I look down at her face, flushed and open, her eyes reflecting the dim light of my bedside lamp. There's something about seeing her like this—vulnerable, unguarded—that makes my heart stutter in my chest.
"I don't want to be anywhere else," I tell her, meaning it more than anything I've ever said. "Not ever."
She pulls me down for a kiss, and it's different from before—less desperate, more certain. I move inside her the way she likes it and push her over the edge, losing myself in the sweet release.
A tidal wave of pleasure crashes through me, erasing every thought except her name. For several heartbeats, we stay locked together, trembling and breathless. I press myforehead against hers, our mingled breaths the only sound in the room.
"Wow," she whispers, and I can feel her smile even with my eyes closed.
I ease onto my side, pulling her against me. Her hair tickles my chin as she nestles into the crook of my neck. I trace lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my fingertips.
"What are you thinking?" she asks, her voice still husky.
I consider lying, saying something casual or clever, but those walls came down days ago.
"I'm thinking that I've spent my entire life waiting for this moment without realizing it."
She shifts to look at me, her hair falling across her face. I tuck it behind her ear, marveling at how such a simple gesture now feels so intimate.
"That's a lot of pressure to put on one night," she jokes, and then she looks somber. “Nico, I?—"
"…need to get some sleep,amore mio," I cut her off, kissing her forehead. I pull her down so she rests her cheek on my chest. I stroke her back.
She yawns. "I'm notthattired. I can?—"
And, she's gone, sleep claiming her mid-sentence, like a small puppy who plays too hard and collapses wherever it lands.
I lay awake, holding her as she sleeps in the silvery moonlight filtering through the Tuscan shutters.
Her dark hair is loose, fanned across the crisp white linen pillow like spilled ink.
There's a faint crease between her delicate brows even in rest, as if her mind refuses to fully let go of the work that lies ahead.
I brush my thumb along her work-roughened knuckle,careful not to wake her, and feel the ache of something terrifyingly close to happiness bloom in my chest.
This quiet intimacy is what I want with a desperation that frightens me.
My phone glows with harsh blue light against the darkness. I pick it up.
Renzo:We need to do something about Chiara.
Me:What do you recommend?
Renzo:Have her report to me. Not you. No direct access to you whatsoever.
Me:Do it!
If I had taken the time to think about this dispassionately, and not through the lens of my mistakes with Chiara and Alessia, I would've done what Renzo suggested months ago. But I'm glad he brought it up now. Just the thought of her not working for me sends relief coursing through me like a well-balanced wine.
Renzo:HR has booked interviews with the winemakers for you and me to talk to next week. Invites are in your calendar.
I release Alessia gently, so she lies on her back.
I slip out of bed and pad quietly across the cool terracotta tiles to the small antique desk by the arched window, torn between crawling back to her inviting warmth and dealing with this intrusion.
I open my calendar on my phone, the screen illuminating my face in ghostly light. I see the reflection in the window.
Back-to-back meetings in our Florence headquarters.
