‘You don’t like it in a bun?’
‘I like it fine.’ His voice was low and gravelled. ‘But this wouldn’t fit.’
And he reached behind them, grabbing a shining black helmet off a motorbike, and easing it over her head, so the world faded, like a tinted version of itself.
‘A disguise?’
‘Safety,’ he responded, but with a curl of his lips that showed appreciation for her joke.
He reached for her hand, guiding her towards the bike. ‘Have you ever ridden before?’
She shook her head. ‘Never.’
‘We seem to enjoy sharing your firsts together.’
Heat flushed her body. ‘You ride?’ She took a moment to appraise the bike, moving around it, admiring the shape of it, the size, thinking that it reminded her of a crouched bull, with barely contained strength indicated by the sculpted metal.
‘My first car was a bike.’ He cast one powerful leg over the frame, then shot her a look—a dare. ‘Hop on.’
A frissonof anticipation warmed her as she did exactly that, taking up the space behind him, her legs hugging his frame. When he started the bike, she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him, and pressure built behind her ribs, like the gathering of an electrical storm. She felt its charge and its strength and relished the possession of both.
The bike throbbed beneath them, and the storm grew in intensity, so her hands were no longer content to stay as they were, neatly folded over his chest. They explored, stroking his body, his ribs, his muscles, feeling him as the bike seemed to take on the personality of an animal, tearing them through Barcelona. She was aware of the city as he drove, of the changing landscape, from the cultured, exquisite frontages of the Passeig de Gràcia to the slightly grittier feel of the next neighbourhood, with art almost everywhere she looked—on the sides of buildings, billboards, even the street had been painted at the edges, passing her by in a blur until Alejandro stopped at the lights.
Idling, the bike’s rhythm stirred her to fever pitch, so she shifted closer on the seat, pressing her legs into him more tightly, until his hand reached down and stroked her thigh, and pleasure burst through her.
He navigated the streets expertly, as though he were wired for them, turning the bike away from a busy road down a side street and then another, with little restaurants dotted between shops and galleries, until finally he drew to a stop right out at the front of a string of three restaurants. It had taken less than ten minutes in all—not long enough. She wanted more. The thrill of being behind him as he expertly drove them through Barcelona had been immense.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ he asked as she stepped off the bike.
Sienna struggled to catch her breath. ‘Yes.’ What was the point in lying? She unhooked the helmet—heavier than she’d expected—and held it out to him. ‘I liked it a lot.’
His grin showed that he knew, or perhaps that he’d expected. ‘I thought you might.’ He leaned closer. ‘Daredevil.’
She blinked up at him, the moniker not one that had ever been used to describe her, and yet she liked it, and she couldn’t entirely argue with it. Since meeting Alejandro, she felt as though all she’d done was take risks—and they’d paid off, big time.
‘Where are we?’
‘El Born.’ He secured the helmets on the handlebar, then took her hand automatically—strange how comfortable that felt—as he strode towards a bright red door with ornate lampposts on either side. Sienna looked up and down the street, noting the small details now—the cobbled road that weaved between the buildings, the terracotta finish of the walls, the church at the end that seemed to have all rounded walls, and then the noise of the restaurants, the chatter and song that overflowed with happiness.
‘This is a medieval part of town,’ he explained, opening the door for her. The noise grew instantly louder. He stepped in behind her, shutting the door, so they were alone on a small landing. He gestured towards the stairs—too narrow for them to walk side by side. In fact, as she made her way down the stairs, Sienna had to dip her head a little, owing to the low roof.
It opened up once she reached the bottom. The room seemed to grow out of nowhere, stone walls covered in shelves and bottles, plants with long tendrils scrambling wildly across the space, the room dark except for the occasional lamp casting a golden glow, so there was privacy and anonymity in every direction. Towards the back of the restaurant, couples were dancing, their movements unmistakably traditional Spanish, mysterious and beautiful, and so elegant Sienna ached to be able to move just like them.
A waitress greeted them above the noise, and Alejandro switched to Catalan, so Sienna didn’t catch what he asked, only a moment later they were shown to a table near the front of the restaurant, a jug of sangria brought almost immediately.
‘It’s tradition.’ He grinned, gesturing to the jug.
She eyed it thoughtfully. ‘Another first for me.’
‘You cannot be serious?’
‘Tell me when in my life you think I might have had the opportunity to drink sangria,’ she prompted, pouring two glasses and looking at it curiously.
‘You’ve never been to Spain?’
‘I’ve barely been anywhere,’ she corrected. ‘In fact, until Olivia’s vows in Rome, my passport had been lapsed for about a decade.’
He leaned closer. ‘Because money was so tight?’