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“Can confirm, I said, Italian men make the best lovers. Details, girl, she replied, with a flame emoji. Walking to the kitchen for coffee, I eyed the countertop and flushed; last night, Enzo and I had frantically pushed everything one side. I could make out the outline of a handprint, still visible on the glossy marble countertop. Then I glanced out at the terrace, the railing bright white in the morning sun, remembering how I'd clutched it last night, Enzo's hot breath on the back of my neck. He's very adventurous, I texted back. If there's a solid surface in this place, I think we christened it. Three little dots as Mal typed her reply. That's my kind of sex. I laughed. Before last night, I'd never had sex on a kitchen counter or a terrace partially within view of an entire village. And yet, I'd loved every second of it. I hadn't been worried about breaking rules or being seen. I craved him so bad--- even now, making coffee in the kitchen--- that I thought I might ignite. I think it's my kind of sex now, too, I replied.” — Sarah Penner