Page 68 of The Wrong Vintage
The food arrives in measured courses, each one better than the last.
Handmade tagliolini dressed simply in butter and sage, the pasta delicate enough to disappear on the tongue.
A slow-braised veal cheek that falls apart at the suggestion of a fork, rich without being heavy.
Grilled vegetables that taste like they were pulled from the earth that morning—zucchini and fennel cooked to perfection and served with a scattering of sea salt.
She knows the chef, who comes to the table himself, greets her with a kiss to both cheeks, asks after Alba, the vineyards, and the meal, in that order.
When he leaves, he promises to send something special for dessert.
She laughs easily tonight.
I find myself watching her mouth when she speaks, the curve of her lips, the way she pauses before answering as if she’s considering the shape of her words. The way she listens with her whole body—eyes focused, shoulders angled toward me, attention fully present.
She never once checks her phone. So, I ignore mine when it shivers in my pocket.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” I slide my hand under the table, finding her thigh.
Her skin is soft, warm, and I feel her shiver as my fingers creep higher, tracing the edge of her dress.
She trembles.
“Nico,” she whispers, scandalized.
“Spread your thighs,” I order.
“What?”
I kiss her softly. “If you don’t want to give everyone here a show, you will spread your thighs.”
From what I’ve learned, Alessia works hard and doesn’t have a lot of fun—I want her to let her hair down and just be. I want to see how she looks when that happens.
She parts her legs, just enough for me to slide my hand up, up, up. “This dress is torture. You know that, don’t you?”
She bites her lip, her hand gripping her wineglass as if she might crush it.
Good.
I want her desperate. I want her panting for me.
My fingers brush against her soaked panties, and she gasps, her hips jerking toward me instinctively.
“Nico,” she squeaks, her voice shaking.
“Shhh,” I murmur, leaning closer, my breath hot against her ear. “Keep it quiet,cara. You don’t want everyone in here to know how wet you are for me, do you?”
Her breath hitches as I hook my fingers into her panties, pulling them aside.
Her pussy is slick. Her juices coat my fingers. I groan softly, my cock throbbing in my pants.
I tease her clit with slow, deliberate circles, and she whimpers, her thighs clamping around my hand. “Nico…stop.”
I ignore her.
My fingers dip lower, sliding into her tight, wet heat.
She’s so tight, her walls clenching around me like she’s trying to milk my fingers. I thrust them deeper, curling them just right, and she chokes back a moan, her nails digging into the tablecloth.
