Chapter 10
Stefan
Francesca was full and lazy.
And slightly drunk.
I loved my mother—but fuck if I didn't want to kick her out right now and carry my soft, supple, partially inebriated wife upstairs to our bed.
I finished packing the Margherita pizza and risotto away in the refrigerator while Francesca and my mother drank wine and laughed on the patio like old friends. It warmed my heart to see the bond they had built in only twenty-four hours.
But—that didn't mean I was willing to hand my wife over to my mother. I didn't think one night without Francesca in my bed would affect me like this. Not only had I missed the sex—I'd missed the closeness. I wanted her beside me.
And right now, I wanted to be inside her.
I finished up in the kitchen and made my way out to the patio. Before I sat down, my mother pushed away from the table. “All right, it is time for me to go. I don't want to overstay my welcome.”
Francesca's face dropped slightly. “You don't have to go.”
Fuck.
She was so goddamn adorable. Anyone with eyes and ears could see and hear how genuine she was.
My mother laughed and leaned down to hug Francesca. When my mother straightened up, she looked at me and smiled widely. “I love her.”
I chuckled and nodded. “Yeah.” My eyes found my wife's. “Me, too.”
Francesca bit her lip for a moment before giving me the sweetest smile I'd ever seen in my life.
Francesca started to get up, but my mother put a hand on her shoulder. “No, I can see myself out. You look so comfortable. Stay and put your feet up.” Then she bent down to kiss Francesca's cheek. “Thank you for the lovely visit. I can't remember the last time I had so much fun.”
Francesca smiled at her. “Me, either.”
I let out a sharp laugh. “I'll try not to take that too personally, wife.” I faked a frown at her—and then we all laughed.
I walked out with my mother, leaving Francesca on the patio. Once we were at the front door, my mother turned to me. “Most new daughters-in-law would kick their new mothers-in-law out as soon as they could. Not ask them to stay overnight on their honeymoon.”
I smirked at my mother. “Francesca's not that kind of girl,” I said with confidence. Because my new wife was definitely not the type of woman who would throw my mother to the curb.
“I know the kind of girl she is.” My mother set her hands on my upper arms. “She's the kind of girl who cries when her new mother-in-law gives her a ricer.” She gave me a glassy-eyed smile.
“You did well, mio figlio. Very well. And,” her eyebrows raised up high on her forehead, “she's gorgeous. You'll make beautiful babies together.”
“From your lips to God's ears,” I whispered to her.
“Thank you for the wonderful time.” She hugged me and patted my back.
“Francesca will expect you back to make your sauce,” I reminded her with a grin.
She let go of me and smiled as she let out a long breath. “Yes, I'll bring my tomatoes over.”
I grasped her hand in mine and squeezed it. “Friday?” I asked and then added. “And you'll stay over again?”
Her tears weren't as silent this time. They came fast and furious. Her arms circled around my torso, and she hugged the fuck out of me. “Yes, I'd love that.”
I hugged her back and kissed the top of her head. “Good.” I walked my mother out to her car. The driver already had the door open for her.
Right before we got to the car, she stopped and turned to me. “Your father and I prayed every night that you'd find a wife like Francesca. He's looking down right now at you two and smiling.” Then she quickly turned and slipped into her car—leaving me—and my burning eyes—to wave goodbye.
I swallowed over my dry throat and made my way back inside. Francesca was right where I had left her. Sitting in my favorite place in the world. Slowly sipping from her wine glass. Her dark hair shone in the sunlight. Her already olive-toned skin was getting darker by the day.
Standing here watching her just made the need inside my belly grow fiercer by the second. I could feel myself getting hard—like I was a goddamn teenager again.
I adjusted myself and wandered over to my wife. “Need a refill?” I asked, picking up the wine bottle.
“Please,” she said and held out her glass for me. “I like this one the best so far. How many kinds of wine does Carlo mark?” she giggled and corrected herself, “I mean, make.”
I chuckled to myself and poured more into my own glass, as well. “Quite a few.”
She licked her lips. “Do you think he'll let me taste all of them?” she asked innocently enough. But my mind traveled somewhere else entirely.
“Oh, I think Carlo will let you taste anything you want of his.” And wasn't that just the fuckin' truth? If everything went to plan—that was exactly what would happen.
“Oh, that's nice. Carlo's a good guy. He's not as big and scary as he looks.”
That made me fuckin' laugh. Because my brother could be one mean asshole. But Francesca would never see that side of him.
I sat down beside my wife and held her hand as we looked out at the view.
“I think blue is my new favorite color,” she said with a slight hiccup that made me smile. “These exact blues.” She pointed to the sky and the water. “I don't think I've ever seen these shades before.”
I felt that deep down in my gut. To know Francesca loved this as much as I did—
Well, it was more than satisfying.
“What was your favorite color before?” I asked, wondering what she was going to tell me.
Instead—she said nothing. She pressed her lips together and tilted her head like she was in deep thought.
After a while, I asked, “Well?” when she hadn't answered.
All she did was shrug. “I don't think I've ever had a favorite color before. Hmm. That's weird.”
I brought her hand to my lips and kissed it. “I don't think it's weird at all. You didn't know these colors existed until now. But these have always been yours.”
She smiled lazily. “Yeah. That's a nice way to think about it.” Her eyes dropped to her glass, and she held it up. “Although this pink color is definitely a close second.”
My head fell back as I laughed at my partially drunk wife. But she wasn't wrong. Rosé in our glasses, or Rosato as we call it here in Italy, was a very pretty pink. Almost coral color.
She tipped back the glass and drank half of it. “And it tastes really, really, really good.”
Fuck.
I was a lucky bastard. I pulled on her hand, encouraging her to come closer so I could kiss those pink lips of hers. Which—incidentally—had quickly become my favorite color. “I love you, wife.” I touched my lips to hers, and she instantly opened for me.
Yeah.
My wife was sufficiently boozy. And soft. She tasted of the subtle strawberry notes of the Rosato.
Utterly delicious.
But Francesca was tasty all over.
Rosato.
Or.
No.
“You are more beautiful than this view will ever be.”
A giggle bubbled up and out of her. “I am not.” She turned her head toward the water and the sky. “Look at that.” She sighed as her eyes became glossy. “There's nothing that beautiful.”
I kissed her cheek. “I disagree. You are a billion times more beautiful.”
She giggled again and rolled her eyes at me. “Why would you even leave this?” she asked, sounding utterly perplexed. “If I lived here,” she informed me, “I'd never leave.”
I laughed and quickly corrected her. “Francesca, you do live here.”
Then she turned fully to me. “Seriously, though. Why do you ever leave?”
Fuck.
This woman was so fucking perfect for me. I cupped her cheek, and she leaned into it. “I cry every time I leave. To go back to Chicago,” I admitted something to her that I'd never told another human being. “And every time I come back.” I felt my eyes water.
She noticed—because her eyes started doing the same thing.
“It calls to you, Stefan. Right? This place—” she glanced back out at the view, “it's special. I can tell.”
Fuck me.
I'd just admitted to the woman I loved that I fuckin' cried every time I traveled away from my home. Or came back.
And she fucking understood.
No.
Not only did she understand—she explained it to me.
“Whatever calls to me here.” I kissed her lips. “It's stronger now that you're here, too.”
I watched her physically melt right in front of me.
Yeah.
I was one lucky bastard.
I took her mouth and kissed those beautiful pink lips.