His eyes shot to the rearview mirror before he skidded the car to the side of the road, kicking up a plume of dust behind us. Throwing it into park next to a massive tree, he was out of the door and undoing his belt, watching me through the windshield as he stalked around the car.

“Holy shit,” I choked when he ripped open the passenger door and reached in for my legs.

“I cannot wait,” he said gruffly, shifting me so that my legs were out of the door, feet on the ground, and my rear was at the edge of the seat.

“Take them off,” he ordered, pulling his shaft out of his pants.

He watched me slip my hands beneath my dress, slide my panties down my legs, and leave them hanging around one ankle. His hand gripped his cock, smoothing over it once, twice, before dropping to his knees and pulling out a condom from his pocket. I imagined he was hard from the second I stepped out onto the porch.

“Hurry,” I pleaded, looking up the road and praying no one would drive past.

It was awkward, risky, wild, and the best fucking sex I could have asked for on the side of a deserted Italian road with the man I loved.

His knees were bleeding from the gravel, pants dirty, and my dress was rumpled where he had pulled it down to press his lips to my breasts.

But I wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

Afterward, sated and reasonably collected after our roadside romp, we headed back out in the direction of Pienza. Marcello was back to happily humming along with the radio, and I tried to take in as much as I could of the beautiful country. But it was becoming so relaxing, I could feel my eyes getting heavy from the steady vibration of the car.

Checking my watch, I yawned. “Are we close?” I asked, soothed by the gentle ride.

He slowed, turning onto a tree-lined road, a sign pointing up the large hill to Pienza. “Not far now.”

I nestled comfortably into the bucket seat. “Talk to me about something. Anything. I don’t want to fall asleep.”

Laughing, he turned off the radio and tapped his chin, thinking. “Ah yes, I will tell you about the year the festival was almost rained out and the cave holding all of the pecorino was almost flooded.”

There was something about his voice. Combined with the rocking sensation of the car, the pressure of his hand on mine and the fullness of my heart made my eyes fluttered closed.

“Mmm, I love pecorino.” I sighed dreamily.

* * *

A COOL BREEZE SLIPPED OVER me. I reached for Marcello, but I was greeted with a handful of cool leather. I was curled up in the passenger seat with a fuzzy blanket over me.

Sitting up, I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and held the ends to my nose. It smelled faintly like Marcello. There was something about waking up without him that made everything feel off.

Looking around, I saw that we were parked in a wide circular driveway beside an expansive stone farmhouse. Voices carried from behind the house.

I stretched, my back tight from falling asleep crooked. Not at all from getting plowed on the side of the road . . .

I smiled faintly to myself, rolling my shoulders as I contemplated what to do. I didn’t want to wander around the grounds without Marcello, but I didn’t want to just sit here, either.

The air was perfumed with something I couldn’t quite identify. It was warm, earthy, and crisp. Whatever it was made my stomach rumble. There was more laughter, children playing, and soft music on the wind. The children were getting closer; I could hear them yelling back and forth.

“Zio, Zio!” they screamed, Italian for uncle, giggling as they ran over the hill toward me. Marcello was close behind them, carrying a giggling toddler on his shoulders.

A smile split my face so big it hurt my cheeks. Dark curly haired and olive-skinned children screeched to a halt when they saw me standing with the blanket around my shoulders.

When Marcello—and two goats—caught up to them, they latched on to his legs, hugging him tight.

“Oh good, you awake,” he said, stepping closer to give me a kiss on top of my head. His accent was thicker, his lack of contractions more pronounced.

“You changed,” I chirped, trying to smooth out my rumpled dress.

“You look perfect.”

“I’m a mess,” I whispered, finally noticing the enormous Marcello handprint on the bodice of my dress. I gasped. “I can’t meet your family like this, I look like I’ve been ravaged on the side of the road!”

He winked, whispering back, “You were ravaged on the side of the road.”

I tried to scowl, but the baby on his shoulders started laughing at the face I was making. The rest of the children giggled when he dropped down and kissed me again, holding their hands over their mouths in the sweetest way.

He pulled away, smiling and rosy cheeked himself. “These are my nieces and nephews.”

“This is my . . . Avery,” he said in Italian, and the little girls squealed in delight.

The boys, well they weren’t very interested in me; instead they took off after the goats. Honest-to-goodness goats.

“Nice to meet you,” I said to the kids in my best Italian. Practice for the big family members. They didn’t laugh, so I figured I did okay. He took my hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm as we walked toward the house. “I still can’t believe you didn’t wake me up.”

“You were sound asleep.”

“So you left me in the car while you got to change?”

“And snoring,” he added. He lowered the toddler from his shoulders and sent her off with the other little girls, the baby waddling unsurely across the grass.

As we watched them run off, I was able to finally step back and see the house and the grounds. We were standing atop a hill sandwiched between two larger ones, each with a deep-set lush green valley below.