I know I will, which is strange.
What isn’t strange?
Vian grips my hand on the table and intertwines our fingers, the simple gesture causing my emotional turmoil to recede.
“This place is nice. It’s cozy, familiar,” I say, feeling my brows furrow.
“It has been in their family since the 1950s.”
“Family business. I like that.”
“We’ll start ours as well,” he says, yearning coating his voice, though I detect a trace of fear, as if it’s only a dream and something might snatch it away.
We share grief, its impact forged into the very essence of us.
I bring his palm to my cheek. “We have already begun.”
The smile he gifts me lights up my entire being.
Just then, succulent aromas of fresh basil, tomatoes, and prosciutto wrap around me, the pizza in front of me teasing my tastebuds.
He has gone with the classic: Pizza Napolitano. As I unceremoniously take a slice in my hand and bite into it, I close my eyes, savoring the divine taste.
The moan escapes me—unabashedly. “This is so good.”
Vian shifts in his seat, and I almost choke on my slice.
“Stop moaning… Fuck.” He drags a hand down his face, the distress unmistakable.
I giggle, unable to hide my reaction. It’s not that I like tormenting him, but one moan makes him hard, and I can’t stop myself from jubilating.
“Enjoying my misery, wife?” he asks low, the vibration of his deep timbre going straight between my thighs, which clench automatically.
I roll my eyes at him, saying in a playful tone, “Quite dramatic, husband.”
“There’s nothing dramatic about aching to have my wife.”
Inconspicuously, I glance around. For the life of me, I don’t understand where this adventurous side comes from. I thought I would be mortified to ever consider this, but I guess my leg has a mind of its own, and I plant my foot straight on his groin.
His surprised expression makes risking exposure worthwhile.
He groans, wrapping his calloused fingers around my ankle and holding it there. “Fuck, if you move it, I might come undone right here.”
Do I want him to come undone by just my touch? Yes, but witnessing the physical evidence nullifies the need for additional torture.
I am about to retract it when he holds my leg prisoner, caressing my calf up and down, lulling me into pure bliss.
“You like playing with fire, mi sol.” A statement, not a question.
“You make it burn so good,” I say, evoking a chuckle from him.
For dessert, we share tiramisu. I don’t have a sweet tooth; between us, he’s the one who indulges more. The cake is delicious, the creamy, fluffy taste melting on my tongue, and before I can order another, the chef places a plate in front of me, winking.
I smile and thank him as I savor the best dessert I’ve ever had.
The date passes too fast, like everything with him, when all I want is to prolong time and savor more of this wondrous thing transpiring between us.
Vian guides me outside, his palm protectively placed at my back, but when he opens the door, an inner voice pushes me in another direction. Someone else pulls my strings, and I speed-walk toward an unknown location, rounding the corner.
