‘Tell me you feel it too,’ he whispered, his breath tickling her lips.
She nodded, giving way to all she had withheld, all she had worried about. The risk of being caught. The charade. The high stakes. The fate of the restaurant . . .
‘Let me . . .’
The faintest expectant moan trickled from her, and Alessio finally dipped his head to press his warm, delicate lips against hers.
As if fated, Elena’s voice rang out in the dining hall. ‘Cesca? Cesca?’
The pair sprang apart, fumbling with hands, fingers, dough and flour.
Elena pushed her way through the saloon doors and stood before them in the kitchen. ‘What’s going on here?’
Alessio cleared his throat. ‘Francesca thought it might be a good idea to teach me about taralli dough tonight.’
‘Yes. Exactly. We have made these two batches, and they can proof overnight.’ Francesca picked up her ball of dough and held it aloft, feeling the pulse of her heartbeat in the back of her throat. ‘We’ll be up early tomorrow to finish this.’
Elena raised an eyebrow. ‘Overnight is an unnecessarily long proof, Cesca. What are you thinking?’
‘Actually,’ Alessio interjected, ‘that was my idea.’ Francesca could only nod along. ‘An experiment. Overnight, like a sourdough. It can’t hurt. And if it doesn’t work, I’ll make a regular double batch in its place; no taralli harmed in the process.’
Elena exhaled loudly and waved a disapproving hand in the direction of the floured wooden boards. ‘Make sure this . . . experiment . . . is cleaned up before you go to bed.’
Francesca pinned her shoulders back a little more firmly. ‘We’re not children, Mamma.’
Elena worried at the fringed trim of the pashmina wound around her shoulders. ‘I’ve just put Nonna to bed. I’ll be back in the morning. Buonanotte.’
‘Buonanotte,’ they responded in unison as Elena left the kitchen.
Both were fixed to the spot, waiting to hear her lock the trattoria’s door from the outside.
Jingle. Jangle. Clunk.
Francesca relaxed first, exhaling the last of the breath she’d clung to. Alessio turned to face her, his eyes scanning hers questioningly. In reply she pressed her still floury hands to his chest, just below his collarbones.
‘Francesc—’
She grabbed at his shirt, pulling him towards her. Pressing her forehead against his she panted, ‘Alessio, ho voglia di te.’
‘You . . .?’
Closing her eyes she breathed out the words. ‘I. Need. You.’
She felt Alessio lean against her in response. Tilting his head slightly, he let his moist lips slip down the crescent of her cheek, eventually nuzzling into her warm, fragrant curls. Francesca closed her eyes as the pressure mounting between her legs urged his hands further, his lips . . .
‘I. Want. You,’ he whispered into her neck.
Without thinking, Francesca leaned back against the benchtop behind her. Propping herself on both hands she hoisted herself to sitting, shimmying her way to the edge of the bench.
It was then that Alessio took control.
Brushing aside her cascading locks, he cupped Francesca’s face between his hands. Francesca felt his weight press against her middle, between her parted legs, and she ached for the push and counter-tension of his excitement against her. She whimpered. It was all she could do to appease that throbbing, pulsing knot of desire at her core. Instinctively, she wrapped her thighs around him, pulling him as close as she could.
And then his lips were there, united with hers. His kiss was firm and commanding, yet sensual enough to draw the breath from her lungs.
Francesca’s fingers, still floury from their kneading, made their way into his hair, and she caressed the spot where his hairline and collar met. She smiled into their kiss as he moaned his approval.
Then, unexpectedly, Alessio pulled away. ‘Francesca, you are . . .’
