Racing the Sun

by Karina Halle

  “But that doesn’t sound so bad,” he says.

  “It wouldn’t be if she were happy,” I tell him. “But she’s not. And she deals with it by going from temporary thing to temporary thing. That, and by stuffing her face. She overeats. A lot. And I’m not being mean because I don’t care if my mom is overweight or not, but it’s impacting her health. I worry about her, and my dad does, too. And I know she’s aware of it. She spends a lot of time trying out the newest fad diets and supplements and shakes while lecturing me about my own body. I know she’s afraid I’m going to turn into her in more ways than one. And I can’t deny that I’m afraid of that, too.”

  Derio stops walking and holds me at arm’s length from him, looking me up and down. “And what could she lecture you about?”

  I give him an incredulous look. “Well, it’s not like I have the best body. My ass is too big, my thighs don’t have a gap, my stomach is round and pudgy, and my boobs are annoying.”

  “Your boobs are annoying?” he repeats, and now he’s the one sounding dubious. He reaches out and cups them with both hands. “Your boobs are a gift.”

  I almost laugh at the sincerity on his face. “They aren’t big enough to balance the rest of me but they’re big enough to get in the way.”

  “No,” he says. “They are never in the way. They are perfect.” He leans down and pushes them up through my scoop-necked shirt to kiss the swell of each one. Then his hands glide down my sides. “All of you is perfect.”

  “I’m not, I’m—”

  “Amber,” he says, his voice authoritative. “Your body, every part of you, is perfect to me. What does it matter what anyone else thinks?”

  I bite my lip shyly, not used to compliments of that nature. I guess it wouldn’t matter much if Derio were going to be a permanent fixture in my life. I hate to think that one day I’ll be back at home, dreaming of the man who liked me just the way I am.

  “And thigh gap?” he mutters to himself. “I hear that phrase all the time. I don’t understand it. Your thighs part well enough for my cock and hands and face. That’s a big enough gap for me.”

  I had to give him that. If they could part for his cock then I was doing okay.

  “Allora,” he says and we continue walking down the dusty path, “that is your mother.”

  “Yeah. I know I’ve painted a not-so-nice picture of her but she is a good mom. She just has issues with herself and passes them on to me.”

  “Have you told her this?”

  What is this, therapy?

  “It can be hard to get through to her.” And that’s true. She’s so hung up on her own shit and battles that she rarely listens to me. But maybe I just need to try harder. Half the battle is just trying to get my parents to listen to me.

  “And your father? What is he like?”

  Another long breath escapes my lips and I wipe the sweat from my brow. The more we descend, the hotter it gets. The air is starting to warp and bend around us in shimmering waves, like in an oven.

  “My father is . . . practical. He’s a loving guy and he’s good at being the voice of reason when it comes to my mother. He often brings her down to earth better than I do. But the older he gets, the more rigid he becomes. He’s a psychologist . . .”

  “Oh,” Derio says, as if that explains everything. In fact, I think it might explain everything.

  “Yeah, so growing up with a shrink wasn’t much fun. And he used to be prolific, you know, like he was well known in his field and did a lot of lectures at colleges and universities—that sort of thing. He seems to think I suffer from some kind of Peter Pan syndrome. Always has. They spoiled me a lot since I was an only child, so maybe that didn’t help. It’s not like I acted like I was spoiled, I was just used to having things handed to me. You know?”

  He nods. I go on. “So on the one hand he would indulge me with whatever I wanted and on the other he would resent himself for doing so. I went to college, which they paid for, and I guess he thought that once I was in the real world I would smarten up. And I did, I mean I really fucking tried to get a job. But to him, I didn’t try hard enough. When I finally got hired and then fired, it was a major blow, to them as well as me. It made it seem like I couldn’t even hold down a simple job when that was far from the truth . . . though looking back, maybe I could have tried harder. I could have worked harder and longer. Maybe I could have moved up sooner. I wouldn’t have been so expendable.”

  “But if you had tried harder, for the wrong job, maybe you would still be stuck there. And you wouldn’t be here, with me.”

  I smile gratefully at him. “You’re right. And that’s what I told myself. After that, I decided to just go out into the world and find myself, find something. Maybe then when I came back home, things would be better. And my parents, surprisingly, were on board with this idea. I think my dad thought it was either a last hurrah or a way to teach me responsibility. I had some money saved for the trip, but when I ran out of that they started to pay my way, and then they sold my car to keep me going. Now I don’t have any money at all. Well, aside from the money you’re giving me. That’s why I’ve been in Italy for so long.”

  He grins. “That makes me sound like a pimp.”

  I can’t help giggling at the way he pronounces pimp. “Yes, my Italian pimp.”

  He grabs my hand and his features suddenly turn grave. “But the other day you said your father called you names, like ‘useless.’” He lowers his voice and looks ashamed. “Just as I did. I am so sorry about that.”

  “I know you didn’t mean it,” I reassure him. “And maybe my father never meant it either. He’s got a temper and he’s prone to saying the wrong things all the time, though God forbid you ever call him out on it. I think I just frustrate him that I’m not really shaping up to be anything great. Not like him. I’m just this useless, helpless, average little human being who will never live up to her potential.”

  As I say the words, I feel bereft. Once again, real life is sneaking into the one I’ve escaped into, reminding me of what’s waiting for me at home and what I’d be leaving behind in Capri.

  “Amber,” Derio says softly after a beat. “You are little only in height and nothing else. If your father could see you now, how happy you make me, how happy you make the twins, the way you run this household, helping them, helping all of us, he would take back every wrong thing he’s ever said about you.”

  “I make you happy?” I ask as my heart dances hopefully in my chest.

  “You make me more than happy,” he says, stopping to cup the back of my neck. He kisses me with a quiet hunger, with determination and promise, and pulls me into him. His tongue is hot and soft and it makes the heat around us intensify. The hardness of his cock digs into my hip and he smiles against my lips. “You make him more than happy, too.”

  Tension builds throughout my body like a tightening thread, and the mere feel of him against me makes me wet and wanting. I clench my thighs together and kiss him deeper, harder, my hands digging into his back, feeling his muscles, his strength, his everything. This man, oh how I fucking want this man.

  He’s breathing hard when he pulls away. He looks over my shoulder. “The church is right down there, through the trees.”

  “I’m not having sex in a church,” I tell him, though considering I’m getting more turned on by the moment, that could soon become a possibility.

  He grins, kissing me quickly. “Not in the church.” He takes my hand. “Come on.”

  He takes me down the slope, past blooming orchids and green oak until we come across the tiny church of Santa Maria. It’s adorable, with its mission-style bell tower and rustic stone wall. To the other side is nothing but air—it sits on the edge of the cliff.

  “Wow,” I say. “I would worship here every day.”

  “And I will worship you beside it,” he says. “I think I know of a good place.” He looks around to see if anyone else is watching. I hear voices coming from the church courtyard but I can’t see the cul
prits. I follow him as we jog quietly through the golden knee-high grass toward the side of the church and sneak along the stone wall, which is high enough to hide both of us.

  We round the corner and come to an area of dry, thick grass, shaded by an oak on one side and the wall on the other. At our feet, the rest of Capri and the sea spread before us like a banquet. Unless someone wants to peep over the wall or a paraglider flies past, no one will see us.

  Derio pulls me down into the grass with him and I let out a few giggles as I fall. He presses his finger to my lips to silence me and I take his finger in my mouth instead, sucking on it. He closes his eyes, his mouth parting, and I can see the pink of his tongue, wet inside. He’s so beautiful, especially when he’s turned on. He’s just this bronzed, dark-eyed, Italian sex machine.

  “We are outside the holy grounds,” he whispers when I remove my finger. His own are busy pulling my shirt over my head. “But I don’t think the priest or nuns will look too kindly if we are caught.”

  “Would it cause a local scandal?” I whisper back.

  “Knowing this town and its gossips,” he says in a warning tone, “yes.”

  I briefly remember Lenora and the shit that she was spreading. “I’ll be quiet if you’ll be quick. Take off your pants.”

  “Take off your pants,” he retorts and then leans over, unzipping my jeans and pulling them and my underwear down and over my sandals. He lies back on the grass and takes a firm hold of my hips and pulls me onto him so I’m straddling him.

  “World’s most perfect view,” he says, his voice laced with lust, his gaze heavy as he watches me above him. “Better than the one out there.”

  I reach down and bring his dick out of his pants, hot and thick in my hands, feeling a bit shy that I have to be totally naked while he gets to keep his clothes on. I mean, broad daylight isn’t exactly flattering, but from the hardness of his erection, I don’t think he’s too bothered by my flaws and pale skin. I have to remind myself that just moments ago he was telling me how perfect I was. I have to believe it if he believes it.

  “At least take off your shirt,” I tell him, tugging up the hem of his shirt.

  He smiles, conceding, and then pulls it off. I get up briefly and slide his pants and briefs down below his ass. I stroke his dick slowly, up and down. He bites his lip, watching me, his hands roaming up and down my thighs and waist, before he lowers his head back to the grass. I work him for a few minutes, feeling that sun on my back, the look of ecstasy on his face.

  Finally he looks up, his eyes dizzy with lust, and says breathlessly, “Come over here.”

  I raise my brow. Is he asking me to sit on his face? Because I’ll totally do that.

  “Um,” I say. “How?”

  “I’m ready for you but you’re not ready for me,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “Come here.”

  Okay, so I guess that is what he’s asking.

  Continuing to straddle him, I edge myself forward until I’m pretty much sitting on his face. His hands grip my thighs.

  “Perfect,” he says and then proceeds to lick me inside and out.

  I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sexual and so free before in my life. The sun is bearing down on us, the air is thick with the smell of sex and sage and heat. Being out here, naked, in the wild grass and below the wavering oak, the limitless blue sea at my back, feels otherworldly, and every single sense I have is heightened. His eager mouth devours me and I lean my head back, as if I’m offering myself to him, to the sky, to the world. Never in a million years would I have felt so liberal, so decadent, so open but here and now, I feel the rest of my fears slip away. I feel everything.

  Just when I’m about to come, he stops and pulls back. I look down at him, his mouth glistening.

  “Now you are ready,” he says, voice throaty.

  I think I’ve always been ready.

  I scoot back and then slowly lower myself onto his still-hard cock, desperate to finish. I ride him, first at a leisurely pace, then faster as I feel the urgency of the moment. My breasts bounce wildly, and with strong hips he pumps upward into me as I push down, fever taking hold of us. Soon we’re on the edge, and as I look down at his face I see his head falling backward, his eyes scrunched shut, hissing my name through his teeth. Just the sight of him in such open pleasure triggers me and I come fast and hard, trying to ride out the waves of sharp and soothing orgasm while maintaining my balance.

  After he comes, his nails digging into my hips, pumping himself into me, I relax and nearly collapse on him. We’re both slicked with sweat, both drowsy and sated. I want to tell him that was amazing, unforgettable, that it was so much more than just sex.

  Much more.

  But no words come. Instead, I press my lips into his neck and trail my fingers along his warm, damp skin. We lie like that for a few moments, just soaking each other in, until we hear voices from the church. We get up and slip our clothes back on in seconds flat and then hightail it out of there before anyone can discover us, discover what we’ve done.

  We walk back down the rest of Mount Solaro, hand in hand, and I don’t know the last time I’ve felt so damn free and so damn happy.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  When July slides into August, like a hot greasy egg sliding off a frying pan, Capri becomes its most unbearable. No matter where you go, you run into people. People on the Via Tragara, people in the Piazzetta, people on the funicular, on the streets, down the private lanes, on the beaches, on the cliffs, on every square inch of the sea. There are German tourists, Swedish tourists, American tourists, Australian tourists, and yes, a lot of Italian tourists. Everyone comes to the island, if not for a day then for a few until the crowds begin to get to them, too. The color of the water loses its appeal, the dry climate and lavender-scented air become cloying, the food loses flavor and remains overpriced.

  And then there’s the heat. Some days, it’s like the sea isn’t working at all, like the air is all jammed up in an invisible dam somewhere out there on the hazy horizon, and you’re breathing through a furnace. It’s dry, people will tell you, as if that makes a difference, but it’s still hot as hell and even the most powerful fans can’t break it up. Even a villa like the Limoni Tristi, in its lavishness, doesn’t have air-conditioning.

  For the weeks that Capri becomes a living hell for those who live here, I create a routine. Alfonso and Annabella are out of school now as Italy prepares for August, the month where the whole country seems to go on holiday, so they inevitably become a part of it. Thankfully, the heat makes them agreeable to hanging around the house and not going anywhere, even if they are a bit cranky.

  In the mornings, after breakfast and before it gets too hot, I start doing my home improvement projects around the house. Most of the time I can enlist the kids to help if I promise they can go swimming later on. The pool is now filled with chlorinated water, something I begged Derio to do. Then came the fountain at the side of the house, freshly painted bright white, the power-washing of the bricks and tiles, the cleaning of all the outdoor furniture, and the pruning of the trees and plants. I also gathered enough lemons, limes, and pomelos to bake fruit cakes for every day of the year.

  Derio helped for a lot of it—I’m not the most graceful with a power-washer hose—but now that I know what he was doing in that library, how it was almost a grieving ritual for him, I encouraged him to go back to editing or whatever else he needed to do.

  Today, I’m replanting a few rosemary bushes so they’re in soil with better drainage. Their browning leaves tell me they’re one step away from root rot, thanks to my zealous overwatering when I first arrived here. I’ve picked out the dead weeds and flowers that were in a row bordering the side of the bricks stairs leading from the pool toward the house, and stuck the rosemary bushes in there. It would be a shame to lose them—I’ve been throwing fresh sprigs of rosemary into everything I cook these days.

  Which is turning out to be a lot. Derio surprised me one evening by bringing over a chef fr
om one of the finer local hotel’s restaurants to give us private cooking lessons. I guess I should have been insulted but Derio wanted to learn a few things, too, other than the basics that most Italian boys know. The chef, Signora Bagglia, was a plump but pleasant woman with a big smile and sparkling eyes. She coaxed us through roast chicken with olives, puttanesca sauce, fresh linguini, and, yes, the infamous tiramisu. The twins watched the whole thing with big eyes, cracking the eggs whenever the moment called for it.

  After that I took to buying cookbooks. I wanted the Italian versions because then I knew I was getting the real deal, and even though I couldn’t read the directions properly at first, I started to get the hang of it and the language came easier to me. Of course, there was that one time I substituted frutti di mare for frutti di bosco. Let’s just say I should have trusted my instincts when I thought it was weird to put shrimp in a fruit pie.

  “Buongiorno,” Derio says to me, walking down the steps.

  I stand up, wiping the dirt off my shorts. I know I look an absolute mess—no makeup; hair frizzing in all directions for miles; red, sweaty face; hands covered in dirt. But Derio stares at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

  “Buongiorno,” I greet him. He leans in for a kiss—it’s become second nature now—then stops himself when he notices the twins sitting by the pool with their legs splashing in the water, just dying for me to finish up and give them the go-ahead.