I ignore her comments in my head and step out into the sun. Even though I put the caftan on I still feel exposed. It isn’t until I put my dress down on the lounger that I realize I’m not the one exposed here. Derio is standing beside Alfonso and Annabella, leaning against the railing and pointing at a passing yacht.
He’s in a goddamn Speedo.
I kind of freeze. And then I ogle. Because his back is to me and I have a mighty fine view of his body, I feel the need to soak it up while I can. Derio Larosa, without his clothes on, in practically nothing.
As I suspected, his body is pretty much perfect, at least from the rear view. His skin is this uniform reddish brown shade from his feet to the nape of his neck. His legs are firm, muscular and lean, and his ass is jaw-dropping. Like, he definitely has some well-sculpted, high and tight junk in his trunk. It makes me want to bite one of his cheeks.
Then there’s his back, long and rippled with lean muscles, leading up to broad swimmer’s shoulders.
Thankfully my eyes are at his upper portion when he turns around, about to say something. For a moment I forget I’m in a bikini and then I notice he’s kind of staring at me. God, I wish he wasn’t wearing those glasses because I would die to see his eyes. I have no idea if he likes what he sees or not but I bet he can tell that I do.
He smiles, just briefly. “Are you ready to go for a swim? I’m afraid if I don’t take them now they will plot my murder in my sleep.”
“Sure.”
He takes off his sunglasses and turns around, walking toward me to put them on the chair. And now I have a full view of his front. I try not to stare but it’s hard when it’s even more gorgeous than the back. His chest and abs, of course, are trim and well muscled in the way that an athlete’s are, complete with a dusting of trimmed chest hair and treasure trail, but it’s his damn Speedo that has all my attention. The stereotype of the Italian Stallion is not lost on this man. He’s packing heat, and a lot of it, in those tight red bottoms.
Somehow, and I don’t know how, because that banana hammock is just begging for people to stare, I manage to tear my eyes away from him just as he looks up. I can only pray that my face only feels hot and isn’t turning a beet shade of red. Blame it on the sun, blame it on the sun, I chant to myself.
I decide to lead the way, even though I don’t really know where I’m going. I head down a ramp that ends at a platform. A few people are sitting on the edge, their legs dangling off the side, while others jump in. There’s a set of stairs that leads from the platform down to the water. It’s only then that I realize he’s not the only person in this little swimming area who’s in a Speedo. He just happens to be the only man in the history of the bathing suit to make it look oh so fucking good.
I pause at the edge of the steps and then move out of the way as a heavyset woman in a swim cap comes past. She gets halfway in and then launches into a rather elegant crawl. The water does look inviting, and though it’s late afternoon, the sun is bearing down on me.
I turn around, about to ask Derio and his penis whether this is the place to go in the water, but he strides to the edge of the water and does a perfect swan dive off. With a gasp I glance over the edge and see him perfectly enter the water with nary a splash, just where the blue deepens between the rocky crags.
When he surfaces, he’s smiling, white teeth against bronzed skin against azure water. He looks like he’s straight from a damn Dolce & Gabbana ad. Behind me, the twins let out a squeal and then run down the stairs toward the water’s edge.
“Be careful!” I yell after them, wishing I knew it in Italian. Of course they don’t listen but they’re sure-footed and brave as anything and go down the stairs and into the water as fast as they can. I sigh and make my way down the steps, careful not to slip.
The twins swim over to Derio and try to climb on his shoulders, although they’re a bit too big for that. He treads water, trying to keep them above the surface before he shucks them off with a laugh. They splash and kick for the shore, climbing up on the rocks. I watch them carefully, wondering if we have a first aid kit and chastising myself for not bringing one, just in case. I might just be their teacher but I can’t not look out for them.
“Are you coming in?” Derio asks, swimming closer to the edge. He wraps his long fingers along the edge of the stairs and looks up at me. I hate the view of myself that he must have at the moment but he doesn’t seem to mind. “Leoni possono nuotare.”
“Scusi?” I ask.
“Lions can swim,” he translates, though it still doesn’t make much sense. He gestures to my head. “Your hair is like a lion’s mane. You are a lion. La Leonessa. Lions can swim, can they not?”
Lion, huh? I can live with that.
“They sure can,” I tell him proudly. I am a California baby, after all. With a deep breath, I take off the caftan and wedge it between rocks for safekeeping then head down into the water. It’s surprisingly warm, at least compared to the Nor Cal ocean, and soon I’m weightless and immersed in the clearest water I’ve ever swum in.
“Beautiful,” he says to me, swimming closer.
I can’t help smiling. “What is?”
“Everything,” he says, looking around him. Then his eyes lock on mine. “All of this.”
“It’s stunning,” I say briefly, tilting my head back to take in the sun. “It’s like living inside a painting.”
“Yes, that is what everyone says about Capri,” he comments. He swims over to the side to keep an eye on the twins, who are splashing near the steps now, and I can’t help watching the water glide over his dark skin, the look of his well-honed muscles. He moves so fluidly, gracefully, and it strikes me that he moves somewhat the same on land. I wonder what he’s like on the back of bike, racing at full speed. I bet it’s almost supernatural.