Page 67 of The Wrong Wife

She picks up the handwritten seasonal menu.

“I don’t know if I can eat a full chef’s menu,” she tells me. “But you go ahead.”

I shake my head. “I can’t either.”

She nods, smiles, and traces a finger down the page. “You have to get the pappardelle. The ragù changes daily depending on what came in this morning. They make a very good ragù di cinghiale. ”

Wild boar is one of Tuscany’s great delicacies, slow-cooked until the meat turns dark and tender.

“I trust you,” I say simply, aware that I am saying that for a lot more than dinner.

She orders for us both—never assuming, always checking with a glance. I like that about her. She’s not arrogant; she cares, and it’s nice to be cared for by her.

The Vermentino arrives chilled but not cold. She tastes first.

“Good tension,” she murmurs. “Nice length.”

I take a sip. Bright, mineral, alive. It tastes like the coast, like restraint. Like her.

The flickering candlelight paints Alessia’s face in warm, golden hues, and I can’t stop staring at her.

The past week has also been a slow foreplay, and right now, as she speaks, her lips pink and glossy, I imagine how good they would feel around my cock. I’ve been thinking about that quite a lot in the past few days.

“I like your dress.” I touch the strap of her elegant dress.

She gasps softly, so I stroke a hand up her collarbone and then trace her lips with my thumb.

“Ah…it’s Pucci,” she whispers and gently, very shyly, licks my thumb.

There’s an uncomplicated sensuality about her. It’s not practiced or rehearsed. It’s honest and arousing. “Ah…you want to play, dolcezza?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “I feel a little reckless tonight. It’s the dress and…it’s you.”

Every time she shifts in her seat, the fabric clings to her curves, teasing me.

“Are you wet, cara?” I whisper in her ear just as a server comes to serve us bread.

She’s flustered in an instant, a blush rising up her neck to her cheeks .

“Wow,” I murmur once the server leaves. “How far down does the blush go?”

She straightens, but doesn’t pull away. “What are you doing?”

“Why, Alessia, I’m seducing my wife,” I tell her and pick up my glass of wine. I raise it in a toast. “To you, dolcezza.”

Intimacy builds as we eat.

It happens in the small things.

In the way she leans toward me when she speaks, lowering her voice as if the table itself might be listening.

In the way my knee shifts closer to hers beneath the linen, close enough to feel warmth, not quite touching.

In glances shared over nothing at all, smiles that linger a second longer than necessary.

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.