conscious.

At the next table over, a man in a fitted navy jacket leaned toward his companion and muttered, just loud enough to be heard: “Gli stupidi americani non sanno nemmeno leggere un menù.”

Stupid Americans can’t even read a menu.

You felt your heart sink. Before you could process it, Gia’s head turned—slowly, precisely. She stared at the man for a beat. Then she stood, placing her napkin on the table with calm finality.

Her voice cut through the air, low but unmistakable: “Mi scusi, vuole ripetere quello che ha appena detto?”

Excuse me, would you like to repeat what you just said?

The man blinked. “Io—non intendevo…”

I—I didn’t mean…

Gia’s expression didn’t waver. “Oh, lo intendeva eccome.”

Oh, you meant it alright.

The man’s companion tugged at his sleeve, but Gia kept going, voice rising just enough to turn heads.

“Osate giudicare una ragazza perché non parla la vostra lingua quando voi stessi non avete nemmeno le maniere più elementari.”

You dare judge a girl for not speaking your language when you yourself lack even the most basic manners.

The man opened his mouth again, but Gia didn’t give him the chance. “Lei è l’esempio perfetto di quel provincialismo arrogante che ci fa vergognare all’estero.”

You are the perfect example of that arrogant provincialism that embarrasses us abroad.

Someone at a nearby table chuckled under their breath. Gia took one step closer. “Lei non è migliore solo perché è nato qui. Se non ha niente di intelligente da dire, tenga la bocca chiusa.”

You’re not better just because you were born here. If you have nothing intelligent to say, keep your mouth shut.

The man flushed deep red, looking around, suddenly aware that all eyes were on him. Gia turned her gaze to his companion. “Mi dispiace per lei. Deve essere estenuante.”

I feel sorry for you. It must be exhausting.

Then, cool as ever, she turned back to you. “Sorry for the scene,” she said in English, reclaiming her seat with effortless grace. “But I don’t let men talk down to women at my table. Especially not you.”

You stared at her, heart racing—not from embarrassment anymore, but something else. Something warmer. Protective.

She picked up her menu again and smiled. “Now. Melanzane or gnocchi?” You smiled back, wide-eyed. “I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

After dinner, Gia didn’t ask. She simply stood, smoothed her coat, and looked at you like she already knew the answer.

“Come home with me,” she said softly. “I’d rather end the night with company worth my time.” You nodded before your breath even caught.

Her apartment was on the third floor of an old stone building, tucked just far enough from the city center to feel like something sacred. She unlocked the door with a slow turn of the key and pushed it open into warm light, wooden floors, tall ceilings, and books stacked in elegant disarray. The walls were lined with paintings—some framed, some leaning, some unfinished.

You stepped inside quietly, still holding onto the buzz of wine, laughter, and the way her hand had never fully left yours.

Gia slipped off her shoes and poured you each a small glass of amaro. “You really live here?” you asked, almost in disbelief.

“I’ve lived here for most of my life,” she replied, handing you the glass. “Since I was nineteen.” You blinked. “Wait—really?”

She sank into an old, soft chair by the window and gave a nod, swirling the dark liquid in her glass. “I’m not Roman by birth,” she said. “I grew up in Buffalo, New York. Snowy, cold, flat.” She smiled faintly. “I wanted to be anywhere else. So I came here. Alone.”

You sat on the couch across from her, listening closely.

“I met Alessandro when I was twenty,” she continued. “He was almost fifty. A gallery owner. Very elegant. Very powerful. Everyone thought I was sleeping with him for the money.”

You looked at her. “Were you?”

Gia laughed. “No. He was kind to me. Patient. He made me feel like I mattered. And at the time, that was everything.” A beat. “I married him at twenty-one. We had a son a year later—Giuseppe.”

She said his name with a fondness you could feel in your chest.

“But Alessandro had other children. Older. Teenage. Spoiled. And they hated me.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, not bitter. “They thought I was some little American girl who came to steal their inheritance.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. She shrugged, leaning her head against the back of her chair.

“It’s what it was. I didn’t know how to reach them. I tried being sweet. Then strict. Then nothing. I was twenty-two and failing at being a stepmother to people barely younger than me.” A small laugh escaped her. “So I went back to school. Took up psychology. I thought—if I can’t win them over, maybe I can at least understand them.”

You stared at her, utterly still. She was so composed, so grounded—and yet everything she said came with the weight of years behind it. “Did it work?” you asked gently.

“No,” Gia said, smiling. “But I found something better. I found something that was mine. My career. My purpose.” Her voice softened. “Eventually, my son grew up. Left. Alessandro died years ago. But this place…” She looked around, as if seeing the apartment for the first time in a while. “This stayed.”

You leaned forward, your elbows on your knees. “I can’t believe you were twenty-one, married with a baby, in a whole different country.”

Gia tilted her head at you. “And I can’t believe you let three glitter-obsessed twenty-somethings drag you to Italy and then leave you behind.”

You laughed. “You deserved better company,” she said. “So did I, once. I think we’ve both fixed that tonight.”

Her words hung in the air—gentle, but undeniably intimate. She offered you her hand again. Not to lead you anywhere this time. Just to bring you closer.

You took it. And for the first time since you landed in Italy, you felt like you’d arrived somewhere that truly wanted you.

You were still holding her hand when she gave it the slightest tug. It wasn’t forceful—just a subtle, unspoken suggestion. An invitation.

And then you were moving, your knees brushing the edge of her chair, her legs parting slightly to make space for you, your breath catching as she guided you down, slow and careful, into her lap.

One of her arms circled your waist. The other slid up your back, fingers splaying gently across your spine. She was so warm beneath you—so solid. Her perfume lingered, soft and heady, and your hands had nowhere to go except into the folds of her shirt, the line of her shoulder, the curve of her collarbone.

She looked up at you like she’d already imagined this moment a hundred times. “You don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” she murmured, brushing her knuckles along your cheek. “But you want to.” You did. You leaned down, slow, and she met you halfway.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t some wild, frantic thing. It was deep and knowing, like she’d been waiting to taste you since the moment she saw you standing alone in the piazza. Her hand slid up into your hair, cradling the back of your head, the other holding you firmly in place in her lap.

When you finally pulled back, your lips tingling and your heart racing, Gia looked at you with something like amusement sparkling behind her dark eyes.

She ran her thumb lightly along your bottom lip. “You know,” she said, voice low and warm, “for someone who got flustered about a menu, you’re surprisingly bold.”

You blushed, and she smiled like she liked that. Then, after a pause, she added, casually: “And in case it wasn’t obvious—” She leaned in, her mouth brushing your ear. “—I’m clearly not bothered by an age gap.”

You laughed, breathless. “I couldn’t tell,” you teased. Her hand slid down your back, resting just above the curve of your hips. She raised a brow. “Want to see just how unbothered I am?”

Gia didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t need one. Not with the way you looked at her. Not with the way your thighs pressed together in her lap, your breath catching, your pupils blown wide.

She cupped your jaw, tilting your face just enough to kiss you again—deeper this time. Her tongue slid past your lips, slow and deliberate, and you whimpered into her mouth. That earned you a soft hum from her, low in her throat, as if to say, yes, that’s it, let me hear you.

“You’re so easy to read,” she murmured against your lips. “So soft already.” You nodded, breathless. “Gia…”

“Mmm.” Her fingers slid under your shirt, dragging up your back with deliberate slowness. “Say that again.”

“Gia,” you whispered, shakier this time.

Her hand moved to your throat—not tight, just resting there, firm and claiming. Her other hand slid between your thighs, pressing through your clothes with practiced pressure.

“You’ve been aching for someone to take care of you, haven’t you?” she murmured. “All that loneliness… all that sweetness going to waste. Poor girl.” You whined, hips arching forward. She clicked her tongue softly. “Shhh. Let me.”

She shifted, one hand at your back guiding you down off her lap and onto the rug in front of her chair. You blinked, dazed, looking up at her. She stretched like a woman perfectly in control, legs spreading, silk blouse half undone, her mouth still red from kissing you.

“Take your clothes off,” she said, voice calm but with no room for argument.

You obeyed. She didn’t rush you—but she watched you like you were unwrapping a gift meant just for her. When you were bare, flushed and trembling, she reached down and tilted your chin up.

“Look at you. Gorgeous little thing.” Her thumb brushed your lip again, then slid inside your mouth, and you sucked on it instinctively, your cheeks burning. Her eyes darkened. “Good girl.”

She guided you back up onto her lap, but this time you were straddling one of her thighs—slick and aching, your hands clinging to her shoulders, her leg pressed right where you needed it. You rocked against her thigh once—just once—and she grabbed a fistful of your hair.

“Not until I say.” You froze, panting. She leaned in, kissing your neck, your jaw, your ear. “I know how needy you are,” she whispered. “But you’re going to cum when I tell you to. Understood?”

“Yes, Gia,” you gasped.

“Good girl.” Her hand slipped between your legs and found you soaked. She groaned softly, like she couldn’t wait to ruin you.

“Open for me,” she said, and you did—legs trembling as her fingers slid into you, slow but sure.

You moaned, arching forward, mouth on her shoulder, trying to stay still as she fucked you with steady, practiced rhythm. Her thumb found your clit and circled it, cruelly light, until your thighs shook.

“You’re going to cum for me,” she whispered, her voice like velvet over steel. “Right now.” And you did.

It hit fast, sharp, overwhelming. You clung to her, crying out her name as your body pulsed and shuddered in her arms. She held you through it, murmuring praise against your skin. “There’s my girl. That’s it. So good for me.”

You sagged against her, breathless and trembling, hips still twitching against the firm muscle of her thigh beneath her pants. She was solid, grounding—you didn’t want to move, didn’t want to be anywhere else.

But Gia had other plans. She kissed the side of your neck, slow and indulgent, then murmured, “Down, cara. On your knees for me.”

You obeyed without thinking, dazed and pliant, sliding to the floor as she stood and stepped back just enough. Her hands went to her waistband, and she pushed her pants down with that same deliberate ease that had undone you from the start.

And then—there she was. Bare from the waist down. And unshaven. You froze. Stared. It wasn’t what you expected. It was more.

Dark, soft curls framed the slick heat between her legs, and you couldn’t help it, your breath caught, mouth falling open slightly. It hit you low in your belly, a flush blooming beneath your skin. Raw. Real. Unapologetic. It suited her.

You didn’t even realize you were leaning in until she laughed. Gia noticed. Of course she noticed.

She let out a low, wicked chuckle, brushing her fingers through her tousled hair as she looked down at you, still kneeling between her legs like you belonged there.

“Ti piace così, eh?” she said, half to herself. You blinked, your lips parting. “I… what?” Her grin only deepened. “Ti piace pelosa?”

You shook your head a little—not to disagree, but because you didn’t understand. You could guess, but your brain felt like it had been wiped clean by the sound of her voice, by the sight of her body.

Gia tilted her head, eyes glittering with amusement. Then, slowly, she reached down and cupped herself, spreading the soft, dark curls between her thighs with one lazy hand.

“Do you like it hairy?” she translated, her accent thick, words drawn out. “Natural.” You nodded, almost frantically. “Yes. God, yes.”

That laugh again, low, indulgent. She stood, letting your eyes drag up her body as she moved. Then she sat back down on the couch with an elegance that only made what she did next even filthier.

She spread her legs wide, planting her feet flat on the floor. Her posture was casual, confident—her back leaned just slightly against the cushions, arms draped along the top—but her thighs were parted as wide as they could go, her cunt completely bare to you now.

“You want to look?” she asked, voice low and teasing. “Then look, baby.” And fuck, did you.

The soft patch of dark curls framed everything—her lips flushed, glistening, just barely parted. You could see where her wetness had clung to the hair, shining in the light. The contrast between her mature body and how obscenely exposed she was made your head spin.

She dragged two fingers slowly through the hair, down over her folds, then back up. “Come closer,” she said, crooking one finger. You crawled without thinking.

Now she was right in front of you again, close enough that the scent of her washed over you—musky, thick, still damp from your mouth. You settled between her knees, but made no move to touch. You couldn’t. You didn’t dare.

Gia smirked. “Guarda quanto sei carina così. In ginocchio per la figa.”

You didn’t understand the words, but the tone made your pulse jump. She was talking about you—cooing almost. You knew enough to know she was saying something filthy and fond all at once.

“I… I don’t know what that means,” you whispered, flushed. She leaned forward and caught your chin between her fingers.

“It means,” she said, voice like velvet over heat, “you look so fucking pretty on your knees for my pussy.”

You whimpered. Gia’s eyes burned. “This is what women look like,” she murmured, her thumb rubbing your bottom lip. “Real women. Not those waxed little things you’re used to.”

She slid her fingers back down between her thighs, dragging them through the curls again, parting herself. Her other hand slid into your hair, gently guiding your gaze. “Messy. Wet. Hairy. And mine,” she said softly. “You’re mine. Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you breathed. “Please. I am.” She spread herself wider, two fingers slipping between her lips and pulling her open for you. “Then prove it.”

Your mouth was on her in a second, your tongue licking through the thick hair and soft folds, worshipful, reverent. Gia leaned back and sighed, her thighs tightening around your head, her fingers still in your hair.

“Brava ragazza,” she whispered, “leccami bene. Fai la brava per la tua donna.”

Good girl… lick me well. Be good for your woman.

You didn’t need a translation. You just obeyed.

Gia let you worship her for a moment longer—your mouth soft against her, your tongue reverent as it moved through her curls and folds. But soon her fingers curled under your chin, gently lifting your head.

“Basta così,” she murmured. “Enough.” You blinked up at her, lips wet, cheeks flushed, breath trembling. “I want your fingers now,” she said softly. “You’re going to put them inside me and make me cum. Just like that. Nothing fancy. Just fill me.”

You swallowed, nodding.

Gia reached down and took your hand. She brought it to her mouth, sucked your fingers one by one, slow and deliberate. Her eyes didn’t leave yours. Then she guided them down.

“Slow,” she whispered, dragging your hand between her legs. “You treat me like something fragile, not because I am—but because you know how good I deserve to be fucked.”

You whimpered at that, and she smiled like she knew you would. “Go on,” she said. “Push in.”

You pressed two fingers forward and felt her, hot, slick, already fluttering around you. She took you easily, like her body had been waiting for this all morning.

“Così… brava,” she whispered, hips twitching.

Like that… good girl.

“Move them,” she said. “In and out. Slow. I want to feel every inch of you.” You did as you were told—thrusting slowly, curling your fingers just the way she liked. Gia moaned, head tipping back, one hand in her own hair, the other sliding down to rub slow, lazy circles over her clit.

“Cristo,” she muttered under her breath. “Senti quanto sono bagnata per te…”

Fuck… feel how wet I am for you…

You couldn’t stop watching her—how undone she looked, spread out for you on the couch, legs wide, pussy full of your fingers, her own hand between her thighs. Her k curls were matted with slick now, glistening, sticky, perfect.

“Faster now,” she commanded. You sped up, and she moaned, rocking into your touch. “Curl them. Like that. Yes. Just like that, tesoro. Don’t you dare stop until I say.”

Her thighs trembled around your wrist. “Sì, così… Dio, non fermarti…” she panted. “Sto per venire. Ti vengo addosso tutta…”

Yes, like that… God, don’t stop… I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum all over you…

And then she did—her pussy clenching around your fingers, her cry raw and beautiful. Her hips bucked, grinding against you as her orgasm rippled through her. You kept your fingers moving until she gasped your name and pulled your hand away with a shaky grip.

She collapsed back into the couch, chest heaving, her inner thighs slick and shining, her cunt still twitching.

You sat frozen, panting, hand soaked. Gia opened her eyes lazily and looked at you—really looked at you—like you were the most delicious, dangerous thing she’d ever tasted.

“Porca puttana,” she breathed.

You flushed. “What… what does that mean?” Gia only smiled. “Ask me again after you do it with your mouth next time.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You didn’t wake all at once.

It was a slow pull—your body heavy with sleep, the air warm and sunlit through gauzy curtains. You shifted under the soft sheets and felt it immediately: her fingers. Deep inside you, slow and deliberate, dragging pleasure from you before your mind could even catch up.

“Gia,” you gasped, barely awake. “Shhh.” Her voice was low and calm behind you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Just let me.”

You were curled on your side, one of her arms wrapped tightly around your waist, the other hand buried between your legs, fucking you open with the same quiet confidence she always carried.

Your body trembled, already soaked, already aching. You tried to grind back into her, but she held you still.

“Impatient little thing,” she murmured, her fingers curling just right. “You’re never going to get enough of me, are you?” You moaned, helpless.

“Such a sweet body,” she breathed. “Always ready for me. You should’ve come home with me the first night I saw you. I would’ve had you ruined by morning.”

You whimpered, your thighs starting to shake as she pressed her thumb to your clit, circling slow, devastating patterns. “You want to cum again?” she asked, not stopping. “Yes, please—God, please—”

“Then be a good girl and listen.” You nodded frantically.

“We’re going to get your things this afternoon,” she said, voice firm, like it was already decided. “You’re not staying with those little tourists one more night. You’re staying here. With me.”

Her fingers pumped deeper, faster. You moaned, your hips rocking against her hand, tears pricking your eyes from how badly you needed it.

“No more being ditched. No more being forgotten,” Gia whispered, her breath hot against your neck. “You’re mine now. And I take care of what’s mine.”

You came with a cry, your body seizing in her arms, her hand relentless until you were shaking and gasping and completely undone—again.

She held you through it, kissed your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. Then she pulled her fingers from you, slow and wet, and sucked them into her mouth with a quiet hum of satisfaction.

“Mmm,” she whispered. “Sweet from the start. But now you taste like you belong to me.” You could barely breathe, let alone answer, but she didn’t need you to. She already knew.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You hadn’t said much in the cab.

Gia’s hand was resting over yours, thumb brushing slow, grounding strokes against your knuckles. You were still sore between your thighs, still aching in the sweetest way, but your heart thudded with something closer to nerves now.

“They’ll probably be gone,” you murmured. Gia glanced sideways at you, all steel and silk. “And if they’re not?” You hesitated. “Then I want to get my stuff and leave. I don’t want to fight.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll handle it.” She said it like a promise. When you reached the Airbnb, you held your breath out of habit. The door was unlocked. You stepped inside—and froze.

All three of them were there.

One was splayed dramatically on the couch, sunglasses still on. Another was scrolling on her phone with a half-eaten croissant in hand. The third was picking through a shopping bag, clearly hungover and cranky.

They looked up when you walked in.

Then they really looked—eyes widening when they clocked Gia beside you. Her heels clicked softly on the tile, her black linen shirt tucked in perfectly, a fresh espresso in one hand and her other arm snug around your waist like you were a prize she had every intention of keeping.

“Well, look who finally made it back,” one of them snorted. “Jesus, we thought you got kidnapped.” Gia gave a soft, mirthless laugh. “No. She was with me.”

Her Italian accent rolled rich over the words. “And I take better care of her than any of you ever did.” The one on the couch pulled down her sunglasses. “Okay, damn. Who’s this, your rich aunt?”

Before you could even answer, Gia turned to you and spoke in a low, proud murmur: “Go pack, tesoro. I’ll take care of this.”

You nodded and slipped toward the bedroom, your chest tight, heart pounding. Behind you, you heard Gia’s voice sharpen: “You left her alone in a foreign country. You ditched her—repeatedly. And now you want to act surprised she found someone who actually gives a damn?”

There was a beat of silence. “We didn’t think she’d care,” someone muttered. “She never speaks up anyway.”

Gia’s voice dropped lower. “No, she doesn’t. Because people like you don’t listen.” Another pause. You could almost feel the tension radiating from the living room. “You have no idea how lucky you were to know her,” Gia continued. “But that time’s over.”

When you came back out with your suitcase in tow, Gia was standing by the door, arms crossed, her jaw set like she’d dared one of them to speak again.

They didn’t. She took your bag from you, kissed your temple, and opened the door. “Let’s go, amore.” And with that, she walked you out without a backward glance.

Back at Gia’s apartment, everything felt different.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the weight of the morning dropped away. You stepped out of your shoes, and she was already there—gently tugging your suitcase from your hand, setting it aside like it was something that didn’t matter anymore.

“You did well,” she said softly, brushing her hand down your arm. “Better than I expected.”

“I was shaking the whole time,” you admitted with a weak laugh. “Still,” she said, leaning in to press a slow kiss to your cheek. “You didn’t run. That’s enough for me.”

You stood there a beat, just breathing her in. Then she tilted her head. “Come,” she said. “Sit with me.”

You followed her to the couch—her couch, where she’d pulled you into her lap last night like you belonged there. She sat down first, legs crossed, and guided you effortlessly into place between them, your back pressed to her chest.

Her hands found your hips, then slid to rest lightly on your thighs. “You’re staying here now,” she murmured, lips brushing the side of your neck.

You nodded. “For good,” she added, firmer this time. You hesitated, just for a second. Gia felt it. One of her hands came up to cradle your jaw, angling your head toward her just slightly. “How long is your visa?” she asked.

The question was soft, but there was something sharp behind it—like she was already planning what to do if she didn’t like the answer.

“Three months,” you said. “Well… two and a half now.” She hummed, considering. Her thumb brushed your cheek. “Plenty of time.”

“For what?” you asked. Gia smiled against your skin. “To make you never want to leave.” She kissed your jaw, then lower—your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.

“And if I’m very persuasive,” she added, her voice velvet, “maybe you won’t have to.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It had been a month. Thirty mornings of waking up tangled in linen sheets and Gia’s perfume, thirty nights of whispered Italian and wet kisses in dark hallways, thirty days of being adored and absolutely spoiled.

You didn’t even recognize the woman in the shop windows anymore.

The dress you wore now was soft as water, wine-colored silk that caught every ray of the Roman sun. Your sandals were Italian leather, thin and elegant, laced up your calves. Gia had insisted on the earrings—small pearls and gold—and the perfume behind your ears was one she said made you “smell like sex and flowers.”

She walked beside you, dressed in all cream linen, sunglasses pushed high on her curls, hand firmly on your lower back. She didn’t need to mark you. The way you leaned into her did it for her.

Then—“Oh my God,” someone said across the piazza. “Wait. Is that her?” You stiffened. Gia’s hand slid up to your waist instinctively, protective.

It was them. Your “friends.” The ones who ditched you in Florence, who had ghosted your texts for the rest of the trip, who laughed too loud and too long at the table of some restaurant that smelled like stale wine and clove cigarettes. They were sitting outside again, sunglasses crooked, voices high, drinking too much rosé before noon.

They recognized you instantly. And they were staring. “Is that—? That’s her!” one of them said, rising halfway from her seat. “You guys—look at her! With that—with that Italian woman!”

Gia turned her head, smiled and slipped her arm around your waist like she was claiming you all over again.

You kissed her cheek without thinking, and she tilted your chin up and kissed you properly—mouth soft, slow, possessive, like you were a prize worth showing off. When she pulled back, she murmured, “Fanno davvero schifo, amore mio.”

They really are disgusting, my love.

Your old friends’ jaws dropped. “Who’s the old lady, babe?” one of them called, laughing, as if it wasn’t desperate.

Gia didn’t even blink. She pulled her sunglasses off, stared the woman down, and said in crystal-clear English: “The old lady’s fucking her like she deserves, and buying her better clothes than you’ve ever worn.”

The laughter died.

Gia took your hand and turned you away without another word, chin high, every inch of her exuding class, control, and power. You followed without looking back, your pulse pounding, your smile hidden behind your hand.

As you rounded the corner, Gia looked at you again. “You should’ve let me curse them out in Italian,” she murmured, smiling faintly. “But I figured that was clear enough.”

You bit your lip, heart racing. “I liked it,” you said. “A lot.” Gia lifted your hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Good. Because if anyone speaks to you like that again, I’ll ruin their life in two languages.”

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