Chapter 21
NICO
I was scared that she'd kick me out, that I'd lose her.
I've never worried about such things with anyone. No one has ever mattered this much.
When she says she needs a shower, food, and sleep, tenderness swamps me. I came here to care for her, and I intend to do so.
Her reaction to Chiara comes from deep-seated insecurities that I planted, as well as the fact that her defenses are down because she's exhausted working the harvest.
She's covered in dirt, her hair's a mess, and she smells like earth, grapes, and fatigue, and yet, she's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"Chiara can go fuck herself." I want to pin her against the wall right here, right now, and remind her who she belongs to. "Let me take care of you, cara."
I pick her up bridal style, and she cries out. "What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you." I walk down to her…our bedroom.
She laughs now. "You make me feel so feminine.”
"You are so utterly that, dolcezza," I confess.
There was a time when I didn't see her as beautiful or sexy—but that was me seeing her with shallow eyes. Now, I have grown, and I see the woman she is, strong, brilliant, amazing—and all I see is sweetness, sexiness, and beauty.
I turn on the shower, cranking the brass knob until steam billows like Tuscan morning fog.
I peel away her clothes—first the dirt-stained blouse, then her worn jeans—revealing her olive skin inch by precious inch, like uncorking a rare vintage I've waited a lifetime to taste.
Her full breasts spill free, tipped with dusky rose nipples that tighten in the cool bathroom air. The gentle curve of her waist flares to hips that sway with natural grace as she steps over the marble threshold.
I undress, my arousal throbbing with each heartbeat, hard as the ancient stone walls of her family's estate.
The water sluices over her shoulders, rivulets tracing paths down her spine, washing away vineyard soil, the day's perspiration, and the remnants of our earlier argument.
I work the handmade lavender soap—her favorite from a small store in Siena—into a rich lather between my palms before claiming her wet skin with deliberate strokes.
She inhales sharply when I cup the weight of her breasts, my fingers pressing into their softness with the same reverence and hunger with which I'd grasp the earth of our most precious vineyard.
Her head falls back, eyes closing as a soft moan escapes her lips. The sound reverberates against the marble walls, drowning beneath the steady drumming of water but vibrating through my chest all the same.
"Nico," she whispers.
I trace my thumbs over her nipples, watching goosebumps rise despite the steam enveloping them. The argument from earlier is distant now, washed away like the soil from her skin.
She arches into my touch, her wet skin sliding against mine.
The cascading water creates a cocoon of warmth and steam that isolates us from the world beyond the shower's glass walls.
"How can I want you when I'm so tired?" She sounds pleased with herself as her hips grind against my erection.
I press my lips to her collarbone, tasting the sweetness of her skin beneath the water.
"It's called makeup sex—hotter because we fought," I suggest.
The tension in her muscles is melting away as I knead and arouse.
Her laugh is light, sweet, and open.
Her fingers thread through my wet hair, tugging slightly in that way that sends electricity down my spine.
"I love when you pull my hair."
We're opening up these days, not just our bodies but also our desires, what we like, and how we like it. Our intimate confessions are raw and unfiltered, like everything between us lately.
I drag my lips down her throat, tasting water and salt and her. I bite the skin at the side of her neck.
Her fingers tighten in response, drawing another groan from deep in my chest.
The shower's steam swirls around us like the fog that blankets the vineyard at dawn, intimate and isolating.
"I need you," she gasps, her voice barely audible above the water's rhythm. "Always need you, even when I'm mad at you."
I press her against the tile wall. Her back arches, bringing her breasts flush against my chest. The slick slide of skin on skin threatens to fracture my control.
"You have me," I promise, my hands moving lower, over her stomach, her thighs, her slick, dripping pussy. "You think I'll ever let you go?"
She moans, her head falling back against the wall as I slide two fingers inside her.
"Answer me," I demand, my voice low and rough.
"No," she pants, her hips grinding against my hand. "You won't."
"Damn fucking right." I spin her around and pin her against the tiles. Her tits press against the cool surface, her ass juts out.
"Cara, I can't wait." I push myself against the cleft of her buttocks.
"Neither can I, Nico. Come inside me."
I grab my cock, thick and throbbing, and press the tip against her soaked pussy. She's tight, so fucking tight, and I can feel her clench around me as I push inside.
"Cazzo," I groan, burying myself to the hilt. Her pussy grips me—hot and wet and perfect.
"Dammelo più forte," she screams.
I slam into her, giving what she’s asking, going into her harder and deeper. The sound of our bodies slapping together drowns out the roar of the shower.
I cup her breasts, pinching her nipples. She comes when I play with her clit and her tits. It takes longer with her breasts, but that only means her release clenches around me longer as well.
"Ancora! More," she pleads.
I thrust harder, madness claiming me.
"You're mine," I growl, my hands gripping her hips, pulling her back onto me with every stroke. "Say it."
"I'm yours." Her voice breaks as I hit that spot inside her that makes her crazy. "And you're mine."
“Yes.” My balls tighten, my cock swells as I get closer and closer to the edge.
I wrap one hand around her throat, pulling her back against me, and lean down to bite her shoulder, marking her, claiming her.
"I love you," I groan, the words tearing out of me like they've been waiting for this moment.
"Nico," she moans, her pussy clenching around me as she comes, her body shaking, her cries echoing off the tiles.
I ride her through it, harder, faster, until I can't take it anymore. I slam into her one last time, burying myself deep as I come, my cock pulsing, filling her up with every fucking drop.
We stay like that for a moment, panting, the water washing over us, washing away the fight, the anger, everything but us.
"Never leave me," I whisper into her ear, my voice raw, my heart exposed.
"Never," she promises, turning to kiss me, soft and sweet, like she's sealing the deal.
She's so tired, and I should let her sleep, but when we get into bed, I find my need for her is still strong and wild. It's more than a need for her. I know that. I'm afraid of losing her. So much is going on—Chiara, the business, Matteo being sick….
When all of this unravels, will she leave me?
"I want you again." I cover her body with mine in bed.
She smiles lazily. "You said you love me."
"Yes, I did, Alessia.”
"Tell me again."
She hasn't said the words, but I see them in her eyes. She looks at me like I'm it. Like there's nothing else she needs.
"Ti amo," I say as I enter her. “I love you,”
She convulses beneath me, her inner walls gripping me as I drive deeper.
"Nico," she gasps, her nails breaking skin on my shoulders, her gaze burning into mine. "I love you, too."
The words detonate inside me.
Three syllables that shatter everything I thought I knew. I freeze mid-thrust, my entire body trembling with the war between desire and terror.
Her confession rips me open, exposing every nerve ending I've spent a lifetime armoring. But watching her pupils dilate as I growl those words again—I love you—makes me want to both flee and bleed for her.
What if I ruin this? What if this is another lie I'm telling myself?
"Again," I demand, my voice like gravel scraped over raw flesh.
"Ti amo, Niccolò."
I devour her mouth with mine, consuming her words like a starving man, needing them to become part of me before I can doubt them again.
Our souls collide.
We're ripping each other open, seeing the parts we've hidden from everyone else. When she says she loves me, it's like hearing words I've been waiting for my entire life without knowing it.
Her body writhes beneath mine, hips rising to meet each thrust. I can't get deep enough. Can't get close enough. The need to possess her completely overwhelms me.
"Ti amerò per sempre," I whisper. “I will love you forever.”
Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling my face to hers. Her eyes are glossy with tears, but her smile is radiant.
"Promise me," she demands.
"I promise," I vow, sealing it with a kiss that tastes of salt and truth. "You're everything."
I lose myself in the rhythm of our bodies, in the sweet, slick friction where we're joined. Her body welcomes me like I'm coming home after years at sea, and maybe I am—I've been adrift my whole life until her.
"I was afraid," I confess, my hips still moving, slower now, savoring every inch of her. "That you wouldn't say it back."
She wraps her legs tighter around my waist, pulling me deeper. "I've felt it for so long," she whispers. "But I was scared, too."
Her admission makes my chest ache. We're the same, both of us hiding behind our walls, pretending we didn't need this. Pretending we could walk away unscathed.
"We're a fucking mess." I laugh against her throat, tasting the faint salt of her skin, warm from exertion.
"A beautiful mess," she amends, merriment bubbling up from somewhere deep inside her.
Her fingers trace patterns on my back, nails occasionally digging in when I hit that spot that makes her gasp.
I look down at her face, flushed and open, her eyes reflecting the dim light of my bedside lamp. There's something about seeing her like this—vulnerable, unguarded—that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
"I don't want to be anywhere else," I tell her, meaning it more than anything I've ever said. "Not ever."
She pulls me down for a kiss, and it's different from before—less desperate, more certain. I move inside her the way she likes it and push her over the edge, losing myself in the sweet release.
A tidal wave of pleasure crashes through me, erasing every thought except her name. For several heartbeats, we stay locked together, trembling and breathless. I press my forehead against hers, our mingled breaths the only sound in the room.
"Wow," she whispers, and I can feel her smile even with my eyes closed.
I ease onto my side, pulling her against me. Her hair tickles my chin as she nestles into the crook of my neck. I trace lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my fingertips.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, her voice still husky.
I consider lying, saying something casual or clever, but those walls came down days ago.
"I'm thinking that I've spent my entire life waiting for this moment without realizing it."
She shifts to look at me, her hair falling across her face. I tuck it behind her ear, marveling at how such a simple gesture now feels so intimate.
"That's a lot of pressure to put on one night," she jokes, and then she looks somber. “Nico, I—"
"…need to get some sleep, amore mio," I cut her off, kissing her forehead. I pull her down so she rests her cheek on my chest. I stroke her back.
She yawns. "I'm not that tired. I can—"
And, she's gone, sleep claiming her mid-sentence, like a small puppy who plays too hard and collapses wherever it lands.
I lay awake, holding her as she sleeps in the silvery moonlight filtering through the Tuscan shutters.
Her dark hair is loose, fanned across the crisp white linen pillow like spilled ink.
There's a faint crease between her delicate brows even in rest, as if her mind refuses to fully let go of the work that lies ahead.
I brush my thumb along her work-roughened knuckle, careful not to wake her, and feel the ache of something terrifyingly close to happiness bloom in my chest.
This quiet intimacy is what I want with a desperation that frightens me.
My phone glows with harsh blue light against the darkness. I pick it up.
Renzo: We need to do something about Chiara.
Me: What do you recommend?
Renzo: Have her report to me. Not you. No direct access to you whatsoever.
Me: Do it!
If I had taken the time to think about this dispassionately, and not through the lens of my mistakes with Chiara and Alessia, I would've done what Renzo suggested months ago.
But I'm glad he brought it up now. Just the thought of her not working for me sends relief coursing through me like a well-balanced wine.
Renzo: HR has booked interviews with the winemakers for you and me to talk to next week. Invites are in your calendar.
I release Alessia gently, so she lies on her back.
I slip out of bed and pad quietly across the cool terracotta tiles to the small antique desk by the arched window, torn between crawling back to her inviting warmth and dealing with this intrusion.
I open my calendar on my phone, the screen illuminating my face in ghostly light. I see the reflection in the window.
Back-to-back meetings in our Florence headquarters.
Interviews with internationally acclaimed winemakers—candidates Renzo has meticulously lined up at Cesare's insistence.
They all have several things in common: they’re not from the House of Alighieri, they claim to have a fresh vision—whatever that means—and they have global credibility.
All sophisticated corporate language that translates to one devastating thing: not Alessia.
I type a message to Renzo: Move them to two weeks from now. I’m going to be in Bolgheri.
Renzo: These meetings are on Zoom.
Me: Move them.
I lock my phone, set it on the lovingly restored desk.
I stare out at the vines instead, endless rows still scarred from harvest, leaves ragged and brittle, fruit gone.
She'll be out there soon, her slender fingers checking, her experienced palate tasting, her whole body listening to the land as only she can.
She doesn't know what's waiting in Florence.
I tell myself that's mercy, but the lie tastes like ash on my tongue.