Chapter 40
NICO
The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels beneath us is a sultry backdrop as I pull Alessia into our berth, her body pressed tight against mine.
Her lips are already parted, breathing heavy, as I shove the door shut with my heel. The dim golden light of the compartment flickers, casting shadows that dance across her flushed skin.
The La Perla clings to her like a second seductive skin, one I can’t wait to peel off her.
Her hands claw at my shirt, yanking it free from my trousers.
I’m already throbbing just from the way she’s looking at me—like I’m the only thing she’s ever wanted. I push her against the wall of the rolling train, my breath hot against her neck as I nip at her pulse point.
She arches into me, grinding her hips against my cock, and I groan into her skin, my hands gripping her ass.
“Nico,” she whispers, her voice ragged, and I don’t need any more encouragement.
I take off her bra, and her gorgeous breasts spill free.
Her nipples are stiff, begging for my mouth. I bite down, sucking hard.
She cries out, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer.
I drop to my knees, my hands sliding up her thighs. She’s already dripping wet, her lace panties soaked through.
I tear them off with my teeth, her scent hitting me like a slap to the face—sweet, musky, fucking divine. I love the sound and the feel of the broken lace, the barbarian in me wanting to claim her.
“Nico, that’s expensive Italian lace.”
“I want you.” I bury my face between her legs, tongue plunging deep into her.
She moans, her thighs clamping around my head as I devour her.
Her taste is intoxicating. I can’t get enough. I lick and suck until she’s writhing against my mouth, her hands clawing at the wall for support.
“Please,” she gasps.
I love it when she begs.
I stand, my cock straining against my trousers, and she’s on me in seconds, hands fumbling with my belt, her mouth trailing hot, wet kisses down my chest. She yanks my pants down, my cock springing free, and her eyes lock on mine as she slowly pulls me close.
“Take me in your mouth, cara.”
She wraps her lips around me, sucking me deep into her throat.
Her mouth is heaven—wet, tight, and relentless—and I groan, gripping the back of her head as she takes me deeper, her tongue swirling around the tip.
She gags on my erection, tears streaming down her face, but she doesn’t stop, and the sight of her like this, choking on me, sends a surge of primal heat straight to my balls.
“You’re so perfect,” I growl, pulling her to her feet and shoving her onto the bed.
I look at her for a long moment, spread out beneath me, legs wide, her pussy glistening and ready for me.
I cover her and enter her in one thrust. She screams, her walls contracting around me.
“Say you love me.”
“Ti amo, Nico,” she says brokenly.
I pound into her with a desperation that borders on madness, her nails digging into my back as she meets every thrust with a desperate moan.
Her tits bounce with every movement, and I lean down, biting and sucking at her nipples as I drive deeper into her, her cries growing louder with every stroke.
“Come for me, Alessia,” I demand, and she does, her body shuddering as she clamps down on my cock, her pussy milking me like she’s trying to fucking drain me dry.
I can’t hold back anymore. My orgasm tears through me as I bury myself deep inside her, pumping her full of everything I’ve got.
We collapse together, her slick, trembling body pressed against mine, and I kiss her softly, my lips lingering on hers.
“You’re mine,” I whisper.
“Si.” Her eyes are heavy with satisfaction. “And you’re mine.”
“Yes, I am. Forever, dolcezza.”
This promise is so much more profound than those we made when we got married because we’re not who we used to be. We’re better people now, more accomplished at marriage and love.
We lie together, kissing softly, closemouthed, tenderly. We talk about random things that are inconsequential, and then, because we’re enamored, we make love again.
I join her silky wet heat, moving languorously, now that the heat of the first joining has passed. We explore and discover until we can’t wait anymore, and our movements become jerky, desperate as we chase our release.
After we have rested and caught our breath, she touches my cheek, her eyes filled with love. “I think I’m addicted to you,” she tells me with a contented smile.
“I know I am,” I confirm.
We fall asleep like that, close, comforted.
In the morning, we stay in our cabin instead of heading to the luxurious dining room. We breakfast on steaming croissants. She eats her pastry in a spiral, layers unfurling until the last perfect bite.
I don’t know what makes me say it. Maybe the way she looks at me just then, chin dusted with sugar, sweet as a child, or maybe the rattle of my own mortality, the fear that this will, inevitably, end—like all good things, like all things I can’t bear to lose.
“I want to start again.”
Alessia sets down her coffee. “Start what, precisely?”
“Us, at home. The life we left on pause.” I surprise myself. I’d imagined we’d take up where we left off, but I know now that there is no wholesale reinvention. I want more than what we had before.
She wipes her lip, considering. “What are you offering this time?”
She’s not playing. I already know I’ll never win with her by force or charm alone, because my wife respects bravery.
“I offer honesty,” I vow. “And a willingness to be the one who forgives first. To build something from more than just the leftovers.”
Her face softens. “Are you saying this because we’re on a fantasy train, or because you mean it?”
“I mean it on a fantasy train as well as in muddy vines,” I profess. “I don’t want to run the same laps around the past.”
She leans across the table and kisses me, slow and deliberate.
“Okay.”
And that’s how simple it is to find our way back—all I had to do was be honest with her.
Simple, yes, but not easy, because honesty and vulnerability have never been how I operate. But with Alessia, I’d give her anything and everything. My soul. My heart. And, most of all, my truth.
We spend an hour in the observation car, watching the land change.
At lunch, we share a bottle of cold white wine and watch the etiquette of strangers—an elderly couple playing cards, a boy with a hedgehog stuffed animal propped on his plate.
The rhythm of train travel, I realize, is not dissimilar to marriage: a shared forward momentum, the rough patches smoothed by repetition, the pleasure of discovery hidden in the ordinary.
By the time we roll into Gare de Lyon, my phone is thick with unread emails. Alessia’s, too. We ignore them.
In Paris that night, we check into a very fancy boutique hotel in Le Marais, our room painted in stormy blue, the bed a small continent.
We sleep like the dead that night after we make love until we’re exhausted.
The next day—before an Alighieri jet flies us back to Florence and the real world—becomes a private calendar as we play tourist, walking past the bouquinistes on the Seine, and having a long lunch in a Parisian bistro in St. Germain-Pres.
Right before we head to the private terminal at Charles de Gaulle, we stand on Pont Neuf, the river a molten ribbon below. The city rolls out before us, every streetlamp a beating heart.
She turns to me, her breath clouding in the cold.
“You know what I want?” she asks.
“Tell me.”
“I want us to be the story people who know us envy—where they say, ‘Can you believe they made it through?’ Not because it was easy, but because we didn’t lie to ourselves about the cost.”
“Then let’s,” I say, and she takes my hand, nods with a smile, sealing our bond once again.