Chapter 29
LORENZO
“Ineed the olive oil. Who’s got my EVOO?” I shout down the line.
I’ve got a lot to do before tonight’s event, and of everything I’ve ever done, tonight has to be perfect.
“With all respect, Chef . . . get out,” Belinda says.
I look over sharply to find her holding my bottle of oil with a look of challenge in her icy blue eyes. She’s an excellent chef with a strong work ethic, a precise palette, and a long history of working with some of the best.
And now she works for me. Usually.
“Get out?” I laugh as I grab olive oil from her station and let her keep the one in her hand. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got too much to do.”
Belinda steps in front of me with one strong hand held up. “Lorenzo, we’ve got this. We’ve been talking about this for weeks, designing the menu, and trying out new recipes. Let me do this so you can at least go home and take a shower before you change into your suit.”
I glance around the kitchen to see my entire crew nodding with Belinda. But I haven’t lost them.
This is my kitchen. My crew.
But not my restaurant.
I don’t want that, not now, at least. But being the chef for a small restaurant with an owner who wants me to create and allow him to manage is the perfect compromise.
Here, I have the opportunity to source local products or have specialty items shipped in, I can change the menu daily or seasonally, and I can experiment with free reign.
This is my new cooking home. Except I’m being kicked out, apparently.
“Belinda . . . guys . . .”
“We’re good, Lorenzo. I swear it. We won’t let you down,” Belinda reassures me.
I sigh, knowing she’s right and that I need to trust them. But I can’t let it go easily. “Run it down for me one more time.”
“Yes, Chef,” Belinda snaps.
She begins reciting the menu I’ve been agonizing over, different members of the crew picking up to recite their contributions to each plate. It doesn’t take long. It’s a set menu of items I selected.
Once she’s done, I realize that she’s right. They’re all right.
“Okay.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I am. I take my apron off and then my jacket. “I’ll see you later . . . on the other side of the table. Do me proud, guys.”
Belinda leads the crew in a round of applause that dies out the instant I leave the kitchen and is replaced with the hustle and bustle of knives chopping, food sizzling, and pots and pans moving around on the stovetops.
“You look amazing,” I whisper to Abigail.
She’s wearing the white gown she promised her mom she would, though I think it’s not quite what Kimberly had in mind.
But in the end, Abigail will always do what she feels is right, and she’s gone with a two-piece.
The top is a delicate silk tank with a deep V and lace in creamy ivory.
The skirt is full in the palest blush pink with tiny buttons down the entire length of the back.
She let me see it once, saying it wasn’t bad luck since we’re already married, though she’d only held it up, not actually put it on.
But even holding the skirt up, she’d twirled like a little girl, her face exuberant with joy.
On her now, it’s even more stunning.
Abigail’s smile in this moment, in this dress, is something I will remember forever. “Thank you.” She spins once again, the skirt flaring out beautifully. “You too. So handsome.”
She snuggles up against me, her arms going around my waist, and there’s a click from off to my right.
I ignore it in favor of looking at Abigail because I know the photographer is going to be taking pictures of the entire reception tonight.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask her.
“Absolutely, without a doubt. I’m ready to get our party on and celebrate.” She wiggles against me with her smile bright, not only on her lips but in her eyes. She takes my hand and holds our interlocked hands up. “Us against the world, yeah?”
“Always.”
The doors in front of us open, and Archie pokes his head out with a grin. “Okay, cats and kittens, you ready to rock and roll?”
I can’t help but laugh in confusion. “What?”
Abigail shakes her head and explains, “It’s an expression. A really old, dead one.”
Archie pouts sassily. “Let’s go. I’m ready to get our food on because I want to hit the dance floor.” He spins in place in his black boots and finishes by striking a pose with one arm up and one down, his fingers spread wide and shaking.
Walking into the restaurant, I see our family and friends are already seated at the tables, each of which has been draped with pale blush tablecloths and lovely arrangements Abigail created and set with a mix-match of china and flatware.
“May I introduce Mr. Lorenzo Toscani and Mrs. Abigail Andrews!” the DJ says into the microphone, and everyone claps and cheers as we walk through the restaurant. It feels like a victory lap.
We won at life by finding each other!
I can’t help but smile. This is all so . . . American. It’s like a rave version of a party but with everyone dressed up in their finest.
Abigail and I sit down at a table of our own and dinner service begins. I’m critical of every morsel on every plate, checking the ones I can see for consistency, but Belinda and my crew have done a top-notch job. Each bite is pure pleasure.
Everyone else seems to be enjoying their dinner as well.
“Uhm, this is delicious!” Abigail raves about the fettuccine. The dish that started this all. “Promise me we can have this at least once a week.”
“Daily, if you want it,” I vow.
Abigail seems to actually be considering that. But too soon, dinner is over and we move on to dancing.
If there’s anything Abigail’s family enjoys, it’s dancing. Apparently, Violet’s wedding had a dance off that was the stuff of legends, I danced with Abigail at Courtney’s wedding, and now, I’m holding Abigail in my arms once again.
The music is slow and sweet, and I enjoy swaying with her until I see Aunt Sofia dancing with Archie. “Uh, is that okay?” I ask Abigail. “He’s not going to dip her and drop her on the floor, right?”
Abigail shrugs. “He’s usually pretty good. I’m more worried that Sofia is going to pinch his ass . . . again.”
I look at her in surprise. “She did that?”
“Yep. More than once. So if he dips and drops, she might deserve it.”
I can’t help but laugh, and now I don’t give Aunt Sofia another thought as she and Archie dance on around the floor.
We face off, small bites of white cake in our fingers. “Don’t you dare,” Abigail warns me.
This is another one of those American things I don’t get . . . when the bride and groom don’t politely feed each other bits of sweets but rather shove it in each other’s faces. It seems so . . . rude?
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell her.
I feed her a gentle bite, leaning forward to kiss the tiny bit of white icing that’s left on her top lip. It’s even sweeter from her skin. “Beautiful.”
Abigail giggles. “You mean delicious?”
I shake my head. “Beautiful.”
She ducks her chin, and I lift it back up with a finger, forcing her eyes to mine. “I love you, Abigail.”
“You sure?” she dares, looking at the cake still in her fingers.
I open my mouth for her to feed me the sweet morsel. She does . . . sort of. The rest of it smashes into my cheek and she laughs boisterously.
The crowd gasps in shocked horror. But I grab Abigail around the waist and pull her to me, leaning down to kiss her fiercely—cake, icing, mess, and all. She squeals in shock, writhing in my arms as she tries to get away. “Ah! You said you wouldn’t!”
But she’s laughing, encouraging me as I rub my face along hers. She reaches toward the cake, her only available weapon, and before I know it, she’s smashed another fresh handful of cake in my face.
I lick my lips with a smile. I lean forward, posing as I ask, “Want a taste?”
She meets me this time, not play fighting. Her tongue swipes along my freshly-shaven jaw. “Ooh! It is good.”
“You want to try some?” Abigail asks the crowd.
Some people scatter. I even see Archie pick up Aunt Sofia and take off with her protectively. Others argue with Abigail . . .
“Abi, no!”
“Please!”
But Abigail does what she wants and suddenly, there’s cake flying everywhere. People cry out, but some grab fistfuls themselves and throw it back at us. Well, at Abigail. But since she’s taken to ducking down behind me, it all hits me first.
It’s utter madness in cake form, with a mess all over the restaurant, but all I can care about is the way Abigail is laughing so happily as she licks icing from her fingers.
I grab her hand, taking her thumb into my mouth to suck it clean myself.
“Beautiful.”
Soaking in Abigail’s tub is a necessity tonight. As is the very thorough washing I give every inch of her sugary skin. With her sitting between my splayed legs, I give extra-special attention to soaping her breasts.
“I don’t think I got any cake there,” she teases on a sigh.
I hum in agreement but don’t stop my slippery hands. “Just making sure,” I tell her. I massage the full globes, plucking her nipples and then circling them with maddening strokes that make them harden and poke through the bubbles.
“I’ve got some other places you should check then.”
I do. I check every bit of her, glancing along her fingers and arms, down her chest and belly, and to her core. Beneath the water, I slide my fingers along her slit, finding it slippery. “Is this frosting?” I joke, my voice rough with hunger.
“Wanna taste it to see?” An invitation I intend to accept, but not yet. She’s too soft and warm, melting into me with her head laid back on my shoulder and her eyes fluttering closed from the barest touch along her lips.
I circle her clit with the pad of my finger, slowly stroking her higher and higher. Every few seconds, I tap the little nub firmly and she jolts under the differences in the soft and rough touches.
“Mia rosa, my love, my wife . . . come for me.” I speed up my ministrations to her clit, feeling her slickness even through the water, and my cock aches, wanting to feel it.
“Yes,” she moans, going tight and then shuddering against me. I keep brushing her sensitive pussy, drawing aftershocks from her until she jerks away.
“Mmm, my turn,” she tells me with an evil glint in her eye.
I have no idea what she intends, but I’m with her for whatever it is.
She moves around, splashing water on the floor, to sit astride me. Facing each other now, she peppers my face with butterfly kisses so gentle, they make me groan in need for more. I grip her hips firmly and lift her to line up, and then she impales herself on me.
“Cazzo,” I hiss. The water has washed away some of her juices, but after coming, she is still wet enough for me to enter her. I feel every millimeter of her pussy clench against my hard cock, gripping me tightly.
“Fuck,” she repeats in English. She knows a handful of words in Italian now, but especially when we make love, her English curse words are what fall from her lips.
Placing her hands on my shoulders for leverage, she lifts and lowers herself.
I hold her hips, helping her. I try to guide her to go slow, enjoying the drag of her lips along my length, but Abigail is a woman on a mission.
She bucks hard and fast, making waves in the bath water that splash over the side.
But she doesn’t care. I don’t either. That’s what towels are made for.
So I let her ride me, taking me where she wants to go, enjoying every second of her wild passion.
“I’m coming,” I tell her, and the smile on her face is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen, second only to the smile that steals across her lips when she comes.
I feel the pulsing jets of cum erupt from my cock, filling her, and together, we sag back into the water. Spent, I’m thinking I could lie here for another hour if the water would stay warm that long. Simply do nothing but recover.
“We should take a shower next,” Abigail suggests.
One thing’s for sure, a life with Abigail will never be boring. She will always keep me guessing, and I love her for it. Wherever she is, that’s my home.