CHAPTER 16
MARCELLO
The Ducati roared through the Sicilian dusk. Stone arches blurred past. The wind tangled her hair. Her laughter—soft, breathless—spilled against my neck. It hit me harder than it should’ve—like I’d been starving for the sound.
It wasn’t joy, it was release. Like something inside her had snapped free. And I wanted to feel that fire with her.
As we approached Licata, the town rose in soft pastel tones.
Terracotta roofs. Narrow alleys. The scent of espresso and sea salt.
I slowed, my hand left the throttle and settling on her thigh.
Warm. Bare. I didn’t just caress—I tested.
How far she’d let me go. How much she still trusted me.
How much she’d let me take. Not like a boy discovering fire, but like a man who’s learned how to read what a woman allows, and what she secretly craves.
She lifted her visor, leaned forward and kissed my shoulder—right over the leather. A soft press of lips. A silent thank you. Or maybe a dare. Either way, it lit something in me I couldn’t shake.
I didn’t speak. Just sped again, faster this time, making her yelp and grab me tighter. The town faded behind us as the road opened up.
Her hands wandered down to my thigh, rubbing slowly. I didn’t stop her. I wanted her to feel what she did to me. What she had been doing. Even when she was silent.
We reached an overlook. The sea stretched below—wild, infinite. I parked. The engine ticked as it cooled. She didn’t move. Neither did I.
She still clung to me, her chest pressed to my back, her laugh trembling—made me aware of the fragility she hid beneath her fire. I wanted to break her open, but gently. Or as gently as someone who’s carried losses heavier than lust could manage.
I lifted my visor and turned to her. She was already watching me—breathing heavily, smiling like she knew exactly what she was doing. I reached back and gripped her thigh hard. Claiming. Like I was holding onto the last piece of my restraint.
“If you keep doing that, I’ll bend you over this bike.”
And God, part of me wanted to. The other part held back—barely. She leaned in and bit my shoulder—through the jacket. Not hard. Just enough to say: I dare you. I’m not afraid. And fuck, I loved her for that.
We got off and collided into one another. She kissed me—wild, breathless, full of fire. I kissed her neck, her jaw, her mouth.
I wanted to fuck her there—in the open. I didn’t care if anyone caught us, saw us; they’d be dead by the next turn for watching her bare. In that moment, it was just us and the sun kissing the horizon.
I grabbed her ass and spoke against her lips.
“Mine.”
I didn’t think she heard it. But I felt it. Like a rupture in my chest. That word—’Mine’—it wasn’t possession. It wasn’t control. It was a confession. A word torn from the part of me that never begged, never asked. It carried no promise. Only pressure. Only need.
I wanted to know her. Not just the curves of her body or the taste of her mouth—I wanted to know what made her flinch. What she feared in silence. What she hid beneath her smile. The shadows in her eyes.
And maybe, just maybe, if she heard that word, she’d feel safe enough to let me in. Not because she belonged to me. Not because she was mine. But because I wanted to be the one she chose to show the wreckage to.
I’d never said that to anyone before. Not to the women who came and went. Not to the ones who fit the mould, the polished, predictable, forgettable ones.
Roxanne wasn’t any of that. She was unruly and, as I discovered today—a wild child. Unapologetic. Unfiltered. And I wanted to be the man who didn’t tame her, but stood beside her while she let out the beast.
Somehow, she’d slipped past every wall I never let anyone touch. I didn’t recognise the man who whispered mine. But I knew he wasn’t lying.
I pulled back, looking into her eyes as the sun turned her dark brown irises to molten amber.
“There’s a town I want to show you,” I said.
“It’s quiet. Old. The kind of place that doesn’t forget.”
She tilted her head, still high from the ride, the kiss, the rush. Then smiled and pecked my lips.
“Okay. Let’s go, biker boy. Surprise me.”
She hopped on, hands rubbing my thighs again. Then held on tight as I roared the beast to its full potential.
I didn’t know why I was taking her there. To Palma. To my family. But something overcame me—maybe the part of me that only decades of life, loss, and triumph could summon: the part that wanted to share the places that made me who I am.
Maybe it was the way she looked at me after the alcove, like she saw a part of me she wasn’t sure she could handle.
Or maybe it was the way she stood in my favourite spot at the resort—still, quiet, carrying something heavy.
I’d felt it. That weight. She hadn’t said a word, but it clung to her like perfume.
And yet, on the bike—she was wild. Prompt. Fearless. At the overlook, I watched her relax. Watched the tension melt from her shoulders, and I was spellbound. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was unpredictable. And I wanted more.
The wild, untamed nature I saw in her today made me want to show her the side of me I never let anyone see. Not because I trusted her. But because I wanted her to feel it too.