Chapter 14
NICO
She’s wearing a dress—floral, light, and colorful. Her makeup is, as always, subtle, but her lipstick is a glossy pink that accentuates her full lips. She’s worn some eye makeup because her hazel-gray eyes shine even brighter.
“You look beautiful.” I gently kiss her pink lips. She tastes like roses.
She flushes. “Thank you. Alba…she.” She waves her off-white Chanel clutch that matches her dress. “Bought stuff and sent someone to…well, get me ready like I’m a child.” She rolls her eyes.
She let someone do her up for me, and that makes me feel ten fucking feet tall. “Your sister has a good eye.”
The driver opens the door to the Range Rover, and I help her in before joining her in the back.
I have to go back to Florence after dinner, as I have an early morning meeting I need to be at.
I wanted to find a day when I could stay over, but my calendar wouldn’t allow that for another two weeks.
So, I decided that we could spend some time together, even if it means I have to commute to and from Florence.
It’s a short drive that we pass with ease, catching up as we have been every night.
Osteria Magona is not ostentatious; even its signage is somber. Set amidst vineyards and cypress trees, the restaurant serves excellent food and a wine list inundated with the best of Bolgheri, from Sassicaia, Masseto, Ornellaia, and Pietra Alta, of course.
I booked a table by the window with a view, which, on a clear day like today, extends all the way to the sea. Inside, we’re protected from the worst of the heat because it’s the end of August, and it is humid and not entirely breathable outside.
As soon as we step inside, the ma?tre d’ smiles. “Buonasera, Signora Alighieri, Signor Alarico.”
My wife inclines her head. “Buonasera, Arjan. How are you doing? How’s your wife?”
The ma?tre d’ walks us to our table. “Ah, she’s good. Big as a house, as they say.”
“Let me know when she pops, as they say,” Alessia murmurs with a smile.
He seats us and places the menus in front of us. He doesn’t ask about our choice of water—presumably because they know Alessia here and already know what she prefers. That’s confirmed moments later when a server arrives with sparkling water, greeting her warmly by name.
So we can both enjoy the view, we take the banquette along the wall, sitting side by side. I don’t mind it at all. I’m close enough to steal a kiss—which I fully intend to do. And maybe more.
“You come here often?” I ask, angling myself so I can look at her.
She shrugs with a smile, half turning to face me. “As I said, I’ve been here…but never with you.”
Before I can open the wine list, a man approaches us. He’s in his mid-forties, and he’s wearing a pin that tells me he’s a master sommelier.
“Alessia.”
She lights up. They hug. He kisses both her cheeks.
“Philario, so good to see you.”
She introduces me to him, almost shyly, as her husband. Philario is effusive and apologizes for not being able to attend the wedding. He was invited, but he was in Palermo as his mother isn’t feeling well.
“So, what are you excited about, Philario?”
It’s interesting how she communicates. She isn’t asking him what he recommends or what’s popular. She wants to know what is exciting him because she’s looking for something unique.
The sommelier straightens, energized. “We just opened a small allocation of a Vermentino from Capalbio—high elevation, saline, very restrained.”
She waves a hand in assent. “Let’s start with that. And later…we’ll see where the food leads us.”
He beams and disappears.
There’s something about my wife, I have to admit.
She makes people comfortable. They reach out to her.
They seek her out. From master somm to server, everyone who knows her greets her warmly.
She asks them personal questions about their lives, their loves.
I see it again—how she leads with her heart here as she does at Tenuta Pietra Alta.
She picks up the handwritten seasonal menu.
“I don’t know if I can eat a full chef’s menu,” she tells me. “But you go ahead.”
I shake my head. “I can’t either.”
She nods, smiles, and traces a finger down the page. “You have to get the pappardelle. The ragù changes daily depending on what came in this morning. They make a very good ragù di cinghiale.”
Wild boar is one of Tuscany’s great delicacies, slow-cooked until the meat turns dark and tender.
“I trust you,” I say simply, aware that I am saying that for a lot more than dinner.
She orders for us both—never assuming, always checking with a glance. I like that about her. She’s not arrogant; she cares, and it’s nice to be cared for by her.
The Vermentino arrives chilled but not cold. She tastes first.
“Good tension,” she murmurs. “Nice length.”
I take a sip. Bright, mineral, alive. It tastes like the coast, like restraint. Like her.
The flickering candlelight paints Alessia’s face in warm, golden hues, and I can’t stop staring at her.
The past week has also been a slow foreplay, and right now, as she speaks, her lips pink and glossy, I imagine how good they would feel around my cock. I’ve been thinking about that quite a lot in the past few days.
“I like your dress.” I touch the strap of her elegant dress.
She gasps softly, so I stroke a hand up her collarbone and then trace her lips with my thumb.
“Ah…it’s Pucci,” she whispers and gently, very shyly, licks my thumb.
There’s an uncomplicated sensuality about her. It’s not practiced or rehearsed. It’s honest and arousing. “Ah…you want to play, dolcezza?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I feel a little reckless tonight. It’s the dress and…it’s you.”
Every time she shifts in her seat, the fabric clings to her curves, teasing me.
“Are you wet, cara?” I whisper in her ear just as a server comes to serve us bread.
She’s flustered in an instant, a blush rising up her neck to her cheeks.
“Wow,” I murmur once the server leaves. “How far down does the blush go?”
She straightens, but doesn’t pull away. “What are you doing?”
“Why, Alessia, I’m seducing my wife,” I tell her and pick up my glass of wine. I raise it in a toast. “To you, dolcezza.”
Intimacy builds as we eat.
It happens in the small things.
In the way she leans toward me when she speaks, lowering her voice as if the table itself might be listening.
In the way my knee shifts closer to hers beneath the linen, close enough to feel warmth, not quite touching.
In glances shared over nothing at all, smiles that linger a second longer than necessary.
The food arrives in measured courses, each one better than the last.
Handmade tagliolini dressed simply in butter and sage, the pasta delicate enough to disappear on the tongue.
A slow-braised veal cheek that falls apart at the suggestion of a fork, rich without being heavy.
Grilled vegetables that taste like they were pulled from the earth that morning—zucchini and fennel cooked to perfection and served with a scattering of sea salt.
She knows the chef, who comes to the table himself, greets her with a kiss to both cheeks, asks after Alba, the vineyards, and the meal, in that order.
When he leaves, he promises to send something special for dessert.
She laughs easily tonight.
I find myself watching her mouth when she speaks, the curve of her lips, the way she pauses before answering as if she’s considering the shape of her words. The way she listens with her whole body—eyes focused, shoulders angled toward me, attention fully present.
She never once checks her phone. So, I ignore mine when it shivers in my pocket.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I slide my hand under the table, finding her thigh.
Her skin is soft, warm, and I feel her shiver as my fingers creep higher, tracing the edge of her dress.
She trembles.
“Nico,” she whispers, scandalized.
“Spread your thighs,” I order.
“What?”
I kiss her softly. “If you don’t want to give everyone here a show, you will spread your thighs.”
From what I’ve learned, Alessia works hard and doesn’t have a lot of fun—I want her to let her hair down and just be. I want to see how she looks when that happens.
She parts her legs, just enough for me to slide my hand up, up, up. “This dress is torture. You know that, don’t you?”
She bites her lip, her hand gripping her wineglass as if she might crush it.
Good.
I want her desperate. I want her panting for me.
My fingers brush against her soaked panties, and she gasps, her hips jerking toward me instinctively.
“Nico,” she squeaks, her voice shaking.
“Shhh,” I murmur, leaning closer, my breath hot against her ear. “Keep it quiet, cara. You don’t want everyone in here to know how wet you are for me, do you?”
Her breath hitches as I hook my fingers into her panties, pulling them aside.
Her pussy is slick. Her juices coat my fingers. I groan softly, my cock throbbing in my pants.
I tease her clit with slow, deliberate circles, and she whimpers, her thighs clamping around my hand. “Nico…stop.”
I ignore her.
My fingers dip lower, sliding into her tight, wet heat.
She’s so tight, her walls clenching around me like she’s trying to milk my fingers. I thrust them deeper, curling them just right, and she chokes back a moan, her nails digging into the tablecloth.
“You still want me to stop?” I demand, my voice rough, my fingers working her with relentless precision. Her pussy is a fucking mess, and I fucking love it.
“No…no.”
“What do you want?” I ask, slowing down.
“More.”
“More what?” I tease, my thumb pressing hard against her clit now, my fingers pumping in and out of her faster, harder.
She’s panting, her hips bucking against my hand, and I know she’s close.
“I need…,” she gasps, her eyes fluttering shut as I push her closer to the edge.
My fingers fuck her ruthlessly now, my thumb rubbing her clit in tight, frantic circles. “Come for me, dolcezza. Show me how much you want me.”
Her whole body tenses, her thighs shiver around my hand as she comes with a muffled sob, her pussy clamping down on my fingers.
She’s beautiful when she falls apart for me.
I pull my fingers out slowly, watching as she tries to catch her breath. Her eyes are glazed, her lips swollen from biting them so hard.
“That’s my girl,” I murmur, bringing my fingers to my lips and sucking her taste off them. She watches me, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. “Better than any dessert they could serve here.”
She lowers her eyes, and I grasp her chin so she has to look at me. “No hiding.”
She bites her lower lip. “I…I’m embarrassed.”
“Why?”
She looks around and then at me. “That was…naughty.”
I let out a laugh. “Yes, Alessia, it was. It was meant to be.”
She looks away, smiling. “I…I’ve never done….”
“Never made out with a man in a restaurant?”
A playful glint softens her gaze. “No. I have never done that.”
“Oh, Alessia, we’re going to do many, many more naughty things.” I lean closer and brush my lips against her ear. “I’m going to ruin your good girl image.”
I hear and feel her laugh. And then very primly she says, “I can’t wait to experience that.”