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I glanced at the man at the other table, caught him peeking at us, and then decided to lay it all on the line, or the tabletop as the case may be.
“Okay, reply to this.” Donvino waited, his lips quivering with mirth. “Do you prefer to give men rides or women or both?” The man next to us coughed on his coffee. Served him right for eavesdropping. Donvino’s gaze darted to the fellow trying to hide his hacking and then darted back to me. “Well?”
“I am happy to give all who need a ride one,” he cleverly answered, pushed to his feet, and slipped a few euros under his empty cup. “We must go now. I have to get you home to signora, then work a shift at the restaurant.”
“Oh, of course.” I slugged back the final dredges of my cappuccino and added another few euros to the table even though I was aware tipping wasn’t a thing here as it was back in the States. “Where do you work? Perhaps I can bribe my aunt to go out to eat tonight.”
He stepped round the table, took my arm as if I were an elderly doddering gent, and led me across the street. I didn’t object. Midway through, I slid my hand into the crook of his beefy arm as if we were a courting pair taking a midday stroll. Shame the stroll only lasted two minutes.
“I work at a small eatery by the Palazzo Vecchio called La Festa dei Leoni. The owners are family some distance as you say…distant cousin, yes?”
“Yes, that’s right. What do they serve?”
He led me to the Suzuki, slid my primer into one of the saddlebags, and then secured my helmet to my head, his sight capturing mine. Gods he was beautiful.
“You should come and see,” he replied, gave the strap a light tug, and then threw a long, strong leg over the seat.
“Such a damn tease,” I whispered before taking a moment to cross myself.
Perhaps I should have a shot of something more bracing than coffee for the ride home. I’d just have to hold on extra tight. Lucky me.
Chapter Seven
The ride home was just as harrowing.
I spent most of it with my arms tightly around Donvino’s firm chest while my nose rested against the nape of his neck. The man smelled luscious. A heady combo of male and lime. My cock was half-hard the entire way home, which made for an interesting sensation of arousal and terror. Kind of like finding the vampire who’s about to suck you dry incredibly doable.
We zoomed up to a glorious overlook packed with tourists that I begged my driver to stop at, if only just for a moment. He acquiesced, parking his bike down the street and then allowing me to drag him by the wrist to what he informed me was the Piazzale Michelangelo. Knowing this was prime Insta background gold, I indulged in buying a new T-shirt from one of a dozen or so vendors. Then I made Donvino wear it while we walked about the bronze statue of David, the representation of the perfect male paling in comparison to the gorgeous specimen sporting a size-too-small purple tee saying FIRENZE.
Donvino was always smiling, always willing to snap a picture or join me in an image. We dawdled about for a half hour, taking snapshots of me with the city of Florence behind me or him with the Ponte Vecchio to his right and me plastered to his left. I knew without a doubt that every image I shared would pull in hundreds of thousands of likes. Every person who glanced our way—men, women, and children—stared at Donvino. He was just that beautiful. Finally, he nudged me away from the views, his hand on my back, back to his bike. His touch wasn’t possessive exactly, more protective if anything. That made me wonder if he was just being this kind because of my aunt or if he really was just this incredible. I was leaning toward incredible but reality rode my heels, reminding me that most people had selfish motives for their behavior.
“Now, remember to move with the bike,” he said over his shoulder before throttling the Suzuki into Mach. My reply was lost amid the squeal of his back tire, the honk of a horn, and an irate Italian woman calling us something quite passionate. Not nice, I suspected, but passionate. The city began to fall away, the press of tall apartment buildings opening up to more open land, fresher air, and greenery. Our speed did dip a bit, thankfully, but not enough to afford me a better view of the farm where Bianca’s wash snapped in the breeze. A gaggle of geese was alongside the road, shearing off grass—and unsuspecting American flesh—as we roared by.
“Ha, you suck!” I shouted at the gander when he charged behind us but was too slow to catch us this time. Smiling smugly at outfoxing a goose, I snuggled in close, knowing the cuddle session was about over. There were mixed feelings to be sure when Donvino cut the engine half a mile from the gates of Villa Bonetti. “I’m not sure my gaping wound—or my adorable Bison leather boots—are up for a walk. Can you carry me?”
He chuckled and shook his head. Being a darling, he pushed the bike off the road, propped it against a lemon tree, and turned to look down at me.
“Oh, you are a doll!” I leapt into his arms, hands locked behind his head, legs dangling freely. “I hope I’m not too heavy.”
“No, you are featherweight,” he replied, toting me up the hill and into the lush courtyard of my aunt’s home without breaking a sweat. Or not a big sweat. He was glistening a little when he deftly placed my feet on the front step. “There, you are delivered safe and sound.”
“Thank you for the ride and the images. Are you sure you’re okay with me sharing your image on social media? Some people might get the wrong idea,” I teased, rising to my tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek just as Giada opened the front door. Her gaze flicked from her grandson to me, her lips flattening.
“Signora is in the front salon. She would like you to come to her as soon as you are ready, Signor Arlo,” Giada informed me before melting back into the cooler interior of the villa.
Donvino seemed to have lost some of his verve under that unhappy look from his grandmother. “I should go now. I have prep to do for dinner rush.” He moved to take off the T-shirt, but I placed my hand on a pectoral which felt like warm marble.
“Keep it. It’s a thank you for being so kind to me when I was acting like a limpet.”
His dark eyebrow rose, but he smiled just the same, thanked me, and walked off. I watched him go, my gaze moving over his ass and thighs as he slipped out of the property. A few minutes later, I heard the sound of his motorbike kicking off. I skipped inside, spun around, and realized that I had no clue where the salon was.
“Arlo, in here,” I heard my great-aunt call from one of the gilded rooms I had passed several times since arriving. This one was pale tans and whites, frescoes and old paintings of people in velvet hats and white wigs, and a white stone fireplace as big as five of my trunks. In front of the hearth, a leopard skin rug lay on the cool tile floor.
“I hope that’s fake,” I said as I entered, pointing at the feline with the glass eyes staring up at me as I passed.
“It belonged to your great-great-great-grandfather, Mattia Bonetti, who slew the beast on a hunting expedition to Africa. He was accompanied by Camilla Benso, the first prime minister. That is his portraiture on the mantle next to the small oil of Mattia.”
I cared so little about the old men who shot a leopard that I kept my eyes averted from the tiny paintings sitting on even tinier easels on the mantle.
