“No, don’t,” he says. “I love it when you have your hair down.”
My heart skips a beat. He loves it? “Oh. Well, you know, it has a mind of its own. It will probably obscure your vision and you’ll be riding blind.”
“I know what I’m getting into,” he says, still holding my arm. His eyes are glimmering teak and mahogany in the morning light.
I clear my throat. “Okay, I’ll leave it down.”
My hair has always been one of my defining features. So much so that my mother would often insist I wear it up so people would focus on me more than the hair. She also said it added too much weight to my face. I actually thought an abundance of hair made everything else look slimmer in comparison. Regardless, though, Derio likes it in all its wild, frizzy, curly glory. No, he loves it.
He smiles at me, looking so satisfied that I can’t help smiling back. Something is going on between us, the air thick with something other than sunshine and the heady promise of a hot day. It both thrills and terrifies me.
But not as much as the bike.
“Come on,” he says and pushes it up the short path. I run up and hold open the small gate so he can get through. He brings the bike around onto Via Tragara and gets on, starting it. The engine roars beneath him and the bike shudders to life. Luckily it’s not as deafening as a Harley but it’s still strong and powerful enough to make the air vibrate.
And he’s sitting on it like a prince on a steed. His entire body relaxes and conforms to it, yet remains completely confident and in control. This is where he belongs. I am hit with the feeling of disappointment that he had to give up racing. It seems like second nature to him.
“Get on,” he says with a pearly grin, cocking his head.
I take in a deep breath, preparing myself for all the awkward, and try to get on. I’m short, though, so the awkward comes quicker than I thought it would. I can’t seem to get my leg over the body.
He tilts the bike over to the side more so I don’t have to lift my leg so high and says, “Just grab on to me and pull yourself up. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
The look in his eyes is so sincere that I can’t help trusting him. I grab ahold of his arms and shoulders for dear life, like he’s a tree I’m trying to climb. He remains firm and unyielding under my monkey grasp and I somehow manage to swing my leg over and position myself until I’m sitting comfortably, my crotch pressed flush to his ass.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“You can hold on to me as we ride, okay?”
I take my hands off his shoulders. My fingers had been digging into his jacket hard enough to leave marks, and I wrap my arms around him, just underneath his chest.
“Where are we going?” I ask him. His hair is practically in my mouth as I talk. He smells so fucking good it takes a lot of control to not bury my nose in it and take a deep breath.
“All over.”
“Please tell me we aren’t heading to Anacapri.”
He glances at me from the side. “No?”
“No,” I say adamantly. “I had fears I was going to throw myself out of a taxi; there’s no way I would survive that crazy zigzag road on the back of a bike. I’m barely surviving just sitting here.”
“But there’s a beautiful garden over there,” he protests.
“No,” I say firmly. “Or I’m getting off this bike right now.”
“Okay, okay,” he concedes, raising his hand in defeat. “I will stick to this side of the island. Capisci?”
“Capisco.”
And then we’re off. To his credit he drives really slowly, so much so that he’s kneading the handles as if he’s trying to stop himself from going faster. Regardless, I’m hanging on to him for dear life, afraid that if I move even an inch I’ll fall off the bike. I can feel his steady heartbeat under my hands and I bury my face into his neck. His stubble is rough but his skin is soft and warm and intoxicating. I so badly want to taste him with my lips, and when I breathe into him I can feel his heart beat faster.
“Don’t you want to see where you’re going?” he asks me, his voice throaty.
“Later,” I mumble into him and now my lips graze his skin. Hot citrus.
I hear his breath hitch and then he revs the bike a bit faster. We zoom somewhere to the right and start heading up an incline. Eventually I find the nerve to raise my head and look around. We’re still not going that fast, which helps, and we’re passing white villa after white villa as we climb past eucalyptus, lime, and palm trees.
“Where are we going?” I ask him, relieved that we’re heading in the opposite direction of Anacapri.
“Roman ruins,” he answers. “Villa Jovis. You’ll like it.”
It’s not long before we’re pulling to a stop outside what looks to be a crumbling old fortress. Derio pays for our two-euro entrance fee at the ticket office. We walk unhurriedly among the ruins as Derio explains about the history of the place. Apparently it was built by the great Roman emperor Tiberius when he came here to escape all the warring and shit going down in Rome at the time, whenever that was.
Listening to Derio talk is far more interesting than actually looking at the ruins. While history has always fascinated me, the ruins are basically just a skeleton of the palace it once was. The rest you have to fill in with your imagination. Lucky for me, Derio really seems to have one as he tells me elaborate stories of the emperor’s debauchery. I can see that creativity runs in the family.