Page 32 of Secrets of the Brother
Nestled securely between his strong legs, my arms weren’t long enough for me to hold onto the handlebars. My only option was to grasp the sides of his legs for purchase.
Enzo brushed his jaw against my cheek; my head was practically resting against his shoulder.
It was as intimate as an embrace.
The vibration of the motorcycle and his nearness played havoc with my senses.
I was very aware that my skirt was split up the center, exposing my naked thighs straddling his bike. If I looked down, I could see glimpses of the pale pink silk of my panties.
I squeezed my eyes shut and just absorbed the entire experience.
The swift speed of the bike.
The wind rushing past us.
My racing heart.
The feel of his thighs pressing against my hips.
The scruff of his beard rubbing against my cheek.
The rumbling hum of the engine between my thighs.
My mouth opened on a gasp as my fingertips dug into his legs.
Enzo tilted his head. His lips grazed my ear.
I moaned.
A fierce blush bloomed on my cheeks. I prayed he hadn’t heard it.
His deep chuckle told me he had.
His teeth nipped at my earlobe.
My right hand moved to caress my clit before I caught myself. What the hell was I doing?
Was I seriously close to coming just from riding on this man’s motorcycle?
He pulled into the gravel drive of a small farmhouse that was set away from the surrounding houses. There was evidence of recent construction. A few sawhorses on the lawn. Stacks of marble tiles. Recently planted cypress trees and wisteria bushes. And a freshly painted, arched double door.
The moment Enzo turned off the motorcycle and swung his leg over, I awkwardly climbed off without his help. Holding the scraps of my skirt closed, I demanded, “Where are we?”
He grasped my forearm. “Inside.”
He opened the door and thrust me over the threshold. He then closed and locked the doors before crossing his arms and leaning back against the dark wood.
I looked around.
Inside, the walls were freshly painted a welcoming, off-white cream. There was what looked like a newly installed, Roman-inspired, bright mosaic-tiled entrance depicting dancing animals carrying trays laden with fruit.
The entire cottage was furnished in a rustic, elegant manner, filled with gently distressed, sturdy wood furniture topped with handcrafted canary-yellow and cobalt-blue ceramic pieces and the occasional vintage-looking bronze figurine. Through a large, arched doorway, I could just glimpse a classic, Tuscan-style kitchen with open shelves and a farmhouse white porcelain sink.
“Whose cottage is this?”
“Amara Beneventi's. I’m refurbishing it as a wedding present to her and my father.”
I nodded. I remembered my mother complaining about Amara being a gold digger going after Don Cavalieri.
