Page 70 of The Wrong Vintage
I kiss him goodbye, feeling very much like my heart is about to burst out of my body. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. I’m not falling in love anymore; I am very much in love with my husband.
How can I not be?
We’re balanced on a knife’s edge, Nico and I. All restraint and anticipation, stretched thin.
So, it shouldn’t surprise me that he comes earlier than he says he will to Pietra Alta, but it does. It also charms.
I’m alone in the cellar, early evening light slantingthrough the high windows, turning the concrete floor amber. The air is cool and smells of yeast and damp stone. Fermentations hum softly around me—alive, impatient, needing attention. I’m checking a tank, jotting down numbers, lost in the familiar comfort of work, when I hear footsteps.
I look up wondering who’s coming down this late.
Then I hear my name.
“Alessia.”
I freeze. He was supposed to be here tomorrow.
When I turn, he’s standing just inside the doorway, jacket slung over one shoulder as if he walked in on impulse and decided—at the last second—not to turn around.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves.
The cellar feels suddenly too small. And I know, with absolute clarity, that whatever careful peace we’ve been keeping is about to be ruined.
I run to him as he holds his arms out wide, dropping his suit jacket on the floor, and he lifts me up in a hug, swinging me off my feet.
Nico’s eyes are dark, hungry. His hands are on me, holding me close.
His fingers catch my wrist, lifting it to his mouth, and my breath hitches as his tongue darts out, tasting my pulse.
His lips are warm, soft, and when they close around my skin, I can’t suppress the gasp that escapes me.
“Cara.” The word sends a shiver down my spine.
His other hand slides around my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel the hard length of him pressing into my stomach, and my mouth goes dry.
His mouth moves to my neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there, and I arch into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
“Nico,” I breathe, and the sound is needy, desperate. He hums against my skin, the vibrations making me dizzy.
“Sei così bella,” he murmurs, his hands sliding down to grip my ass, squeezing roughly. “You’re so beautiful.”
The words are rough, guttural, and they make my core clench with want. No one has ever said I am beautiful. I never thought he would.
Wetness pools between my legs, my panties cling to me like a second skin.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pins me against the cool stone wall of the cellar.
His mouth crashes into mine, and I moan into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue is hot, demanding, and I surrender to it completely, letting him dominate my mouth as his hips grind against me.
“I know I should take you to bed…but….”
“I don’t want to wait either.” I urgently push his shirt off of him.
The ridge of his cock presses into me. I whimper, rocking against him.
He groans, his hands pulling down my jeans along with my panties and boots. I step out of them, naked from the waist down. He holds my gaze as he sinks two fingers into me without warning. I cry out, my head falling back against the wall as he thrusts his fingers deep, curling them just right to make me see stars.
“So wet for me,” he growls, his breath hot against my ear.
