“Shit.” Luca pulls back from me, a hand squeezing his eyes. “IknewI was too rough. We shouldn’t have—”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, swinging around on top of him, my legs splayed over his as I sit back on my heels, resting on his thighs. “Yeah, we definitely should have.” I slide my hands around the back of his neck, and he automatically puts his arms around my waist to keep me balanced.
I smirk down at him, but he’s still worried, reaching up one hand to cup my face. “I hurt you.”
“You sure did,” I tell him dreamily. “In all the best ways. Believe me, Luca—that was one hell of an enjoyable night. Memorable. And in all honesty, I’d be down for your dick in me right now. It’s just,” I sigh, “that we got places to be.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Places to be?
“Mm-hmm.”
“What places?”
I grin and boop his nose right back. “I’m gonna show you Rome, baby.”
Chapter Fifty-One
LUCA
Finch’s favorite restaurant in Rome is a hole-in-the-wall place in a side street a little ways from the touristy areas near the Forum. The only main course on offer at the restaurant isfilleti di baccalà, although there are a few other appetizers on the menu, along with several side salads or cooked greens.
At first I’m taken aback; I expected fine dining, despite Finch insisting that my jeans and black shirt were fine for where we were going. As for him, he’s in jeans as well, but wearing a white tee so thin that I can see the pink of his nipples underneath. Against his glowing tan and dark hair, it makes a tempting combination. And we do fit in perfectly with the crowd around the restaurant, all casually dressed.
The meal, when it comes, is maybe the best fried fish I’ve ever eaten. The sides of thick-cut fries and sautéed chicory are perfect accompaniments. The restaurant is tiny, Finch and I bumping knees under the table as we eat, but somehow all the more private for it although the room is stuffed full of people. The chatter and the sizzle of frying fish cover our conversation perfectly.
Afterward, there’s a gelato bar down the end of the street, where we each take our picks and then end up swapping when I prefer Finch’s salted caramel and he prefers my pistachio. The gelato tastes both sweeter and fresher than any I’ve had before, although I’m pretty sure it’s the environment, the atmosphere, the fact that I have Finch close to me, smiling up at me, making me fall a little deeper in love every moment.
“What next?”
“Well, later on we’re gonna dance at this awesome gay club I found online,” he says, taking my hand. “Thought we should check out the Roman nightlife while we were here.”
“Keeping an eye on the international competition? I’m in. But it’s a little too early for a nightclub, and after all that food—”
“Oh, it’s a long walk to get there,” he tells me. “Correction: it’s a long, moonlit,romanticwalk through the ancient parts of Rome to get there. We go this way first—”
He must have memorized the directions, because we’re carrying dumb rather than smartphones with us, only capable of calls and texts, and no map. Harder to trace.
Or maybe Finch knows the way because he’s done this walk before. I ask him that, and he laughs. “You picturing me walking these streets with some Italian hottie other than you? No, honey. Only for you would I ever walk through a bunch of old rocks and ruins.”
He takes me to the ancient Roman Forum, where the people gathered, their senators spoke, and their Emperor paraded. Finch might claim to have no interest, but he’s a surprisingly informative tour guide as he takes me to what he claims is the best overlook of the Forum. It’s a beautiful view when we get there, with fewer tourists this time of night. The heavy moon swells in the sky overhead, not full, but getting there, and as the clouds part, its cool light paints the Forum in silvers, grays and blacks. The ancient lines of the buildings show up in stark relief. The night air is cool, and I pull Finch close to my side and kiss his temple. He snuggles up to me and we stand there in silence, looking at the remnants of a once-great empire.
I think of my own empire; my own Rome waiting for me across land and sea, and I make a vow not to let it fall apart under my watch. Under the chilling light of the moon, I feel as though something—someone—some ancient pagan deity, perhaps—has heard my vow.
And they will keep me to it.
* * *
“Dancing next?”I ask Finch after we’ve strolled down into and through the Forum for another hour. It’s late enough that we’re mostly alone, apart from small groups of college-aged students, and even they disperse as we wander down the Via Sacra, past the old temples, and then past the Arch of Titus. I can see the Colosseum, too, right down the end.
“Mm, not quite yet,” Finch says, but he’s leading me more firmly towards the Colosseum, so I have no complaints. “You really wanted to see inside it,” he sighs, as we arrive at the monument.
“It’s just a pile of old rocks,” I remind him. “Really boring inside.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, and then: “So I hope you won’t be too disappointed by this private night tour I booked.”
He takes my hand, pulling me over to where a small group is waiting around a tour guide, who is taking names and signing them in on a tablet.
“How?” I ask, bewildered. “And when?”
