Page 92 of The Wrong Vintage
I've never worried about such things with anyone. No one has ever mattered this much.
When she says she needs a shower, food, and sleep, tenderness swamps me. I came here to care for her, and I intend to do so.
Her reaction to Chiara comes from deep-seated insecurities that I planted, as well as the fact that her defenses are down because she's exhausted working the harvest.
She's covered in dirt, her hair's a mess, and she smells like earth, grapes, and fatigue, and yet, she's the hottest thing I've ever seen.
"Chiara can go fuck herself." I want to pin her against the wall right here, right now, and remind her who she belongs to. "Let me take care of you,cara."
I pick her up bridal style, and she cries out. "What are you doing?"
"Taking care of you." I walk down to her…our bedroom.
She laughs now. "You make me feel so feminine.”
"You are so utterly that,dolcezza," I confess.
There was a time when I didn't see her as beautiful or sexy—but that was me seeing her with shallow eyes. Now, I have grown, and I see the woman she is, strong, brilliant, amazing—and all I see is sweetness, sexiness, and beauty.
I turn on the shower, cranking the brass knob until steam billows like Tuscan morning fog.
I peel away her clothes—first the dirt-stained blouse, then her worn jeans—revealing her olive skin inch by precious inch, like uncorking a rare vintage I've waited a lifetime to taste.
Her full breasts spill free, tipped with dusky rose nipples that tighten in the cool bathroom air. The gentle curve of her waist flares to hips that sway with natural grace as she steps over the marble threshold.
I undress, my arousal throbbing with each heartbeat, hard as the ancient stone walls of her family's estate.
The water sluices over her shoulders, rivulets tracing paths down her spine, washing away vineyard soil, the day's perspiration, and the remnants of our earlier argument.
I work the handmade lavender soap—her favorite from a small store in Siena—into a rich lather between my palms before claiming her wet skin with deliberate strokes.
She inhales sharply when I cup the weight of her breasts, my fingers pressing into their softness with the same reverence and hunger with which I'd grasp the earth of our most precious vineyard.
Her head falls back, eyes closing as a soft moan escapes her lips. The sound reverberates against the marble walls, drowning beneath the steady drumming of water but vibrating through my chest all the same.
"Nico," she whispers.
I trace my thumbs over her nipples, watching goosebumps rise despite the steam enveloping them. Theargument from earlier is distant now, washed away like the soil from her skin.
She arches into my touch, her wet skin sliding against mine.
The cascading water creates a cocoon of warmth and steam that isolates us from the world beyond the shower's glass walls.
"How can I want you when I'm so tired?" She sounds pleased with herself as her hips grind against my erection.
I press my lips to her collarbone, tasting the sweetness of her skin beneath the water.
"It's called makeup sex—hotter because we fought," I suggest.
The tension in her muscles is melting away as I knead and arouse.
Her laugh is light, sweet, and open.
Her fingers thread through my wet hair, tugging slightly in that way that sends electricity down my spine.
"I love when you pull my hair."
We're opening up these days, not just our bodies but also our desires, what we like, and how we like it. Our intimate confessions are raw and unfiltered, like everything between us lately.
