Chapter Text
Melissa hadn’t been on vacation in god knows how long. Being a teacher was great, truly, but she couldn't afford luxury vacations. It was hard enough to pay her mortgage on time and keep the house running. But she had recently come into some money. Not a huge amount, but enough to travel. Gambling had finally paid off when she won big on the Saturday night lottery. She donated some money to the school and then booked a trip to Sicily.
Melissa didn’t like to admit it to her peers, but she had never been to Sicily before. It made her look and feel like a bad Sicilian. But she just never had the money. And Joe never wanted to go. He was more of a Florida guy. And Florida was great, but it did not compare to the land of Melissa’s people. And the second she set foot in her ancestral homeland, she felt all of her stresses melt away. That was until she saw you.
You walk around the edge of the pool in a skimpy bikini that Melissa thinks should be illegal, and you drop your big floppy hat and sunglasses on a deck chair. Your hair blows in the gentle breeze, and Melissa scoffs, watching you over her book as she lounges on a chair under an umbrella next to the pool. She peers through her sunglasses and watches as you lift your hands into your hair. You’re moving in slow motion, and she can’t stop watching. You turn around to kick off your flip-flops, and her eyes move to your ass. Round and full, like someone who does squats daily. You’re not skinny, not by any means. You have curves and a belly, and somehow that makes Melissa even angrier. That your body type is similar to hers, and yet you can walk around looking like THAT.
She rolls her eyes and looks back at her book, right as you swan dive into the pool and send water flying all over her.
“Hey!” she yells, standing and shaking her damp book dramatically. You don’t hear her, of course, you’re swimming across the bottom of the pool like a mystical mermaid. And when you surface, you shake your hair like you’re in a shampoo commercial, and she frowns at you.
She gathers her things, closing her book and tossing her towel over her shoulder as she storms away from the pool. Literally storms. That’s the first time you notice her. She’s wearing a pool wrap that is colourful and sheer. As she walks, you can see the curve of her ass and hips through the fabric, and the black bikini she’s wearing underneath. She is walking with urgency, and you wonder where someone could be going in such a hurry.
The next time you see her, you’re in a small local market. You notice her lift a juicy orange to her nose and sniff. She looks so relaxed, her hair cascading down her back, the sun beating off her shiny, bare face. You’re talking in Italian to a sweet older woman– someone’s Nonna, who invites you to come and meet her grandson. You laugh, blushing as you tuck your hair behind your ear. That’s when Melissa notices you again, and she rolls her eyes as she listens to you speak in perfectly fluent Italian. She hates the way your face lights up when you laugh, and she watches as your fingers tuck your perfect, fluffy hair away from your face.
And you see her out of the corner of your eye, and you turn to wave at her, offering her a small smile. She doesn’t smile in return; she huffs and turns away from you. You can imagine the eye roll under her sunglasses, and you laugh. You thank the nonna for the invitation but politely decline. She insists you take some of her fresh bread instead, and you do. You give her a polite nod as you walk away. You find yourself searching for the angry redhead, but she’s long gone.
That evening at dinner, the redhead is sitting alone again. She’s always alone. But you are, too. If you were brave enough, you’d ask to sit with her, but instead you watch her from across the room. Her breasts are practically spilling from her dress, and she’s sipping a glass of wine as she eats. The faces she pulls when she takes a mouthful of food are almost too much, and you have to look away. You find yourself wondering if her sex face looks similar. You have no idea why you think about that. The woman clearly hates you– and you’ve never even spoken to her before.
You don’t even realise you’re in a trance, staring at her until she looks up and catches your eye. You cough, nearly choking on your wine as you look away. You wonder if she can tell what you’re thinking about.
You don’t finish your food. You decide to grab your book from your room and head to the beach before sunset. You slip into your bikini again and hurry down, hoping the fresh air will clear your head. It doesn’t help that the book you’ve brought with you is an erotic fantasy. You find yourself lying in the sand, imagining the characters are you and the redhead. The mysterious, gorgeous, angry lady. You rub your thighs together. The last thing you need is to be done for indecent exposure on a public beach– in Italy of all places!
You close the book and groan, and when you sit up– there she is. Your mystery woman. Her shoes are in her hand, her feet are buried in the sand, and her head is tilted to the sky. The sun is setting, and the golden hour is illuminating her like a goddess. She’s wearing all white. Linen pants and a matching linen shirt that is open, over the top of a tight tank top. The sun behind her creates a perfect silhouette, and it does absolutely nothing to help the aching between your legs. God, how could someone so perfect even exist in this world?
You watch her for a while, bringing your knees to your chest and tilting your head to the side as you study her. She looks so peaceful and free at this moment. She always does, until she sees you. You’re really not sure what you’ve done. You don’t think you’ve ever met her before, so the whole thing is very confusing. But if she needs someone to hate, why not a stranger?
Once the sun has dipped behind the mountains, she turns around, and she rolls her eyes when she sees you. She lifts her sunglasses to her hair, too dark for them now. And the way it moves her hair out of her face so perfectly only makes her hotter.
“Why don’t ya take a picture, it’ll last longer,” she says as she walks across the beach and back towards the hotel. American, that makes sense. You giggle into your folded arms and shake your head. Even her voice was fucking hot. Deep and raspy, and the accent? You couldn’t quite place it yet. But all it did was make you want her more.
You give her a moment's head start before you gather your things and head up to your room. You shower off the sand and find your hand travelling down your body to relieve the ache. You don’t know her name, so you can’t moan it. But you picture her as you touch yourself. And even after you climax so hard your ears ring, the ache remains. You wonder if she’s ever thought about you that way. And little did you know, she was touching herself at the same time. Thinking about the way you looked on the beach, bare-faced and curves on full display in your bikini. You were driving her fucking crazy, and she had no idea why.
The next morning, you pull a baby blue flowy dress over the top of your yellow bikini. You slide your feet into your Birkenstocks and secure your hair into a claw clip. You sling your purse over your shoulder and slide your sunglasses into your hair, backing out of the hotel room and spinning around so fast that you bump into someone. It all happens in slow motion and at the same time too quickly to stop it. You tumble to the floor with a thud and land on something soft– something human.
“I’m so sorry!” you exclaim, your face practically pressed against a pair of breasts.
“Of course it’s you,” she mumbles, and you recognise that voice from the beach. You hold yourself up and look down at her; your hair has fallen out of its clip and is cascading around you. Her eyes are green and sparkly, like emeralds. “You can get off me now,” she says when you don’t move.
“I- uh- sorry,” you say, scrambling to your feet. You grab your sunglasses off the floor and hold out your hand for her. She takes it reluctantly, and you pull her to her feet. “I’m genuinely really sorry.”
“Maybe you should try lookin’ where you’re goin’,” she says, smoothing her shirt over her chest. The chest that you just had your face against. Oh my god.
“Yeah, sorry,” you say quietly, biting your lip as you reach for your claw clip that is now dangling in your hair. “Um, I’m going to the elevator,” you say, and she sighs.
“Me too,” she says. And you walk awkwardly down the hotel hallway to the elevator. You both reach for the button at the same time, and you step back, embarrassed, and you let her press it. Her nails are perfectly manicured, and her fingers are adorned with pretty gold rings. But no wedding ring. When the elevator opens, she steps inside. But you hang back. This seems to anger her more than anything, and she sighs as she holds open the doors.
“Get in then!” She says, and you look up at her.
“Oh, it’s fine. I’ll wait for the next one.”
“If you don’t get in this elevator, so help me god,” she says, and you step inside before she gets angrier. You stand next to her awkwardly, not sure what to do or say. She huffs at the awkward silence, and you turn to face her.
“Have I done something wrong?” you ask curiously.
“You mean besides tackling me to the ground?” she asks.
“Okay, yes. That happened, and I’m sorry,” you say. “But I’ve never met you before. I don’t even know your name, and you’ve been giving me evils since the moment I arrived here,” you blurt out. “Like what the hell did I do to you?”
Instead of responding, she chuckles. “My name is Melissa,” she says, stepping out of the elevator when it reaches the ground floor. “And I have a boat tour to get to.”
“Oh gosh,” you say. “Wouldn’t happen to be Tony’s cruises, would it?” you laugh, and she stops walking and exhales deeply.
“Don’t tell me, you’re going there, too?”
You give her an apologetic smile, and she pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes. “Fine, let’s go.”
You are the last people to arrive at the dock. They nearly left without you, and the only spaces left are two seats uncomfortably close together. Melissa asks if she can swap with someone, but the captain, Tony, says no. You’re stuck together for the three-hour trip around the island. Melissa might be bothered, but you’re certainly not. The way her knee accidentally knocks against yours as the boat goes over waves. The way she instinctively puts her arm across you when the boat gets a bit rocky. If you thought you were turned on before, that was nothing until now. You have to hold back a moan when her hand brushes against your thigh as she reaches for her phone to take a selfie.
“You okay there?” she asks with a chuckle. She knows what she’s doing; she must know.
“F-fine,” you say. “The boat is very bumpy.”
“Never been on a boat before?” she teases, and now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.
“Of course I have,” you say, turning your back to her to look over the side of the boat. Dolphins jump out of the water, and you gasp, reaching for her hand. “Melissa, look,” you say, wanting to share this moment with her– even though she hates you. She gasps, turning with her phone to take some pictures. She laughs, a genuine laugh like an angel. And you smile to yourself, glad you could share that moment with her.
Melissa must have decided at some point that you actually weren’t that bad. The boat stops on a small private beach, where they’ve laid out lunch for everyone. There’s an annoying British couple on their honeymoon who won’t stop shoving their tongues down each other’s throats. An older couple celebrating their retirement. A small family with two young children, one of them barely a year old. And a greasy-looking guy who is travelling alone. Everyone assumes that you and Melissa are together, and she doesn’t correct them. She is warmer now, and she sits with you at lunch. She laughs at your jokes, and you feel a weird fuzziness. It might be from the wine you’re sharing on the beach, but you think it’s something else.
You convince her to swim in the sea with you, and she looks incredible in her bikini. The Italian sun is doing wonders for her, and you notice the freckles that fleck her arms and shoulders, and move across her chest. She is truly beautiful, and she catches you admiring her body– but this time, when she rolls her eyes, it comes with a laugh and a splash of water in your direction.
She sits closer to you on the boat ride back, and her hand brushes against yours a few times. This time, however, you know it’s not an accident. You wrap your pinky around hers and look out at the ocean. Neither of you says anything, but neither of you moves, either.
You eat dinner together that night. You learn all about Melissa Schemmenti, and you love it. She’s from Philly, that’s why you couldn’t recognise the accent. You’ve never been there before. And she’s a teacher, 2nd grade. Somehow, that makes her even more appealing.
She walks you to your room, and your gazes linger on one another for a moment. “Would you like to hang out tomorrow?” you ask. “Unless you have plans, of course.”
“No plans,” she smiles. Her smile is much nicer than her scowl, and she winks at you as she walks away. You watch her walk down the hall and stop at her own room. The fire between your legs is getting hotter, but you just stand there, like your legs are cemented to the ground. She disappears into her room, and you step into yours, heading straight for the bed. The ache is unbearable, and your fingers do nothing to relieve it. You whine and groan, and nothing happens. Your body knows that your fingers aren't good enough anymore, and it won’t give up that easily.
You barely sleep that night.
The next morning, Melissa joins you for breakfast. Her foot brushes against yours under the table, and she’s playing a dangerous game. You spend the day exploring. You stumble upon another small market, and you enjoy lunch in a proper Italian cafe where no one speaks a word of English. Melissa is impressed with how fluently you speak Italian. And you tell her about your nonna, the one who taught you everything you knew. By the end of the day, you find yourselves on loungers at the beach, watching the sun go down.
Though neither of you is really watching the sunset, your eyes are locked on each other. You bite your lip, and she sighs.
“You gotta stop doing that, hon,” she whispers.
“Doing what?” you ask curiously, looking at her as she smiles shyly.
“Biting your lip like that,” she says. “I’ve been watching you tug that lip between your teeth all day and wishing it was between my teeth instead.”
“Oh,” you say, trying not to whimper as you look at her.