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stretched out for balance.
    Stefano said nothing, just kept walking up the gentle hill. But the house still wasn’t visible, and it really was hot, and Spadaro didn’t seem angry with him at all, so he shrugged and turned toward the bike.
    Spadaro regarded him with what might have been amusement if he’d moved a single muscle in his face.
    “Is Falchi home?”
    “Yes, he is.” Spadaro halted, and now he did smile. “Give me that suitcase.”
    Stefano relinquished control of his few possessions and watched Spadaro stow them away in a compartment. “Now get on the bike. It’s faster.”
    The thought of pressing against that lean body again, like he had that night he’d tortured—no, interrogated the man, made his mouth dry. Amazing that Silvio hadn’t yielded mentally (but physically , oh yes), despite the thing he’d done to him. He’d never forget the sounds Silvio had made.
    Surely Silvio hadn’t forgotten either, but had he forgiven? Right now he looked almost normal, like any young Italian.
    Getting on the bike behind him meant dragging up all those memories again. The heat of him, the firmness. The yielding .
    “What are you afraid of,” Silvio asked, low, under his breath.
    “Careful,” Stefano warned.
    Silvio scooted closer to the front of the bike. “Get on.” He bent his neck, displaying more lean throat than any human being had a right to have. Oh, to feel that strong flesh between his teeth, his pulse and breathless groans. Stefano stepped closer and swung his leg over the seat, sliding in behind Silvio, who promptly pushed back against him, the bastard, pressing his ass to Stefano’s groin.
    “Arm around me,” he said.
    Stefano reached over and placed an arm around Silvio’s waist, feeling something like a chuckle when he touched the shirt above the man’s abs.
    “Hmm, that’s a good start,” Silvio murmured, but before Stefano could come up with a retort, the motorcycle sprang forward like some living thing. Gravel flew away beneath the grind of the wheels, and Stefano involuntarily tightened his grip, hating that response but unable to suppress it.
    Silvio reached behind himself and briefly squeezed Stefano’s thigh, then revved the bike into a high-pitched whine and off they went. Stefano cursed—speeding along in a sports car with a few hundred grand’s worth of highly-tuned, more or less secure carbon fiber and steel around him was one thing. But this was out in the open, with no protection, at a speed that made his stomach nudge up against his heart.
    “Fucking bastard!” Stefano shouted into Silvio’s ear.
    Silvio laughed and braked hard, jolting Stefano forward against him.
    Stefano resisted the urge to punch him in the gut for that.
    The second the bike stopped moving, he clambered down, hopefully looking more dignified than he felt.
    Silvio stretched his legs out and straightened on the seat, languid as a cat. “ Benvenuto .”
    Ignoring the welcome, Stefano turned to regard the villa, an exotic hybrid of a historic Italian mansion and a fully modern one, like two houses shoved together until they fit. Roses grew in the front garden, and an enormous, sprawling wisteria, the main stem as thick as a man’s thigh, covered half the façade.
    Silvio pulled the suitcase from the trunk, and Stefano took it. “I’ll show you your rooms,” he said, climbing gracefully from the bike and nudging the kickstand with his foot. He led Stefano into the house, his gait as sinuous as the rest of him.
    The moment they stepped through the whitewashed walls onto the cool stone floor of the entrance hall, the heat of the Tuscan summer faded away. All along the length of the corridor, Stefano watched Silvio’s small muscular ass in those jeans. He could admit to his fascination when the man wasn’t looking at him; those black eyes always pushed him into the defensive—and he didn’t like playing from there.
    Silvio paused in front of a door. “The guest suite.”
    Stefano hated that