Page 170 of The Wrong Vintage
The mountains rise majestically in the distance, their peaks dusted with snow, while valleys stretch out beneath us, cloaked in the golden hues of dusk.
The train glides through tunnels, where darknessenvelops us momentarily, only to emerge into the vibrant colors of the Italian countryside—an ever-changing tapestry that captivates the senses.
Later, back in the cabin, we find ourselves cocooned in the gentle rocking of the train, the world outside reduced to a blur of shadows and stars. The soft sound of the wheels on the tracks becomes a lullaby, lulling our worries to sleep.
She changes in the tiny washroom, emerging in—fuck me—the most delectable wisps of lace ever seen on a female body.
I sit on the edge of the bed, hands folded, waiting for her to bridge the distance.
“You’re being very…well-behaved,” she observes, a teasing glint in her eyes.
I huff a soft laugh, the tension between us easing momentarily. “Don’t get used to it.”
She stands in front of me. The black of the lace she’s wearing looks spun from shadow and moonlight—Italian craftsmanship at its most dangerous.
La Perla at is finest.
The bra is sheer and delicate, scalloped along the edges, whisper-thin straps tracing the elegant line of her shoulders. It doesn’t hide much, only frames—lifting, shaping, worshipping.
The matching panties sit low on her hips, cut high along her thighs, the lace so fine it’s almost an illusion, like it might dissolve if I breathe too hard.
The lace maps her curves instead of covering them, following the soft swell of her breasts, the gentle dip of her waist, the feminine arc of her hips. It’s not costume-lingerie. It’s couture seduction. The kind that assumes you’re already undone.
I swallow. Hard.
She tilts her head slightly, watching me watch her, absolutely aware of the effect she’s having.
The black against her skin makes her look luminous. Untouchable. Offered.
“Say something,” she murmurs.
My voice comes out rough. “If I speak, I’m going to stop being well-behaved.”
Her smile is slow. Predatory.
“Good.”
I put my hands on her waist, feel her warmth.
I want to take hernowbut I want her forever so I tamp down my carnal needs for my emotional ones. “Alessia, tell me what this means?”
“I can’t forgive you,” she says quietly, the weight of her words settling heavily between us. “Yet.”
“I know,” I reply, my voice steady, accepting the truth of her feelings.
“But I love you,” she adds, the admission trembling on her lips, as if it costs her something profound to say it aloud.
My chest tightens, a swell of emotion rushing through me. “I know that, too.”
She looks at me then, her gaze steady, searching for certainty in my eyes. “And I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’m not going anywhere.” My hands flex against her flesh. “Even if it takes time. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”
She smiles the smile of a siren. “So, what do you think of the lingerie?”
“It looks amazing. But I think you’d look better without it.”
She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Make love to me,caro,” she commands.
