Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109637 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 439(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
He gives the tip of my nose a quick kiss. “If you’re taking requests, I prefer that you melt on my mouth.”
“Sweet talker.” I glance at the car, truly taking it in now that I’ve had my Gabriel fix. “Holy shit, that’s a Ferrari 488GTB Spider.”
He blinks, swaying a little. “You’ve just given me a hard-on.”
He’s not lying; I can feel it rise against my belly. I grin, pressing into him just a little.
“Will you be able to drive? Or should we take care of it now?”
His lips purse, but there’s a glint in his eye that promises retribution. With a subtle shift of his hips, he prods my belly with that hard dick, then moves me away from him.
“Get in the car, chatty girl, before I call this trip off and take you to bed instead.”
“As good as that sounds, the car is calling my name.” And Gabriel needs this vacation. I have plans for him. Most of them dirty, all of them fun.
Gabriel opens the door for me. “Thrown over for a car, lovely.”
I grin. “Not just any car.”
And oh what a car it is. The bucket seats are dark grey leather, buttery soft. They’re designed to hold your ass in place as the car zooms down the road, but I’m not complaining. I touch the gray and red dash as Gabriel closes my door.
He tips the bellhop after the luggage is placed in the front trunk, and a moment later, he’s sliding into his seat. With a push of a button, the car purrs to life.
“Is this what you were picking up?” I ask, stroking the seat leather.
“Yes.” For a second, his expression is so pleased he looks almost boyish, but it soon morphs into the cool loftiness he uses when giving a lecture. “If we’re going to drive along the Almalfi coast, we’re going to do it in style.”
So very Gabriel.
“How did you get your hands on one of these babies? Aren’t they, like, impossible to buy?”
“Not if you’re on a list,” he says as he pulls into traffic.
Good Lord, there is something sexy about a man who knows how to handle a car. If Ferrari execs saw Gabriel driving this, I’m certain they’d try to hire him as a spokesmodel.
“Of course you’re on a list. Why am I not surprised?”
He glances my way. “How do you know about this car, anyway? From what I’ve heard, you don’t even know how to drive.”
“Hey, a lot of New Yorkers don’t.”
“This sad state of affairs must be rectified as soon as I buy a proper car to teach you in. Now, answer the question.”
“I read your car magazines when I got bored one day.” I turn a little in my seat to face him. “You realize they’re the male equivalent of Vogue.”
He gives me a sly grin. “But far sexier.”
The drive goes quickly, in part because the car is speedy and luxurious, in part because the scenery is so blindingly beautiful, but mostly because I’m with Gabriel.
We never run out of things to talk about, whether it be music or movies or speculating on history as we drive by through the area where they’ve excavated parts of Pompeii and Herculaneum—both sites he promises to take me on day trips to explore. And I realize that no one else sees him this way, as the man who has tons of tidbits of knowledge stored up, the man who smiles frequently and with ease, and who teases me with jokes as lame as my own.
It’s afternoon when we arrive in Positano, a town so picturesque it brings a lump to my throat. Colorful stucco buildings that look almost Moorish in architecture cling to the steep green mountains that plunge toward the turquoise sea. The air is fresh, tinged with hints of sweet lemon and salty ocean.
Gabriel’s house is a little way out, nestled between the crags of two mountain outcrops and guarded by a tall gate. You can’t tell much about it from the drive, but inside it’s all crisp white stucco walls, airy spaces that face the blue sea, with endless French doors open to the breeze.
A small, elderly lady greets us. Gabriel kisses her cheeks and talks to her in Italian. I’ve never had a fetish for foreign languages until I heard him speak in one. He introduces her to me. Martina, who is both cook and housekeeper, doesn’t speak English, but she doesn’t need to. Her welcoming smile says enough. She leaves us, bustling off toward the back of the house.
“How many languages do you know?” I ask him. I’ve heard him speak French and Spanish on the tour.
“English, of course. Italian, French, Spanish, a little German, and a bit of Portuguese. A few phrases in Japanese.”
“You’re killing me.”
“Languages always came naturally to me.” A smug smile unfurls. “Your expression, Darling… You like that?”