He puts it in my backpack, zips me back up, and then pulls me in for a kiss. A long one. By the time he pulls away, I’m out of breath and tingling all the way down to my toes.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just…go back to bed?” I ask.
“Not yet.” He leans in for another kiss and then adds, “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.”
I can hardly be disappointed as he wraps an arm around my waist and leads me toward the front door. Leaning into him, I let out a happy sigh. This is the most focused Armani has been on me since we arrived on the island, barring the minor foot surgery in the kitchen yesterday. And if he seriously planned this whole day around taking me out for fun? I’d call that the honeymoon of my dreams. Especially considering the fact that my morning orgasm was apparently only the first of many.
As we step outside, curiosity washes over me. What on earth does he have in store?
There’s hardly time to speculate, because the first thing I see in the driveway is a classic-looking, red-and-white motorcycle waiting for us. It’s similar to bikes I’ve seen in old movies or foreign films. The keys dangle from the ignition. I look up at Armani suspiciously and then slowly shake my head.
“Please tell me that is not for us.”
He goes over to the motorcycle and takes a helmet off the back, then hands it to me.
“Well, you can’t walk the distance for what I’ve got planned today. And although I’d be happy to piggyback you, I’m not sure it’d be comfortable after the first mile. So…motorcycle it is.”
“That thing is a million years old. Does it even run?”
“Does it even run? You kidding me?” he sputters. “This is a 1955 Royal Enfield Continental GT! It’s a classic! Andyes, it was one of the last to roll off the production line before manufacturing was moved to India. Andyes, it is both incredibly awesome and incredibly hard to find in this condition, soyes, Marco is going to have a shit fit of supreme jealousy when he finds out that you got to ride on it.”
“If making your baby brother insanely jealous isn’t enough of an endorsement for me to ride this thing, I guess I don’t know what is,” I concede, slipping the helmet on.
Armani fastens the strap under my chin and instructs me to get on the bike behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. As I get myself situated, I notice what looks like a woven picnic basket strapped to the back. I grin to myself, but I don’t ask. I’ll let whatever he has planned unfold naturally.
He starts the engine, revs it a few times, and then pushes back the kickstand.
“Hang on tight,” he says.
Nodding, I squeeze him in a death grip and rest my head against his back. With a heart-stopping jolt, we take off down the driveway. I let out a little yelp that has Armani laughing, the low rumble vibrating against my chest. Bright green tropical plants fly by, the fresh air cool against my face, and I have to admit, this is exhilarating. And fun.
After slowing down to pass through the perimeter gate and wave at the security guard, we zip along a bumpy dirt trail that serves as a road down the mountainside. It feels like we ride forever, even though I know we’re on a small island. I start to wonder if he’s taking us in circles just to prolong the experience, but if he is, I don’t mind. He’s an expert driver, I quickly realize. The sea breeze smells fresh and salty, and I relax enough to close my eyes and just breathe in the scent of ocean mixed with Armani’s cologne. I hope I never forget how I feel in this moment.
Eventually, we make our way up a hill, on a narrow path that leads to the top of an incline. He parks the bike, helps me remove my helmet, and grabs the picnic basket. Then he takes my hand.
“You okay to walk a short distance?”
“I’m fine. You can stop fussing.”
Armani lets me set the pace, which I appreciate. I’m definitely more than a little slow since I have to walk on my left heel so the sutures on the sole of my foot don’t rub inside my shoe. But he doesn’t say a word, just strolls casually at my side, his fingers interlaced with mine. I am loving the comfortable silence. It’s not something we’ve ever had much of an opportunity to share.
We reach a stand of young trees, and I can hear water rushing before we see it. A few more paces through the forest and the landscape suddenly opens wide to reveal a breathtaking cascade, tumbling down a series of rock steps before pouring into a pool below us. Rainbows shimmer in the misty spray, the droplets glittering as sunlight bounces off them.
“Wow,” I breathe. “This is incredible. Our own private waterfall.”
Armani sets the basket down and leads me closer.
The mist dances across our faces from this proximity, cool and refreshing after our hike through the dense trees. Laughing, I push the hair out of my face and step back. If we stand this close for much longer, we’ll get soaked.
“If we hike a little farther down the trail, we can get into the pool at the base of the waterfall. I know you said no swimming, but—”
“No. I want to go. Maybe I can just keep one leg out of the water.”
He hitches a brow. “Actually, I brought something for that.”
Out of the basket comes a plastic bag and a roll of duct tape.
“Seriously?”
