Page 47 of The Road to You
And then he’s gone.
I stand there for a moment, heart thudding in my chest, his warmth still burning against my skin. My cheek pulses where his lips touched it, like it’s trying to memorize the shape of his mouth.
Inside my room, I close the door and lean against it for a beat before pushing away and walking toward the bathroom. The tile floor is cool beneath my bare feet, the hotel lights dimmed to a soft glow. I let my dress fall to the floor and step into the shower, turning the water as hot as I can stand it.
The steam fogs the mirror, curls around my body, but it doesn’t melt the thoughts spinning through my head.
I should be tired. IsaidI was tired. But now I’m wide awake. All I can see is Michele. The way he smiled at me at dinner. Theway his voice dipped low when he leaned in. The gentle way he held that little boy’s soccer ball and the way his eyes lingered on mine like I was the only thing in the world he could see.
And then, the limp. The flicker of pain he tries so hard to hide.
I press my palms against the shower wall and lower my head under the stream of water, trying to make sense of the knot in my chest. I’m not just worried about him. It’s more than that.
Icareabout him.
Not as some guy I’ve been flirting with under the sun, not as the man who makes my stomach twist every time he touches me, but ashim. The man who makes me laugh until I cry. The one who watches the sea like it’s speaking to him. Who teaches me how to drive a Vespa even when he’s injured. Who kisses me on the cheek instead of taking what we both clearly want because he’s thinking ofme.
And that terrifies me.
Because I don’t know what will happen after this summer. I don’t know where I’ll go, or what I’ll do, or where he’ll end up if his leg doesn’t heal. I don’t want to imagine a world where he can’t go back to the soccer field, the place that gave him everything. The place he loves.
But part of me is just as scared of going back tomyworld, where things are shallow and uncertain and exhausting, and leaving behind this strange, golden bubble we’ve created together.
I lean my forehead against the tile and sigh. When I close my eyes, I see him again.
Michele.
The curve of his mouth, the heat in his eyes, the mess of curls I want to sink my fingers into. I imagine his hands on me, his mouth finding mine, slow and deliberate. I imagine whatwould’ve happened if that kiss hadn’t landed on my cheek but lower. Real. Hungry.
My breath stutters.
I can’t stop thinking about him. About his deep, chocolate-brown eyes and the light dusting of hair on his chest that I wanted to touch one morning in Tuscany when he walked out of his room in nothing but a towel, scratching his jaw and smiling at me like he didn’t even realize how wrecked he made me.
I exhale a soft sound, cheeks flushing hot, and wrap my arms around myself beneath the water. My skin is sensitive, tingling, like it remembers his touch even though he’s never reallytouchedme like that.
But I want him to.
God, I want him to.
I lower my hand between my thighs, slipping my fingers between the soaking folds of my core. Wet from the arousal I have carried since dinner, and that demands a release. I flicker the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs and moan softly. I pinch my nipple with one hand while the other plunges two digits deep inside my hot core. I pump into my opening hard and fast, pressing my palm against my clit and feeling the pleasure building fast inside my lower belly.
I imagine Michele’s fingers filling me, curling deep inside me, while his luscious lips pull my nipple into his mouth and suck. Hard.
The pleasure washes over me like the waves outside this room, lapping against the rocks and making it impossible to resist moaning Michele’s name while I come undone under the hot shower, thinking about how he would feel here with me. I breathe hard with my forehead pressed against the cold tile walls, my legs struggling to keep me up.
I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, sitting on the edge of the bed with water still dripping from myhair. The sea breeze floats in through the open window, cooling my overheated skin.
The ache in my chest is more than desire. It’s longing. Deep and raw and unexpected.
I’ve known him for barely two months, but I already know this isn’t something I’ll be able to walk away from easily.
I lie down, staring at the ceiling, listening to the waves in the distance.
Somewhere down the hall, Michele is in his room. Probably lying in his own bed. Probably not thinking about me the way I’m thinking about him.
Or maybe he is, and somehow, the idea of that is the only thing that finally lets me fall asleep.
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