Page 55 of The Road to You
“Your mother?!” Her eyes go wide. “I was literally riding you while you were talking to yourmom?”
“She calledthreetimes yesterday while we were doing otherthings,” I say, trying not to laugh. “You left me no choice.”
“Oh my God,” she groans, burying her face in my chest. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
“You didn’t know,” I tease, dragging my fingers along her spine. “And if it makes you feel any better, it was the best phone call of my life.”
She lifts her head just enough to glare at me. “You’re the worst.”
“But you’re still on top of me,” I murmur, my voice dropping.
“Only so I cankill youslowly.”
“Death by orgasm?” I arch an eyebrow. “There are worse ways to go.”
She laughs in spite of herself, and I love that sound, bright and reckless, like she’s forgetting to protect herself from me.
We’re still joined. Still moving, even as we laugh. It’s the most absurdly intimate moment I’ve ever had.
She straightens her spine and rests her hands on my pecks. “Are you ready to pay for this?” She winks at me.
“Absolutely!” I grin.
And, as she promised, she rides me slowly to the brink of pleasure countless times before letting me come with a deep, long groan.
When she lowers herself on my chest, spent and satisfied, I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin.
She’s still catching her breath when I say, almost too softly, “My mom wants to meet you.”
She jerks her head up to look at me, wide-eyed, almostterrified,and I laugh.
I shouldn’t have said that, not now, not like this, but I can’t help it because suddenly, the idea of bringing her home doesn’t scare me. It makes something settle deep in my chest. And maybe I don’t want to fight that.
19
LENA
Ididn’t think olive trees could be romantic, but now, as we cruise down a narrow dirt road flanked by endless, twisted trunks stretching toward the pale blue sky, I’m suddenly convinced they are. The silver-green leaves catch the sunlight just right, glinting like they’re part of some long-forgotten fairy tale. And maybe it feels that way because Michele is next to me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, his jaw is shadowed with stubble, his sunglasses reflecting the road ahead.
I sneak a glance at him. I’ve been doing that all morning.
I said yes. I said yes to meeting his family because he promised they think I’m a friend, not a girlfriend. Because he assured me their expectations were already settled. Because he swore they were down-to-earth and warm and kind.
But mostly, I said yes because when he talks about them, his whole face softens. His voice changes. I’ve seen the way his eyes light up when he mentions his mom’s cooking, his father’s terrible jokes, or how his sister used to drag him into her dance routines as a kid.
There’s so much love there, so much pride, and it reminds me of my own family—loud and affectionate and a little too involved in each other’s lives. I get it. I love it. I miss it.
Still, my stomach won’t stop flipping.
“You’re quiet,” Michele says, not taking his eyes off the road. The car dips slightly as we hit a bump, and I grip the door handle tighter than I mean to.
“I’m just…” I inhale slowly. “Thinking.”
His mouth quirks. “Thinking looks a lot like panicking.”
“I’m not panicking.” I pause. “I’mpre-panicking.There’s a difference.”
He lets out a low laugh, like he’s been expecting this. “We’re twenty minutes from the house. You had all morning to freak out. Why now?”
