Roman Crazy (31 page)

“It is from that shop near the office.”

“I love that shop.” I'd mentioned that to Daisy once in passing. “But how did you know?”

He looked sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “I overheard you.”

I took his hand, squeezing. “That was weeks ago.”

Shrugging, he brought my hand up to his lips. “I saw it one afternoon and went in. I thought this would suit you.”

“I love it.” I began knotting it around my neck when he stopped me. “No,
tesoro
. Like this.”

Folding it into a triangle, he rested it near my forehead and pulled it down, sweeping it beneath my hair. “Hold here,” he instructed, placing my hand on top of my head. Then taking the two tails, he wrapped them loosely around my neck before tying them in a small knot at the base of my skull.

He took a deep breath and grinned. Something flickered in his eyes. “What?” I said, self-consciously touching the scarf.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the small rearview mirror.

I smiled at my reflection. The scarf was covering all of my hair. Perfect for a long drive in a convertible.

“I feel like Audrey Hepburn,” I said, leaning over and kissing him soundly.

Stepping away, I slid back into my seat, pulling his hand into my lap and squeezed.

“Ah, one more thing,” he said, plucking a small felt bag from the dashboard.

Inside were a pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses. “You shouldn't have.” Slipping them on, I glanced in the mirror once more before laying another kiss on him. “I love them. Thank you.” I kissed him again, then once more, my own hands now beginning to roam across his shoulders. It was nearly impossible
for me to stop touching him once I got my hands on him again.

Before I knew it he'd pulled me over the gearshift, sitting me in his lap. His hands were holding my rear, kneading and keeping me right against him.

At this rate, we'd be lucky if we made it out of Rome at all.

“ARE YOU SURE
I can't drive?”

At first I thought I'd be disappointed that I couldn't drive, especially when he explained that it was a 1967 Alfa Romeo Duetto. But once we broke free of the crush of traffic in Rome proper, it turned out that watching Marcello drive a sexy car was better than getting to drive. I leaned back against the headrest, enjoying the sun on my face as he masterfully drove through the ribbons of roads in the Italian countryside.

“You can if you like. I cannot promise I would keep my hands to myself, though,” he teased, slipping his hand from the gearshift to my thigh, where he pushed my hem up, up, up.

“Seems like you can't keep your hands to yourself even while you're driving.” Moving his hand back to my knee, I tried to keep my attention on the countryside outside of the car, rather than the dreamy Italian driving it. The landscape was a blur, zipping by in golds and greens. Now that we were out of the city, the air began to change, lighter and more fresh. Like any city, Rome had its own smell. It wasn't always pleasant, but you learned to live with the pockets of funk in order to bask in the incredible aromas of pasta, chocolate, and cheese. But out here, I breathed deep, filling my lungs with the earth. Freshly cut grass, wildflowers, and this inexplicable smell that I couldn't put my finger on.

“So tell me about the festival going on this weekend.”

Marcello lifted our clasped hands to his mouth and gently kissed each of my knuckles while keeping his other hand firmly on the steering wheel. “I was hoping to keep it a surprise. It is nothing fancy, but it gives my family a reason to all get together and visit.”

“And just how many lucky girls have come home with you at festival time?” I teased, turning in my seat to watch him as he drove. He was silent for a moment, then glanced over.

“Zero.”

“Zero?”

“Zero.” He nodded, kissing my hand once more. “I've never brought a girl home with me.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“But . . . why?”

He shrugged.

“But surely there have been other girls,” I said.

He was quiet for a moment. “There have been other girls, this is true.”

Hmm, maybe I didn't want to know this.

“But no one serious?”

“I have dated women, some longer than others. I think you could say there have been a few that were serious. But that is rarely the case.”

“That seems a little lonely,” I said.

“I am rarely alone,” he replied, arching an eyebrow. “I work, Avery, I work
a lot
. I travel
a lot
. I meet women, I date women. But no one I would have considered bringing home.”

“Never met the right girl, I guess,” I mused.

“I did meet the right girl.” He lifted my hand and dropped a kiss on the back of it. “Many years ago.”

Stunned silent, I sat back against my seat, mulling over what he'd just said. He'd never brought a girl home. Did that mean he'd never introduced anyone to his family, either? And if not, what did it mean that he was now? With me?

I was
the
lucky girl. A grin made its way across my face, so big and wide that it made my cheeks hurt as I contemplated how truly lucky I felt. He shot me a knowing smirk, clearly pleased that he'd pleased me so.

Speaking of pleasing . . .

I brought his hand to my lips now, kissing his knuckles as he'd done to mine, then dropping his hand back down onto my knee. He squeezed it lightly and kept time with the music, tapping his left hand on the steering wheel as I slowly, ever so slowly, began to drag his other hand higher and higher along my leg. I watched the countryside speed by on my side, innocently keeping my gaze away from my leg and his hand, now disappearing under the hem of my dress.

Inch by blessed inch, our hands rose. I felt the car sway slightly, saw that we'd crept across the center lane just a bit, and Marcello swerved us back onto our side. I finally turned back to him and found him staring at me, his eyes burning as I continued to move our hands still higher.

“Avery,” he warned, his voice strained. Just then, I slid his hand down along the inside of my thigh, pressing his fingers now between my legs directly over the silk of my panties.

“Do you remember that time,” I purred, my voice husky, even to my own ears, “when you had me outside that restaurant in Nerja?”

The car swerved again, his hand grasping the wheel tightly. I saw his jaw clench. Emboldened, I went on.

“All those people inside, and walking by just around the corner from where we were? And you were on your knees in front of me?”

“Yes,” he whispered, his right hand now moving on its own.

“And you pulled my panties aside with your teeth before your tongue—”

His eyes shot to the rearview mirror before he skidded the car to the side of the road, kicking up a plume of dust behind us. Throwing it into park next to a massive tree, he was out of the door and undoing his belt, watching me through the windshield as he stalked around the car.

“Holy shit,” I choked when he ripped open the passenger door and reached in for my legs.

“I cannot wait,” he said gruffly, shifting me so that my legs were out of the door, feet on the ground, and my rear was at the edge of the seat.

“Take them off,” he ordered, pulling his shaft out of his pants.

He watched me slip my hands beneath my dress, slide my panties down my legs, and leave them hanging around one ankle. His hand gripped his cock, smoothing over it once, twice, before dropping to his knees and pulling out a condom from his pocket. I imagined he was hard from the second I stepped out onto the porch.

“Hurry,” I pleaded, looking up the road and praying no one would drive past.

It was awkward, risky, wild, and the best fucking sex I could have asked for on the side of a deserted Italian road with the man I loved.

His knees were bleeding from the gravel, pants dirty, and my dress was rumpled where he had pulled it down to press his lips to my breasts.

But I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

Afterward, sated and reasonably collected after our roadside romp, we headed back out in the direction of Pienza. Marcello was back to happily humming along with the radio, and I tried to take in as much as I could of the beautiful country. But it was becoming so relaxing, I could feel my eyes getting heavy from the steady vibration of the car.

Checking my watch, I yawned. “Are we close?” I asked, soothed by the gentle ride.

He slowed, turning onto a tree-lined road, a sign pointing up the large hill to Pienza. “Not far now.”

I nestled comfortably into the bucket seat. “Talk to me about something. Anything. I don't want to fall asleep.”

Laughing, he turned off the radio and tapped his chin, thinking. “Ah yes, I will tell you about the year the festival was almost rained out and the cave holding all of the pecorino was almost flooded.”

There was something about his voice. Combined with the rocking sensation of the car, the pressure of his hand on mine and the fullness of my heart made my eyes fluttered closed.

“Mmm, I love pecorino.” I sighed dreamily.

A COOL BREEZE SLIPPED OVER
me. I reached for Marcello, but I was greeted with a handful of cool leather. I was curled up in the passenger seat with a fuzzy blanket over me.

Sitting up, I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and held the ends to my nose. It smelled faintly like Marcello. There
was something about waking up without him that made everything feel off.

Looking around, I saw that we were parked in a wide circular driveway beside an expansive stone farmhouse. Voices carried from behind the house.

I stretched, my back tight from falling asleep crooked. Not at all from getting plowed on the side of the road . . .

I smiled faintly to myself, rolling my shoulders as I contemplated what to do. I didn't want to wander around the grounds without Marcello, but I didn't want to just sit here, either.

The air was perfumed with something I couldn't quite identify. It was warm, earthy, and crisp. Whatever it was made my stomach rumble. There was more laughter, children playing, and soft music on the wind. The children were getting closer; I could hear them yelling back and forth.

“Zio, Zio!” they screamed, Italian for uncle, giggling as they ran over the hill toward me. Marcello was close behind them, carrying a giggling toddler on his shoulders.

A smile split my face so big it hurt my cheeks. Dark curly haired and olive-skinned children screeched to a halt when they saw me standing with the blanket around my shoulders.

When Marcello—and two goats—caught up to them, they latched on to his legs, hugging him tight.

“Oh good, you awake,” he said, stepping closer to give me a kiss on top of my head. His accent was thicker, his lack of contractions more pronounced.

“You changed,” I chirped, trying to smooth out my rumpled dress.

“You look perfect.”

“I'm a mess,” I whispered, finally noticing the enormous Marcello handprint on the bodice of my dress. I gasped. “I can't
meet your family like this, I look like I've been ravaged on the side of the road!”

He winked, whispering back, “You
were
ravaged on the side of the road.”

I tried to scowl, but the baby on his shoulders started laughing at the face I was making. The rest of the children giggled when he dropped down and kissed me again, holding their hands over their mouths in the sweetest way.

He pulled away, smiling and rosy cheeked himself. “These are my nieces and nephews.”

“This is my . . . Avery,” he said in Italian, and the little girls squealed in delight.

The boys, well they weren't very interested in me; instead they took off after the goats. Honest-to-goodness goats.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to the kids in my best Italian. Practice for the big family members. They didn't laugh, so I figured I did okay. He took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm as we walked toward the house. “I still can't believe you didn't wake me up.”

“You were sound asleep.”

“So you left me in the car while you got to change?”

“And snoring,” he added. He lowered the toddler from his shoulders and sent her off with the other little girls, the baby waddling unsurely across the grass.

As we watched them run off, I was able to finally step back and see the house and the grounds. We were standing atop a hill sandwiched between two larger ones, each with a deep-set lush green valley below.

Everything—from the family house behind me to all of the outer buildings that were dotted across the property—had been built to overlook the vineyard below. It stretched in pristine rows
with hundreds of squatty trees filling the area. Between them, paths, nets, and large hip baskets were scattered throughout. In a word, it was breathtaking. Deep, rich greens and browns were set against a perfect cloudless sky.

I wanted to sit in the window of the barn and sketch the view. Or take a bath in the main house with a glass of wine and Marcello behind me and watch the sunset.

“Do you like it?” he asked, wrapping his arms around me. The children's laughter faded, the music was different—a strumming mandolin now filled the calm.

“I love it. It suits you,” I said, leaning into his embrace.

“What does?” He kissed my cheek.

“This place. The country.”
The kids.

Marcello looked different out of the city. His top buttons were undone, his hair was mussed, probably from playing with the children, and while still gorgeous he seemed . . . relaxed.

“You look comfortable out here. Not that you don't in the city, but out here in the wide-open space, all fresh air and warm sun with no hustle and bustle and technology, surrounded by kids, you look . . .
perfect.
”

He remained quiet for a moment.