“So. What should we do today?” I ask, digging into my black truffle and crab frittata.
Dante raises a brow at me from across the small table at the Grill.
I have to laugh. “Aside from sex.”
“Hmm…” He looks off in thought as he chews a bite of smoked salmon benedict.
“We should probably spend at least a little time vertical,” I add. “I picked the hotel, so you get to pick the activities.”
He pauses before answering, a pensive look crossing his face. This is the most serious I’ve seen him since we got here. “I’m actually not sure. I’ve never really taken a vacation.”
I set my fork down. “Never had a vacation?”
“Not really. My father said vacations were for people with nothing important to do.”
“Oh, you poor little rich boy,” I tease. One corner of his mouth turns up when he catches my expression. “Mind if I take the reins on the activities, then?”
He leans back in his chair, his lips pulling into a line. “Okay…”
I can’t help smiling. “Why do you sound so uncertain?”
“Because I can just imagine what’s going on in that head of yours.”
“Maybe you should be scared, then.” I’ve been tossing an idea around, and his good-natured sarcasm just cemented it. I lean toward him with a look of concern. “One question. Do you even own a pair of hiking boots?”
“No,” he says firmly.
“I figured as much,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m gonna need to make a couple calls.”
An hour later we’re in Dante’s car, our brand-new boots still wrapped up in their boxes in the back seat, along with a tote full of supplies I requested—it turns out having a personal butler included with your suite actually comes in handy. I only had to make one call.
Dante is driving, but he has no idea where we’re going. I’ve been feeding him directions little by little along the way. We go up the 101 about twenty miles and then turn off at San Rafael, eventually making our way to a street lined with shops, restaurants, and cute cafés, the marquee of the Rafael theater visible just down the block.
He looks at me quizzically as I instruct him to pull over and park. “This is our activity?”
I laugh. “Not quite. Just sit tight. I’ll be right back.”
With that, I give him a quick kiss and run into my favorite Puerto Rican restaurant to pick up the massive order I placed on my takeout app before we left the St. Regis. I give the huge to-go bag a little jiggle as I return to the car and arrange it securely in the back seat.
“What is in that extremely delicious smelling bag?” Dante asks as I buckle my seat belt.
“You’ll find out soon enough, I promise. For now, just drive.”
He shrugs as he checks traffic and pulls back onto the road. I direct him to head northeast and then turn onto Sir Francis Drake. We get about a mile before he shoots me another questioning look. “What’s the next turn?”
I never realized how much this man hate surprises. “Don’t worry, I know the way,” I tell him with a smile. “I could practically get us there with my eyes closed.”
As we continue on our drive, I probe him gently for more about his childhood. Not surprisingly, it was a lonely one—with a father who pitted brother against brother, and the Bellanti family as a whole against the world. I can tell Dante hasn’t spoken about it much in the past, because he doesn’t sound rehearsed or bored the way people do when they’ve had to tell the same stories over and over again. It’s almost like he’s processing things out loud as the words tumble out of his mouth in fits and starts.
In turn, I share more about my upbringing as well. Dante already knows that my mother left early on, but I tell him anecdotes about my dad using me and my sisters as props to either fool people into thinking he was a dedicated family man, or to get himself—a quote-unquote hardworking single father, doing his best to care for us all on his own—out of a scrape.
I talk about how determined I was to learn more about vinification in Tuscany, how I had all these plans to come back and help turn the Abbott Winery around. I really believed I was going to save the family business. I stop short of saying that I wasn’t surprised to find out my dad had sold me off to be married instead. It would ruin an otherwise promising day.
Shifting gears, I tell another humorous story, this one about the time Dad left me and my sisters in London while he went off to Monte Carlo to gamble in some big tournament.
“I was twelve at the time, Charlie was sixteen. He left her in charge of Livvie and me but didn’t leave us any money. The credit card he had on file got declined, so I had to sweet talk the hotel manager into letting us stay until he came back. Even though I had no idea if he would.”
“So what did you do all day, wait around in the room? Or did you three just run amok around London?” Dante asks, a concerned edge in his voice. “I mean, you had to eat, right?”
I shrug. “Nothing too crazy. We mostly stayed in the room. Charlie convinced the pub down the road to let her work bussing tables, so she’d bag up all the leftover fish and chips and stale soda bread after her shift and bring it back to us with her tips. I just wish Dad had left us in France—at least the bar food would have been good, right?”
My voice is light, as if the whole thing was a great lark, but just thinking of it now brings back the fear and uncertainty we felt, not knowing if he’d abandoned us for good, or if he’d gotten into some kind of trouble and wouldn’t even be able to come back. It suddenly clicks why Rico abandoning me in Roccette hit me so hard. Why I shut down so completely afterward.
Dante takes my hand and squeezes, letting me know that he understands.
I watch the scattered fall colors whisk by, the trees interspersed with more and more evergreens, fragrant conifers, and cedars. As the elevation increases, I roll the window down and breathe in the cool, fresh air. Soon, I’m directing Dante onto a winding, hilly road, one that will take us far away from anyone but ourselves and pure nature.
“Okay. Turn left. Almost there,” I say, pointing at a narrow gravel road that leads into the dense trees. A little further along, I see the two circular red reflectors nailed into the trunk of a familiar western red cedar and say, “This is it. You can park.”
“Here?” he asks, pulling onto the side of the road. “We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“You trust me, right?” I ask with a wink.
Without waiting for an answer, I get out and grab our new boots from the back seat. Once we’re properly shod, Dante grabs the food bag and my overstuffed tote bag and lets me lead him down a dirt path into the woods.
A few yards in, the dirt gives way to sand and opens up onto a small, secluded beach surrounded by scrubby trees. The lake is crystal blue, a mirror of the sky. Green hills, spotted with sprawling oaks and pines, roll into the horizon across the water. The air is brisk and the breeze is cool, but with the bright sun overhead, it’s a perfect Nor Cal fall day.
“Welcome to Tomales Bay,” I say grandly.
I lift my face to the sun and breathe in deep, but when I look back over at Dante, he’s staring at me, not the scenery. His eyes are alight and awed, as if I’m somehow more beautiful than the view. It turns my heart right over.
I grab a blanket out of the tote and spread it out on the sand. Then I gesture for Dante to hand me the to-go bag and begin pulling out the boxes of food. Pasteles wrapped in banana leaves, tostones, bistec sandwiches on light, crispy bread, and coconut soda.
After a slight pause, Dante sinks down next to me, not exactly looking comfortable. He starts digging around in the bag like he’s looking for something.
“They forgot utensils.” He flips the bag over just in case they’re hiding somewhere, clearly annoyed.
Smiling, I break the news to him: “Good, because you do not eat tostones with a fork. You have much to learn, young padawan.”
Popping open the container, I grab a fried plantain and lift it to his mouth. He hesitates for a second and then takes a small bite.
“It’s…good,” he says, sounding surprised.
I shake my head and laugh, handing him one of the sandwiches. As he starts unwrapping the paper from it, I pull a bottle of white wine out and open it.
“This is the absolute best wine pairing I’ve ever tasted,” I tell him. “It’s a fourteen-dollar bottle and it is going to blow your mind.”
“Let me guess,” he says dryly. “No glasses.”
“Not a one,” I agree, taking a sip from the bottle and letting the cool, crisp, rich flavor burst over my tongue.
I open my eyes and pass him the bottle. Dante drinks. He’s impressed, but he only shows it with the raise of an eyebrow. High praise, indeed.
Feeling smug, I dig into my sandwich. We eat in silence for a few moments. Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Dante visibly relaxing, taking in the scenery, enjoying his meal. He even reaches for the wine bottle and takes several more drinks before handing it over to me.
“You seem different,” he says, pulling the box of tostones closer. “More…I don’t know. Just different.”
“Yeah. I guess I finally realized something last night.” I look out over the water. “My dad has nothing he can hold over me anymore. I should’ve gotten Livvie out of the house sooner, but losing the horses—as devastating as it is for her—I can’t help thinking it saved us. It’s like he cut away the one string that kept us tied to the compound.”
A familiar pressure settles on my chest. The ever present feeling of not being enough, not doing enough. The guilt over not being there for Livvie during the last few years.
“Now that she’s at Charlie’s,” I add, “Clayton and his connections should be powerful enough to protect Livvie, I think. And I mean, Charlie is practically her mother anyway. She should have moved in there years ago…”
“You did your best,” Dante says soothingly. “You’ve all done your best.”
I nod, mulling it over. “You seem a little different to me too, actually.”
He swallows a bite of his steak sandwich and cocks his head. “Oh?”
“Just look at you. Sitting on the ground, eating with your hands. Drinking out of a bottle. You’re practically a savage.”
We both laugh, and Dante takes another swig of wine as if to prove my point.
“But no…it’s good to see you looking a little less buttoned up. A little more…human.”
“I’m not that bad,” Dante insists.
“Are too,” I say, reaching out to cup his cheek. “Always in control. Never a hair out of place, never a button undone—except to show how casually cool you can be.”
“You think I’m cool?” he says.
“Don’t get all full of yourself now.”
He sets the last bit of his sandwich down, reaches up, and unbuttons his top button. As he holds my gaze, he moves his fingers to the next button. He slowly releases that one, and then another, and another.
“I like where this is going,” I purr, leaning back to watch the impromptu strip show going on in front of me.
His shirt hits the ground, and I take in the delicious way his white undershirt clings to every muscle—of course he would wear an undershirt on a vacation day. He seems to know exactly what I’m thinking as he peels it up his torso and slips it over his head.
Standing, he leans down to pull off his new hiking boots. Next he grins cockily and unfastens his pants, letting them drop to the ground. My mouth falls open as he kicks them away and stands before me, buck-ass nude on the beach.
“Dante Bellanti, I do believe you are indecently exposed. And in public, no less.”
He spreads his arms wide and makes a little turn, showing off for me. His smile is so big, his whole body seems to smile too.
Suddenly, he takes off toward the water. He runs in confident, long-legged strides, barely slowing until the water reaches his mid-thigh. Then he dives in, disappearing for a moment and popping up farther out than where he went in, shaking water out of his hair.
I stand and watch, laughing as he lets loose an exhilarated whoop.
“How cold is it?” I shout.
“Slightly more than anticipated!” he yells back, splashing around.
Did he just make an actual joke?
“Come in with me!” he demands.
Cackling, I cross my arms over my chest. “Not on your life! It must be freezing!”
I’m never one to turn away from a challenge, but I draw the line at hypothermia. He disappears beneath the surface again and I kneel back down on the blanket to start packing up our picnic, stuffing all the boxes and napkins and foil into the to-go bag.
I’m just reaching for his discarded clothes when I hear the sound of crunching sand—just a fraction too late to react in time. Dante’s cold, wet, very strong arms wrap around me from behind. His lips are warm as he kisses the back of my neck and works his way to my ear.
“Didn’t you know that this is a nude beach?” he informs me.
“You better not,” I say, but he’s already unbuttoning the front of my sundress, sliding my denim jacket off at the same time.
In seconds, he strips me naked and lays me down on the sun-warmed blanket. I’m a little chilled by the breeze and the drops of lake water that fall off Dante onto my bare skin, but his body is hot as he pushes his cock into me, taking my face in his hands for a hungry kiss.
I don’t have time to think about what we’re doing or where we’re doing it as he thrusts in perfect rhythm. Soon there’s nothing but heat and skin and pleasure, and the sound of our moans.
This is making love. This is the thrill of the sky above, the earth below, and the man inside me, both grounding me and setting me free. He works me with his cock, taking his time with his strokes so I can feel every inch of him. I give it back in full measure, tensing the muscles at my core as I meet his every thrust.
“I love you,” Dante says, over and over again.
“I love you, too,” I tell him, emotion making my breath catch in my throat.
Our words pour out of us until we can no longer speak, only moan. I wrap my legs around his waist and cross my ankles, tilting my hips higher, helping him drive even further into me so we’re locked together, the sweet tension inside drawing tighter and tighter.
“Frankie—”
And then he’s coming inside me, groaning with every hot spurt, as hard and deep as I’ve ever felt him. I dig my fingers into his back and hold him tight as he finishes, wishing I could draw this moment out forever. He relaxes over me like warm clay afterward, sighing softly, his fingers trailing in my hair. We lay like that until the breeze begins to cool us again.
After a while, he stands up and pulls me up with him. Shaking off the blanket, he wraps us up in it, my back pressed against his chest, his arms around my waist. I drowsily lean back into him, feeling the rise and fall of his breath along with mine. When his hand steals down between my legs, I laugh.
“Again?”
He gently pushes into me, his finger curling back to hit the spot that always makes me shiver. “No,” he says, his voice a low rumble in my ear. “This is just for you.”
As I stand and watch the wind ripple across the lake, Dante works me with his clever fingers, drawing me to a sweet and all-encompassing release. And when my knees give out with the strength of my climax, he’s there to keep me steady. He holds me tight the entire time.