Chapter 28
ventotto
The first tappa of the Festa della Pasta may have been behind them, but Francesca and Alessio’s Secret Life of Pasta evenings continued.
In fact, they intensified even further. Francesca found she really enjoyed imparting her knowledge, and Alessio was such a willing and gifted student.
This evening was no exception: Francesca’s plan was to focus first on small bread knot nibbles called taralli, then return to pasta with cavatelli and casarecce. However, she was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate.
As they were working the dough, Francesca glanced over and realised that Alessio had closed his eyes.
She stopped her own kneading and turned to look at him.
His brows had drawn together, creating a thoughtful furrow across his forehead.
His head dropped slightly to the right as he took a deep breath and held it momentarily.
Francesca noted the spray of freckles that dotted his deepening golden skin, disappearing into his few-days-old stubble.
He looked every bit the Mediterranean dream.
Then his face cleared. ‘The gluten has finally released,’ he said, opening his eyes and finding Francesca’s.
She grinned and leaned her back against the edge of her board.
I taught him that.
Hearing him echo her wisdom drew his previous compliment – You would make an amazing teacher – to her mind.
I could teach, I guess. Share my love and passion for food, my way . . .
Alessio searched her face. ‘Are you ok?’
Francesca nodded, suddenly self-consciousness under his scrutiny.
Alessio dropped his dough to the board and wiped his hands slowly on the front of Giacomo’s beloved old apron. His dark brown eyes absorbed all of Francesca as he moved closer so their knees met. In that instance everything seemed to still.
Then she felt his arms reach around her middle and knot themselves in the small of her back, drawing her nearer.
With one hand he traced a slow line around her hip and up and over the small mother of pearl buttons which fastened the front of her dress, coming to rest at the nape of her neck, cradling her head.
Without conscious thought, Francesca softened in his grasp, leaning her head tenderly into his hold.
It felt delicious.
Alessio’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips, and that guiding hand softly caressing her neck pulled her nearer still. His other hand caught the other side.
His voice, low and gruff, tested the final shred of Francesca’s self--control. ‘No one will find us here.’
She swallowed as the heat radiating from Alessio’s body ignited her skin’s desire for contact.
Then, he dropped his forehead to rest against Francesca’s, and the way the tip of his nose toyed with hers, teasing her . . . it was too much, yet not enough.
‘Tell me you feel it too,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her lips.
She nodded, giving way to all she had withheld, all she had worried about. The risk of being caught. The charade. The high stakes. The fate of the restaurant . . .
‘Let me . . .’
The faintest expectant moan trickled from her, and Alessio finally dipped his head to press his warm, delicate lips against hers.
As if fated, Elena’s voice rang out in the dining hall. ‘Cesca? Cesca?’
The pair sprang apart, fumbling with hands, fingers, dough and flour.
Elena pushed her way through the saloon doors and stood before them in the kitchen. ‘What’s going on here?’
Alessio cleared his throat. ‘Francesca thought it might be a good idea to teach me about taralli dough tonight.’
‘Yes. Exactly. We have made these two batches, and they can proof overnight.’ Francesca picked up her ball of dough and held it aloft, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat in the back of her throat. ‘We’ll be up early tomorrow to finish this.’
Elena raised an eyebrow. ‘Overnight is an unnecessarily long proof, Cesca. What are you thinking?’
‘Actually,’ Alessio interjected, ‘that was my idea.’ Francesca could only nod along. ‘An experiment. Overnight, like a sourdough. It can’t hurt. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll make a regular double batch in its place; no taralli harmed in the process.’
Elena exhaled loudly and waved a disapproving hand in the direction of the floured wooden boards. ‘Make sure this . . . experiment . . . is cleaned up before you go to bed.’
Francesca pinned her shoulders back a little more firmly. ‘We’re not children, Mamma.’
Elena worried at the fringed trim of the pashmina wound around her shoulders. ‘I’ve just put Nonna to bed. I’ll be back in the morning. Buonanotte.’
‘Buonanotte,’ they responded in unison as Elena left the kitchen.
Both were fixed to the spot, waiting to hear her lock the trattoria’s door from the outside.
Jingle. Jangle. Clunk.
Francesca relaxed first, exhaling the last of the breath she’d clung to. Alessio turned to face her, his eyes scanning hers questioningly. In reply she pressed her still floury hands to his chest, just below his collarbones.
‘Francesc—’
She grabbed at his shirt, pulling him towards her. Pressing her forehead against his she panted, ‘Alessio, ho voglia di te.’
‘You . . .?’
Closing her eyes she breathed out the words. ‘I. Need. You.’
She felt Alessio lean against her in response. Tilting his head slightly, he let his moist lips slip down the crescent of her cheek, eventually nuzzling into her warm, fragrant curls. Francesca closed her eyes as the pressure mounting between her legs urged his hands further, his lips . . .
‘I. Want. You,’ he whispered into her neck.
Without thinking, Francesca leaned back against the benchtop behind her. Propping herself on both hands she hoisted herself to sitting, shimmying her way to the edge of the bench.
It was then that Alessio took control.
Brushing aside her cascading locks, he cupped Francesca’s face between his hands.
Francesca felt his weight press against her middle, between her parted legs, and she ached for the push and counter-tension of his excitement against her.
She whimpered. It was all she could do to appease that throbbing, pulsing knot of desire at her core.
Instinctively, she wrapped her thighs around him, pulling him as close as she could.
And then his lips were there, united with hers. His kiss was firm and commanding, yet sensual enough to draw the breath from her lungs.
Francesca’s fingers, still floury from their kneading, made their way into his hair, and she caressed the spot where his hairline and collar met. She smiled into their kiss as he moaned his approval.
Then, unexpectedly, Alessio pulled away. ‘Francesca, you are . . .’
She blinked, not sure what had given him pause.
‘I was about to say, amazing . . . but what I really should say is, you’re sitting on the dough.’
‘Eh?’ She pivoted on the spot, peering behind her. ‘Cazzo!’
Alessio poked a finger at the now properly flattened mass, imprinted with the pleats and lines of Francesca’s dress. ‘That’s one way of rolling it, I guess.’
Francesca laughed helplessly and hopped down off the counter. She shook her head when she saw the state of the benches.
Perhaps he read her mind, as he held up a finger.
‘I can sort this in a minute.’ She watched as Alessio quickly wrapped both mounds of dough in cling film and set them in the fridge.
Then, using a bench scraper, he quickly brushed the excess flour from the wooden boards down into the sink, then washed the claggy flour residue away.
He flipped the boards upright and set them against the tiled splashback.
‘Finito.’ His attention returned to Francesca and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Where were we?’
She walked over to him and ran a hand down the front of his chest, allowing her palm to register every wave and ripple of his form. It came to rest on the waistband of his shorts and she locked eyes with him, then slipped a finger behind the band.
‘Back there again, are you?’
Pulling him closer she whispered, ‘Can I have all of you?’
Alessio broke into a grin and nodded. ‘Yes, but not here.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see . . . need to make a pitstop to grab protection first.’
As quietly as possible, Francesca followed Alessio up the ladder to the terrazzo. When they reached the top she hit a switch, illuminating the zigzagging lines of fairy lights which danced above the terrace, kissed gently by the summer evening breeze.
‘Come,’ she beckoned, walking to the ledge which faced out over Impastino’s piazza with Alessio in tow. ‘The moonlight is tickling the ocean.’
Alessio’s gaze passed over Da Martino and caught the inky horizon in the distance, the sea reflecting the moon’s iridescent glow.
While he couldn’t hear the crashing of the waves against the pebbled beach, he could smell the salty, heady comfort of open water, and felt it reconnecting something inside him to the land.
Then there was the mewing of gulls overhead, some of which dipped and dove across the piazza in search of crumbs left by Impastino’s locals and summertime guests.
Lost to the scene before him, it took a moment for him to register the way Francesca’s arm reached behind him and wrapped itself around his middle.
‘We’re the highest point in the town, save the campanile of the church. Only God can see us up here.’
Alessio flicked his chin across the piazza to Da Martino. ‘Not even them. If we can see their windows, surely they can see—’
Francesca caught him by his waistband and pulled him back a few paces until the view of Da Martino disappeared beyond the lip of the terrazzo. ‘Now they’re gone. And so are we.’ Facing him, she gripped his lapels and allowed her hands to drag slowly down his middle, unbuttoning his shirt halfway.
Alessio’s mouth went dry. Her expression was determined, full of want; it was an incredible turn-on. He made to reach for her, but she shook her head.
‘Not yet.’ Her voice, low and confident, taunted him.