SAVANNAH

The week on the Amalfi Coast with Dante might have been one of the best of my life—although I'd never tell him that. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction; after all, he was still an impossibly arrogant athlete. But I suspected he knew how I felt from the way I became more relaxed by the day, how I laughed more, how I'd throw my arms around him randomly and kiss him wildly.

He seemed to enjoy my silliness and humor, and I saw glimmers of goofiness from him too. Like the way he ordered three pounds of gummy bears to be delivered to the villa—then proceeded to pick out all of the pink ones for me, knowing they were my favorite.

Truth be told, everything about him was growing on me, now that he'd explained how he'd clawed his way out of a depression following his sister's death to become a top driver. He was an incredibly mentally strong individual, going on to win all those championships after suffering such a trauma.

While there were a few team obligations meant for the paparazzi during those days, we mostly spent time at the villa, acting like a real couple. I loved when he cooked his simple pasta dishes and when we'd make each other laugh so hard, while sitting on the terrace, that we'd spurt prosecco out our noses.

In between kisses, of course.

And the sex, well, that was possibly the biggest surprise. Dante was a ravenous lover, and he couldn't seem to get enough of my body. Exactly as he'd promised, he'd shown me how to please him. And taught me more than a few things about my own body's erotic desires, as well. The lessons were mutual too. By the end of the week, I'd not only learned what turned him on but figured out how to tease him to the point of madness.

"What's this?" I asked one morning in the kitchen, while standing near an open cupboard. It looked like peanut butter, only darker.

"You've never had Nutella?" He took the jar from my hands and unscrewed the lid. "It's from Italy. It's what all Italian children eat for breakfast. My mom would spread it on bread for me and my sister and serve it with cold milk."

I peered into the jar and inhaled. Nutty. Sweet. I watched him dip a long finger into the creamy substance, then wag it in front of my lips. "Try it."

Keeping my eyes on his, I licked, slowly. He groaned as I took his finger all the way in and sensually slid my mouth away. Dear God, it was like candy. Or hazelnut heroin. Addictive. I needed more.

I smacked my lips. "Holy crap, Dante! What is that? It's better than an orgasm."

He burst out laughing. "I've been upstaged by Nutella? Wait, you left some on your mouth." He licked my top lip. "Mmm."

As he devoured my mouth, I got an idea. An excellent idea. One that combined two of my favorite Italian flavors. I took the jar from his hands. Setting it on a nearby counter, I shrugged off my T-shirt and panties.

"Take off your clothes," I whispered.

"What? Why—" I looked to him, then to the Nutella, and at the erection poking into the fabric of his shorts. It was impossible for me not to lick my lips like a cat watching a mouse.

"Take 'em off, dude. This Southern girl has some catching up to do on Italian cuisine." I dipped a finger into the open jar, then licked it seductively.

Grinning, he stripped quickly and I sank to my knees right there in the kitchen.

***

"Dio, Savannah Jenkins, you're going to be the death of me." I was in bed, out of breath, and drunk on his body.

It was our last afternoon in Amalfi and we'd intended to nap. But it was impossible for us to keep our hands off each other.

"This. I love all of this." He ran his hands over my red bra and matching lace panties. I was on top and biting his neck when he tugged my hair, which made me moan.

"I love the color red. Love your lingerie and your hair."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I buy panties."

"No. Really. I'm kind of superstitious about it. My cars have always had red elements. I was so glad to see this season's car was mostly red. I also wear red socks."

I laughed and sat up. "I've noticed your socks. Some of the drivers in NASCAR were that way. Some wore two different shoes, some prayed on a certain side of the car."

His hands cupped my breasts and squeezed. "I have lots of superstitions."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"I like even numbers, which is why I picked twelve as my race number. And I have some superstitions surrounding sex."

This got my attention. "Like what?"

"I don't have sex the month before the season starts."

"So you've only been with me this season?"

"Yep." Dante shifted underneath me and I could feel his erection.

"Good. What else?"

"I don't have sex from Wednesday through Sunday on race weeks. Sunday night after the race is okay."

How was this going to work once we were back on the circuit? Could we keep away from each other? Would we have to share a room now that we were engaged?

"Oh, and something non-sex-related. I keep something that my sister gave me pinned to the inside of my suit, near my heart."

"What did she give you?"

"A medal of Saint Frances of Rome. She's the patron saint of drivers. There's a legend that an angel used to light the road before her with a lantern."

I leaned to softly kiss him. "Red socks, even numbers, saint medals. You're adorable, you know that?"

He grumbled and squeezed my butt. "I'm not in the mood right now to be adorable, cara mia."

"That's funny. Me neither."

I swiveled my hips against his erection. It felt incredible to be desired that much.

Squirming out of my bra and underwear, I took a condom from the nightstand and unrolled it—I'd gotten good at that—then sank onto him. I pinned his arms over his head and rocked, undulating my hips in a slow circle as I got my fill of him.

"Go faster," he commanded.

I shook my head.

"Please?" he groaned.

I lifted my hips up and sank down even slower. Grinding into him, I let up on his hands, reveling in the fact that his eyelids fluttered as he gave in to the pleasure. He grabbed my hips, hard, and moved me with fury.

"Touch yourself, Savannah. Like I showed you."

"You didn't show me. I already knew how to give myself an orgasm."

"Si. Okay. Fine. Let me watch you touch yourself when you're on top. Please?"

When my hand went between my legs, he ground out a phrase in Italian.

"What are you saying?" I asked. Jesus, his Italian was an aural aphrodisiac.

"I can't last long when I watch you get yourself off. That's what I said."

Dear God, Dante. "When you talk dirty it makes me come." My body tripped into a rolling orgasm, and as I cried out and tipped my head back, he growled something unintelligible.

"Dio mio, Savannah. You're too much for me." In one rolling swoop, he tossed me on my back and drove into me, hard. Again and again, and I loved how powerful he was, how out of control I made him.

"I can't be a gentleman because you're so sexy."

"What if I don't want you to be a gentleman?"

"Then you're going to get what you want," he replied in a rough voice, entering me with a savage thrust and holding my head still by gripping my neck and jaw with enough gentle force to be thrilling.

Indeed, this was sheet-gripping, toe-curling, multiple-orgasm-having sex. His thrusts and noises turned primitive and I could utter only one word.

Yes.

"Yes. Si. Si," he rasped as he came in long, pulsing spurts that I could feel through the condom. "This is for you. Because of you. Si."

He collapsed onto me and I stroked his back, trying to soothe his trembling. It was moments like this, like after he'd had an orgasm, that I was most vulnerable, like I was almost willing to tell him that I could fall for him in real life. The feeling usually passed, and sometimes made me sad. Today, melancholy took over. Post-orgasm blues, maybe? I turned my head to the window at the impossibly blue sky and even brighter Mediterranean Sea.

"Did I hurt you, tesoro?" His voice was low and musical. "I was rougher than usual."

"No. Not at all. I was thinking . . ."

"Of what?" He rolled off and lay on his side, brushing the hair out of my face with his fingers.

"It's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

I shrugged and tried to focus on his muscular chest instead of his inquisitive eyes. "That you're so incredible, sex-wise, and for the rest of my life I'll compare every other lover to you."

He flashed me a haughty, hard stare and for the first time ever, I saw a tiny vein in his temple throb. "Who says you'll have other lovers? I might keep you for myself."

The thought that he might want more sent my heart soaring. I wanted to jump on the mattress and do a victory dance. He wanted me. But wait. Surely he was teasing? That would explain why he was smirking.

I tossed off a laugh. "As if. This is only for show, remember? I'm your fake fiancée. And anyway, 'keep me'? Like I'm a possession? Pretty sexist, I think. Like I'd let you boss me around if you were my real boyfriend."

Why was that muscle in his jaw bunching? Oh, of course—it was because I'd called him out on being a Neanderthal. I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, you're probably right, Savannah. We're too much alike, I think. Both too headstrong and stubborn. This is perfect the way it is, no? Something temporary? Or do you want me for longer?"

Of course he was teasing. My eyes stung, as if tears were about to erupt. I pasted on my pageant smile, the one I thought I'd buried years before.

"Pfft, of course it's temporary. We're only together for the good of the team, right?"

The question swirled in the air, like the fragrant Amalfi sea breeze coming through the windows.

He pulled me close, my heart splintering and cracking at the thought of the coming months, and how we'd eventually have to say goodbye.