Racing the Sun(66)
He nods. I go on. “So on the one hand he would indulge me with whatever I wanted and on the other he would resent himself for doing so. I went to college, which they paid for, and I guess he thought that once I was in the real world I would smarten up. And I did, I mean I really fucking tried to get a job. But to him, I didn’t try hard enough. When I finally got hired and then fired, it was a major blow, to them as well as me. It made it seem like I couldn’t even hold down a simple job when that was far from the truth . . . though looking back, maybe I could have tried harder. I could have worked harder and longer. Maybe I could have moved up sooner. I wouldn’t have been so expendable.”
“But if you had tried harder, for the wrong job, maybe you would still be stuck there. And you wouldn’t be here, with me.”
I smile gratefully at him. “You’re right. And that’s what I told myself. After that, I decided to just go out into the world and find myself, find something. Maybe then when I came back home, things would be better. And my parents, surprisingly, were on board with this idea. I think my dad thought it was either a last hurrah or a way to teach me responsibility. I had some money saved for the trip, but when I ran out of that they started to pay my way, and then they sold my car to keep me going. Now I don’t have any money at all. Well, aside from the money you’re giving me. That’s why I’ve been in Italy for so long.”
He grins. “That makes me sound like a pimp.”
I can’t help giggling at the way he pronounces pimp. “Yes, my Italian pimp.”
He grabs my hand and his features suddenly turn grave. “But the other day you said your father called you names, like ‘useless.’” He lowers his voice and looks ashamed. “Just as I did. I am so sorry about that.”
“I know you didn’t mean it,” I reassure him. “And maybe my father never meant it either. He’s got a temper and he’s prone to saying the wrong things all the time, though God forbid you ever call him out on it. I think I just frustrate him that I’m not really shaping up to be anything great. Not like him. I’m just this useless, helpless, average little human being who will never live up to her potential.”
As I say the words, I feel bereft. Once again, real life is sneaking into the one I’ve escaped into, reminding me of what’s waiting for me at home and what I’d be leaving behind in Capri.
“Amber,” Derio says softly after a beat. “You are little only in height and nothing else. If your father could see you now, how happy you make me, how happy you make the twins, the way you run this household, helping them, helping all of us, he would take back every wrong thing he’s ever said about you.”
“I make you happy?” I ask as my heart dances hopefully in my chest.
“You make me more than happy,” he says, stopping to cup the back of my neck. He kisses me with a quiet hunger, with determination and promise, and pulls me into him. His tongue is hot and soft and it makes the heat around us intensify. The hardness of his cock digs into my hip and he smiles against my lips. “You make him more than happy, too.”
Tension builds throughout my body like a tightening thread, and the mere feel of him against me makes me wet and wanting. I clench my thighs together and kiss him deeper, harder, my hands digging into his back, feeling his muscles, his strength, his everything. This man, oh how I fucking want this man.
He’s breathing hard when he pulls away. He looks over my shoulder. “The church is right down there, through the trees.”
“I’m not having sex in a church,” I tell him, though considering I’m getting more turned on by the moment, that could soon become a possibility.
He grins, kissing me quickly. “Not in the church.” He takes my hand. “Come on.”
He takes me down the slope, past blooming orchids and green oak until we come across the tiny church of Santa Maria. It’s adorable, with its mission-style bell tower and rustic stone wall. To the other side is nothing but air—it sits on the edge of the cliff.
“Wow,” I say. “I would worship here every day.”
“And I will worship you beside it,” he says. “I think I know of a good place.” He looks around to see if anyone else is watching. I hear voices coming from the church courtyard but I can’t see the culprits. I follow him as we jog quietly through the golden knee-high grass toward the side of the church and sneak along the stone wall, which is high enough to hide both of us.
We round the corner and come to an area of dry, thick grass, shaded by an oak on one side and the wall on the other. At our feet, the rest of Capri and the sea spread before us like a banquet. Unless someone wants to peep over the wall or a paraglider flies past, no one will see us.