Ian awoke a few hours later on the couch. He couldn't remember much of how he had managed to bring his bags up to the apartment. At first, he couldn't even remember where he was or why he had fallen asleep with his clothes on. A heavy feeling in his groin and the packed bags reminded him of the unreal drive from the airport. Without thinking, his hand was slowly rubbing his cock through his pants, pretending it was Amara's hand, just like in the car. Desire washed over him, and he pushed his pants down. Blood rushed to his groin. It felt so good. This was going to be quick, he smiled. Then stopped, for he had suddenly remembered Amara's strange request. She had made him promise not to cum. He was still a little confused about that - had she really meant it? Looking down at his hand on his cock, he let go with a chuckle. His experience with Amara had repeatedly taught him that she meant everything she said. He pulled the pants back up and shook his head, he would think about that later. He could wait, for now.
Ian was still quite groggy from the jetlag, but it was also a long time since had breakfast on the plane. Hungry, he looked in the fridge, hoping that by some miracle, there was food in there. Disappointed, he found that it was not even on. Instead, he turned to the bathroom and began undressing for a shower, but felt something in his pocket. What was this? He fished a folded piece of paper was in his pocket, a little damp though, and instantly he knew what it was; Julia's number! Carefully unfolding it, his heart sank. About half the numbers were smeared and now beyond recognition. How could he have been so stupid? Putting the note on the desk, he copied down the numbers he could recognize and his best guess at the others. What was her full name again? Julia Ga-something, was it Garcia? No, that was gone too. He sighed deeply. Ian had never been good at remembering names. Heading back to the shower, he tried to wash the disappointment away. This was a challenge Ian could solve later when fully awake and his mind at full capacity again. He did love a good challenge, he attempted to remind himself, but it was no use. He was an idiot, the first girl who had ever given him her number, and he had fucked it up.
After the shower, Ian did feel slightly better and began to settle in. The fridge was turned on, he shopped a few necessities nearby store and grabbed a sandwich, which he ate on the way back, then unpacked his bags. Through the trivial tasks, he had difficulties focusing. His mind drifted and took him back to the plane and the high-speed drive through Rome. The experiences still fresh, he soon found himself getting aroused. Briefly, he entertained the idea of jerking off to regain a little bit of focus, but he couldn't shake Amara's strange request from his mind - even if he was more and more sure that it must have been a joke. In the end, he concluded that it was better to be safe than sorry. Another line of thoughts also filled his mind, but this one was more difficult to admit. Was the loss of control turning him on? A strong woman taking control? He had read such erotic stories many years ago in high school, and he had often pretended it was him in them. Chuckling, he remembered how he had renamed the mistress in his favorite story to Miss Perdue, a rivetingly sexy teacher in highschool. He looked down and adjusted his now fully erect cock. Amara was his advisor, maybe not technically, but still, there was an air of authority around her. He really shouldn't pursue this, and those fantasies were something he had left behind a long time ago. In the end, he concluded that he would have to say something. It wasn't proper. Instead, he would focus on finding Julia's number.
Around 7 pm, Ian finally sat down for a break and turned on his computer. Luckily the WiFi was already set up and working well. Next to his laptop, the note from Julia was still tauntingly reminding him of his stupidity. But he wasn't ready to try and tackle that yet. Instead, he saw that Amara had shared a few folders with him; inside was the complete set of the scanned pages from the Angelica Texts. He downloaded one and quickly looked over it. His initial impression was that they were similar to the tiny snippets Ian had seen so far: Completely incomprehensible, the characters, unlike anything he had seen before. The text filled the pages completely, with almost no margin and no paragraphs or sections to it. This was, without a doubt, his biggest challenge yet.
There was an email from Amara reminding him of dinner at 10 pm at a nearby restaurant. He had thought how bad could it be when Amara had told him that Italians ate very late, but the email left no doubt about the time. Besides him, it was addressed to what he guessed were two of her colleagues, Marcus and Roberto. The place sounded fancy, and from a brief look at their webpage, it was clear that while there was no formal dress code, he would be expected to wear something nice. Conflicted, Ian looked at the suit he had put in the closest less than an hour ago. Now happy that he had brought it, he was, as always, skeptical of wearing it. He had, for most of his life, managed fine with jeans and a t-shirt. Honestly, he didn't trust people who needed to wear suits. To him, they were simply trying to hide either their insecurities or that they didn't know what they were talking about. He had always argued that your ideas and thoughts should speak for themselves and didn't need a suit to persuade people, look important, or bolster his confidence. Then again, he didn't want to make a bad impression on the very first night, so as the time neared 10 pm, Ian changed into the suit nonetheless and left for the restaurant.
The evening walk towards the restaurant was everything Ian had hoped Italy would be. Warm enough to be comfortable, but cool enough not to sweat like an overweight American tourist in the Caribbean. The area was full of older buildings, and it slanted down towards the center of the city. The small steep streets soon gave way to wider ones, and the cafes on the corners were joined by larger restaurants and specialty shops. The streets were filling up with people too, and it was clear you could easily have dinner this late in the evening. The Italians were coming and going, enjoying the more temperate hours to their fullest. Everybody was also very well dressed, not overtly sexy nor overly formal, but just fashionable, conveying relaxed confidence. Ian was for once glad he was wearing a suit, even if it, in comparison, felt old and bulky. He had a lot of shopping to do before he fit in properly.
On the way, he wondered how Amara would react after what had happened earlier? Should he say something now? No, he wouldn't mention it. Ignoring it, at least for now, would be for the best. Also, he didn't want to make a scene at the restaurant. Tomorrow instead, at work, that was better.
Finding the restaurant was simple and Amara, who was already there, spotted him as he entered.
"So, you did show, after all."
Ian looked confused.
"You never called me," Amara said with just a hint of annoyance as she hugged him.
"Oh, no... I forgot! I'm really sorry," he responded, and she led him to their table and sat down opposite him, then she ordered a bottle of wine white and sparkling water. Ian considered briefly to ask for still water but let it go.
"Forget about it; you are here now. So did you sleep okay? You seemed a little on edge when I dropped you off," her usual smile was back. The comment innocent and then not really.
"I did, thanks. But about earlier..." Ian regretted immediately starting down that line of conversation.
