His grip on her shoulders tightened, and she sensed he was bracing himself for whatever it was she would deliver next.
It was then that she felt it, pressing into the space just below her belly button. All his excitement and want for her. Her core ruptured with heat, a deeper desire than ever before for him to fill her. To complete her.
But all she could do there on the beach, hidden under the shadows of the night, was use her hands. So she did.
She drew those red nails across his nipples, and she heard him moan into her mop of curls. Then, Francesca counted down each of his ribs until she reached the fine dusting of hair at his waistband. Gently, with calculated pressure, she allowed her palm to briefly graze the front of his shorts. He was there. All of him.
Alessio held her tighter and whispered, ‘What are you doing? Today you stopped—’
‘Is this ok?’
He paused for a beat before nodding into her neck, and she felt him press himself against her hand.
He needs this too.
With a finger dipped behind the waistband of his shorts against the skin of his groin, she asked, ‘Can I . . .?’
He swallowed. ‘But I want to feel you first.’
Was it the delicious risk of being caught? The toing and froing that had built the tension to a fever pitch between them? Had it simply been too long for both of them? She didn’t know. But she threw caution to the wind and slipped her hand into his underwear.
Alessio’s length filled her grip, and she stifled a moan into his naked chest. She held him for a moment, enjoying the warmth and strength her fingers had found, before gently beginning to rock her grip back and forth. She could feel his heartbeat through his chest, and his breathing grew shallower.
‘We can’t do this . . . not here.’ He stumbled over his words. ‘Let’s go home. Please. You’re killing me. It won’t end well.’
And just as she pulled her hand from his shorts, a distant voice called her name. ‘Francesca! Sei tu?’
Simona and Carlo were crossing the sand, waving in tandem at the pair, completely unaware of the situation they had walked into.
‘Buonasera!’ Simona trilled. ‘It’s cool now, no?’ she commented, noting how Alessio’s shirt formed a cape of sorts across Francesca’s shoulders. ‘You’re very sweet, Alessio.’ She shot Francesca a covert, You’re still keeping up this charade? look.
They all exchanged cheek kisses and made small talk, in English for Alessio’s benefit, about the food and the atmosphere, before landing on discussion about the upcoming first tappa of the competition. And that was the point of no return.
‘Erm . . . actually, Alessio and I have something to tell you about that.’ Francesca coaxed them further down the beach, away from curious ears. ‘Carlo, you should know that Alessio and I are not cousins.’
Carlo looked between them. ‘You’re not? I thought it was strange that you hadn’t mention—’
‘Sì, scusami. It’s just been a very difficult year. And I panicked in the piazza that day. Alessio, who is a guest of ours for the summer, had only just arrived. I didn’t mean to, but I . . .’
Carlo dropped his head to the side and bobbed down a little to catch Francesca in his arms. He gave her a reassuring hug. ‘You’re not related?’
‘We’re not,’ Alessio chimed in.
‘So, you are lovers?’
‘Carlo!’ Simona snipped. ‘If they have sex, they have sex . . .’
Carlo released Francesca and laughed. ‘It’s convenient, no?’
Alessio couldn’t restrain his smirk, prompting a playful elbow to the ribs from Francesca. ‘Might keep that between us, mate.’
‘But you are a chef?’ Carlo prodded.
‘I am.’
‘A good one?’
‘A truly brilliant one!’ Francesca beamed.
