Roman Crazy
Page 70

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—”