Chapter 35
trentacinque
It had been Francesca’s idea to take an early stroll together the morning of the final tappa. She thought the fresh air, brisk walk and chance to talk would do them both good.
‘Let’s drain the last of the nerves and adrenaline from our legs,’ she said as they set off.
Somewhere between the fringe of the lower plains and heading back into town, Alessio said, ‘Nerves will always push me into food.’
‘You eat when you’re upset?’
‘Yeah. And all the wrong things.’
‘Does that explain your pasticciotto obsession? You’re just comfort-eating to lessen your worries?’
He dropped his sunnies to the bridge of his nose. ‘Not a chance. Those things have healing powers of their own.’
She tittered. ‘I am the opposite. If I’m upset or worried I knot like a ball of kitchen twine. Nothing’s going in. Stomaco chiuso.’
Alessio cast a quick glance over both shoulders then grabbed her by the waist, catching her off guard. ‘Come . . .’
‘Ale, what are you doing? No one is allowed to see us—’
‘They won’t. Follow me.’
Francesca succumbed and allowed herself to be led across the field of wispy golden grass into a small wooden grain store.
It was no larger than the carport keeping a watchful eye over Sophia, and made of wooden slats with a corrugated-iron roof.
It looked as if one steady gust of wind might knock it flat, but that didn’t matter.
It provided just enough cover for the two of them to steal a moment together.
‘Ale . . . Sei pazzo!’ She melted into his arms and he pulled her close.
‘Non sono pazzo.’
‘Oh, now look who has found his Italian tongue!’ She dropped a slow sensual kiss to his lips.
‘You can do that again,’ he egged, and she felt him press harder against her middle.
‘Oooft,’ she panted. ‘I love when you feel like that.’
‘Like what?’
Her right hand slipped between them and toyed with his excited length through his shorts. ‘Like this.’
A low growl simmered behind his teeth. ‘That’s what you do to me. You only have yourself to blame.’
His lips grazed hers, drawing a vacuum of pressure between her legs which she ached to have released with his touch.
Francesca could feel a wave of heat rise to her skin.
She needed this, especially today; she wanted to cling to him the way she always did when they made love.
The way that made her feel secure, safe; that melted her worries and fears, that saw her, that acknowledged her.
She turned in his arms and took stock of the grain store, noting a few bales of hay covered with tarpaulins.
She gestured with a flick of her head and pulled him towards them by the hem of his tee.
‘Ti voglio. Adesso.’ Backing up against the hay she slipped her fingers under her dress and shimmied her black underwear down her thighs.
She saw Alessio’s throat bounce as he swallowed. ‘You want me . . .?’
‘Now.’
He shook his head, almost not believing his eyes as she stepped out of her underwear. ‘Fuck, Francesca . . .’
‘All. Yours.’ She sat back on one of the bales, propped on her elbows, bringing her hips in line with his waist. ‘If you want me . . .’
His expression became hungry and he moved over to her. ‘You’re the only one I want.’ Taking her flushed face in his hands, he leaned over and their mouths fused as one.
She panted through his kisses, ‘I need . . . to feel you . . . inside . . .’
And after a moment of fussing with his clothes, she felt him there – hot, hard – as Alessio held himself against her tender aching core.
She threw her head back and curled her spine to welcome him, beckoning him to fill the space she made for him.
But all he did was tease, dragging just his tip up and over her, toying with her resolve with each delicious stroke.
‘Ale . . . Ti prego!’
Then with one long push he released her from the torment and sent her tumbling back to the bale of hay.
She reached both hands for him, begging for him to come closer.
He did, filling her so completely, drawing the blood from her head, her heart, and forcing it to the intimate place where they were unified.
His right hand reached for her breast and caressed it over her dress, while his left caught her hip.
As Alessio found a deep electrifying rhythm, Francesca lost herself to the beating thrum of his thrusts. Shooting ripples of ecstasy manifested where her fingers suddenly sought release. She reached a hand between her legs and closed her eyes – a move that didn’t go unnoticed.
‘You’re . . . You’re touching yours—’
But just as she was about to reply, they heard a not-so-distant voice call, ‘Eh? C’è qualcuno?’
‘Shit!’ Alessio mumbled into her forehead.
‘Someone’s coming!’ she hissed, and they pulled apart.
Pants up. Underwear down her bra. They bolted for the rear door, slipped outside and darted through the nearby bushes to safety.
They waited there a few minutes until they saw the farmer walk the perimeter of the grain store, shrug his shoulders, then return to his larger shed closer by the road.
‘Oddio . . .’ Francesca puffed, her heart still performing somersaults in her chest. But Alessio was frozen in a daze. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ she asked, pulling at his collar.
‘You were touching yourself.’ His hands came to rest on her cheeks.
‘E, allora? That’s nothing.’
‘Nothing? That was the fucking sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and he ruined it!’
Francesca burst out laughing and lost her balance, rolling backwards into a bush.
‘Aiuto!’ she cooed, reaching upwards, and he hoisted her to standing.
They brushed down their clothes and Francesca ran her fingers through her curls.
‘I’m sorry he crashed the party for you.
How about you look after these in the meantime?
Eh?’ Her fingers dipped inside her bra and withdrew her underwear.
She waggled the pair through the air then tucked them in his shorts pocket, being sure to do it torturously slowly.
‘You’re going to kill me today. You know that?’
‘Not until after the final round of the competition. Ti giuro,’ she promised, making the sign of the cross.
Re-entering the town they walked past the comune offices and crossed paths with a smartly uniformed carabiniere, clipboard in hand. He and Felice were assessing the front door’s smashed glass pane, with Giovanni a few paces behind. True to form, Giovanni had his own clipboard at the ready.
‘What do you suspect is going on there?’ Alessio whispered as they approached.
‘Shh,’ Francesca breathed, slowing down. ‘Buongiorno!’ she trilled nonchalantly as they passed.
Felice acknowledged them with a friendly, professional wave, then returned his attention to the door. Alessio noticed his concerned brow and pursed lips.
‘Hang on,’ Alessio said, and dropped to the pavers to retie his shoelace, buying Francesca a moment to listen in. Twenty seconds later he righted himself and they continued. ‘What were they saying?’
‘Hm-mmm.’ They rounded the bend and entered Impastino’s piazza, where they could talk more freely. ‘Someone broke into the comune last night.’