She blinked, not sure what had given him pause.
‘I was about to say, amazing . . . but what I really should say is, you’re sitting on the dough.’
‘Eh?’ She pivoted on the spot, peering behind her. ‘Cazzo!’
Alessio poked a finger at the now properly flattened mass, imprinted with the pleats and lines of Francesca’s dress. ‘That’s one way of rolling it, I guess.’
Francesca laughed helplessly and hopped down off the counter. She shook her head when she saw the state of the benches.
Perhaps he read her mind, as he held up a finger. ‘I can sort this in a minute.’ She watched as Alessio quickly wrapped both mounds of dough in cling film and set them in the fridge. Then, using a bench scraper, he quickly brushed the excess flour from the wooden boards down into the sink, then washed the claggy flour residue away. He flipped the boards upright and set them against the tiled splashback. ‘Finito.’ His attention returned to Francesca and her heart skipped a beat. ‘Where were we?’
She walked over to him and ran a hand down the front of his chest, allowing her palm to register every wave and ripple of his form. It came to rest on the waistband of his shorts and she locked eyes with him, then slipped a finger behind the band.
‘Back there again, are you?’
Pulling him closer she whispered, ‘Can I have all of you?’
Alessio broke into a grin and nodded. ‘Yes, but not here.’
‘Where?’
‘You’ll see . . . need to make a pitstop to grab protection first.’
* * *
As quietly as possible, Francesca followed Alessio up the ladder to the terrazzo. When they reached the top she hit a switch, illuminating the zigzagging lines of fairy lights which danced above the terrace, kissed gently by the summer evening breeze.
‘Come,’ she beckoned, walking to the ledge which faced out over Impastino’s piazza with Alessio in tow. ‘The moonlight is tickling the ocean.’
Alessio’s gaze passed over Da Martino and caught the inky horizon in the distance, the sea reflecting the moon’s iridescent glow. While he couldn’t hear the crashing of the waves against the pebbled beach, he could smell the salty, heady comfort of open water, and felt it reconnecting something inside him to the land. Then there was the mewing of gulls overhead, some of which dipped and dove across the piazza in search of crumbs left by Impastino’s locals and summertime guests.
Lost to the scene before him, it took a moment for him to register the way Francesca’s arm reached behind him and wrapped itself around his middle.
‘We’re the highest point in the town, save the campanile of the church. Only God can see us up here.’
Alessio flicked his chin across the piazza to Da Martino. ‘Not even them. If we can see their windows, surely they can see—’
Francesca caught him by his waistband and pulled him back a few paces until the view of Da Martino disappeared beyond the lip of the terrazzo. ‘Now they’re gone. And so are we.’ Facing him, she gripped his lapels and allowed her hands to drag slowly down his middle, unbuttoning his shirt halfway.
Alessio’s mouth went dry. Her expression was determined, full of want; it was an incredible turn-on. He made to reach for her, but she shook her head.
‘Not yet.’ Her voice, low and confident, taunted him.
Alessio could feel a new and unfamiliar heat rise to his skin. It tingled and prickled under her touch, sending the blood rushing to his groin. Then, she brought her lips to his sternum, and there she planted a series of sweet yet deliciously long kisses across his bare chest, eventually finding that chef’s knife tattoo across his left pec. Alessio’s lungs emptied as her tongue dipped to catch and flick his nipple, which hardened against the soft wetness of her touch. Overcome by desire for her, Alessio’s hands rose to his temples, searching for a tether to reality.
‘Francesca . . .’ He gasped her name, as if the word alone were tormenting him. ‘Please . . .’
Suddenly she straightened and reached for his hand. Alessio followed meekly as she guided them to the large circular outdoor lounger. Turning, she pulled him down to join her on the soft cushion.
Alessio had never set eyes on a more beautiful woman. Of that he was sure. But a woman so determined, so confident, so honest and raw . . .? And now that very woman was coaxing him to join her. Inviting his passion, his touch, a shared intimacy. Where he might once have found nerves or reservation, all he could feel was his desire for Francesca: a desire that had been burning brightly since he first laid eyes on her by the trattoria’s front door.
Alessio dipped into a low squat beside the lounger, catching Francesca’s ankles in both hands. Without breaking eye contact, he slipped off her flat brown leather sandals one at a time, allowing them to drop to the terracotta pavers. Then his fingers traced intoxicating lines up her calves, and he gently pulled her legs apart. ‘As beautiful as this looks on you,’ he said, gesturing to her dress, ‘I’d much prefer if it were off . . .’
‘Davvero?’
‘Yes. Really.’
Alessio relished watching her eyes hold his as she reached for the ties behind her back, unwrapping the dress from her waist and letting it fall open. It was as if she were a gift to be received.
