Chapter 3

  I had ridden for nearly a hundred kilometers, the wind biting against my skin, the road stretching endlessly ahead of me.

  I should have felt free.

  But all I felt was wrong.

  The fire I had felt with Paolo the night before still burned under my skin. I had never felt anything like it.

  And yet, I had left. I had told myself it was just one night. A mistake. A detour.

  I had always been focused. A woman on a mission. My career, my goals - those had always come first.

  Love? Romance? Distractions.

  Back in college and grad school, I had dated. A couple of relationships, brief, meaningless. Being a woman in computer science meant I never lacked for options - the odds were good, but the goods were odd.

  They had been smart, sure. Intelligent men, logical, predictable.

  And so damn boring.

  With them, it had been pleasant, structured, safe.

  But Paolo?

  He was none of those things.

  At the bus station, I sat on a cracked plastic bench, my bike tucked into the luggage compartment of a worn - out coach.

  My ticket to Christchurch was already in my hand.

  And yet, I couldn't get on that bus.

  I stared at the cracked pavement, at the flashing sign above the platform. Five minutes to departure.

  Five minutes to make a mistake.

  I didn’t even think. I just stood up, tossed the ticket into the trash, grabbed my bike, and boarded the next bus back.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  By the time I arrived at the campsite, the sky was inky black, the fires low, the world quiet.

  He was still there.

  Sitting outside his tent, sipping a coffee, bare - chested in the moonlight, looking like he had nowhere else to be.

  For a moment, I just watched him.

  He was so damn comfortable in his own skin.

  Not rushing, not chasing, just existing.

  I had never been like that. I had always been going somewhere.

  Maybe that’s what pulled me back.

  Maybe that’s why I was here.

  I stepped forward.

  He looked up, his dark eyes steady, unreadable.

  He wasn’t smug. He wasn’t surprised.

  He just… knew.

  He set his cup down, tilting his head slightly.

  "You came back," he murmured, his voice rough, like gravel warmed by the sun.

  I didn’t answer. There were no words for this.

  Instead, I walked straight to him, grabbed his collar, and kissed him.

  The moment our lips met, everything else disappeared.

  There was no camp, no past, no future.

  Just him. Just this. Just the desperate, aching pull between us.

  His arms wrapped around me, pulling me against him, into him.

  He tasted of coffee, of salt, of something deeper, something I had been craving without even realizing it.

  His hands slid up my back, over my hips, pulling me down onto his lap, his fingers pressing into my skin, marking me.

  My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly. He groaned into my mouth.

  I felt that sound in my bones.

  When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, our breaths mingling.

  "Are you sure?" he whispered, his lips ghosting over my cheek, teasing, tempting.

  I swallowed hard, my fingers still curled in his shirt. "I wasn’t before," I admitted. "But I am now."

  A slow, wicked smile spread across his face.

  And then, without warning, he lifted me into his arms.

  Inside the tent, the air was thick with us.

  He lowered me onto the sleeping bag, his body pressing into mine, his mouth trailing along my jaw, down my throat, his hands sliding beneath my shirt.

  His touch burned, searing paths down my spine, across my stomach, lower…

  I gasped, arching beneath him, my body already his before he even claimed it.

  He murmured something in Italian, words I didn’t understand but felt deep in my bones.

  I shivered.

  He laughed.

  “Ti piace, sì?” His voice was teasing, dark, full of heat.

  I didn’t need a translation.

  I pulled him closer, biting down on his lip, taking what I wanted.

  The first night had been fast. Wild. Desperate.

  This night was different.

  This night was deep, slow, endless.

  He memorized me with his hands, his lips, his body.

  And I let him.

  Over and over, we came together, sweat - slicked skin tangled in sheets, whispered words, ragged breaths.

  I lost count of how many times he made me shatter.

  I lost count of the ways he pulled me apart and put me back together.

  And when it was finally over, when exhaustion wrapped around us like a warm cocoon, I lay tangled in his arms, my head on his chest, my fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against his skin.

  He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering, reluctant to let the moment slip away.

  "You're not leaving again, are you?" he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

  I smiled against his skin, tightening my arm around him. "Not this time."

  He sighed in satisfaction, pulling me closer. “Bene.”

  And just like that, with his heartbeat steady beneath my cheek, I finally let sleep take me.

  I had no idea what the future held.

  But I knew this - this moment, this night - was exactly where I was meant to be.