“No, no, no,” he cried, making a fist in my hair and pulling me back. I looked up at him, panting with lust, my eyes half-closed, my hand tucked between my legs, rubbing at my aching clit.
“Please,” I whispered.
That was all I had to say. He stood, turning me around roughly and shoving me up against the wall. His hands roamed over my ass as he pulled my hips back, bending me at the waist so he could take me from behind. I braced myself, hands splayed on the brick, waiting for him to impale me.
“Play with yourself,” he ordered, pulling me back into the saddle of his hips, his cock an iron rod between my ass cheeks.
“Please,” I said again, but I reached down to touch myself, my clit pulsing under my fingers.
I heard a noise behind us and turned my head to look but Nico grabbed my hair, pressing my cheek to the wall as his cock slid into the wet, waiting shelter of my pussy. I prayed it was just a cat, but then he was fucking me and I forgot everything.
He grabbed onto my breasts, rubbing them through the silky material of my blouse, his cock a driving piston between my thighs. Already in heels, I went up on my toes, wanting all of him, deeper, harder. He fucked me so hard it hurt, and still I wanted more, the motion jarring, shoving me against the brick, rattling my pelvis, my breasts swaying in his hands.
“Don’t stop,” I begged, hearing the panting of his breath in my ear, feeling sweat trickling down the middle of my back underneath my bra strap, knowing he must be close. “Make me come! Oh fuck, Nico, please make me come again!”
He grabbed my thigh and lifted it, spreading me wide and pushing himself deeper inside of me, making me howl like an alley cat in heat. My fingers worked furiously against my clit, rubbing faster than Aladdin looking for that elusive genie, the anticipation of the wish almost better than its fulfillment.
Almost.
“I’m gonna come!” I cried, my body stretched taut, something in my belly poised and ready to spring. “Oh now! Now, now, now!
My pussy clamped down on his cock, spasming around his swollen length, a wet, velvet trap. He cried out at the sensation, grabbing my breasts and squeezing hard, his hips driving in deep, thrusting uncontrollably.
“Oh mio Cara, mio amore, ” he whispered endearments into my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my neck.
Self-conscious now, I pulled my skirt down, the slick slide of his cum caught only by the panties now bunched between my thighs. Nico zipped his pants, still breathing hard, and turned me to face him, kissing me deeply. I could taste myself on his tongue.
“You’re a naughty girl.”
“Me?” I gave a throaty laugh. “This alley was your idea.”
“I can’t resist you, bella.” He kissed my lips, my cheek, my chin. “I’ve never met a woman who makes me want her like you do.”
Beside us, a door opened, and a tall man stepped out carrying a bag of garbage. He took one look at us and rolled his eyes.
“Rent a room!” he growled, striding past us.
I looked at Nico and giggled. “You know we’re going to be late for dinner at Il Ridotto!”
“No we’re not. Come on.”
“I can’t run in these heels!” I protested as he dragged me along.
“Do you want me to carry you?”
I squealed when he bent and then hefted me up over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry, my hair flying behind me. It was only a few blocks, but he ran the whole way with me on his shoulders, howling all the while.
“Shhh, you little she-wolf.” He set me down and kissed me, barely out of breath. The man was in incredible shape. I smoothed my hair and my skirt, still flushed from being carried upside down-and from the sex. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
Il Ridotto was so small it could only accommodate four couples and two more groups of four. The tables lined one wall with candles and a single flower in a vase in the center. The walls were light brick, the fixtures nondescript. People didn’t come for the decor and the atmosphere-they came for the food and the wine.
A rotund man in an apron and a chef’s hat came around the corner as the door closed, waving us in. There were two couples seated already, one of them eating, the other talking over glasses of wine.
“We have reservations,” I explained as the little chef came our way. “Bianchi.”
“Come in, come in!” He was boisterous and smiling, nodding his head as he showed us to our table. “I’m Gianni Bonaccorsi, I’ll be your waiter-and your chef.”
Nico had prepared me for this fact. Dinner at Il Ridotto was an intimate affair. Gianni handed over our menus and a wine list, excusing himself to let us look over the fare.
“Are you sure you can afford this?” I whispered behind my menu to Nico. As a student, I didn’t make any money. I was living off savings and had to be very careful with it.
“Shush.” He waved my question away. “Anything for you.”
And that didn’t exactly make me feel better about looking over the menu, where the items were fresh, local, gourmet, and very expensive.
“I can’t possibly decide,” I said, looking helplessly at Nico. “It all sounds so good!”
“I can order for us,” he offered, and so when Gianni returned, I let him do just that, sitting back and enjoying the exchange between the two men.
Both of them clearly loved food and talking about it. Gianni spent fifteen minutes telling us about changes on the menu, letting us know what he got fresh at the market just that morning. When they got into discussing wine, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. I knew I had to be a mess-there was only so much I could do without a mirror.
I surveyed the damage as best I could in the little mirror over the sink, adjusting my dress at the top where my bra strap was still showing, touching up my makeup, running a comb through my hair. Satisfied that it was good enough, in spite of the flush still in my cheeks, I returned to the table to find Gianni and Nico sharing a complimentary glass of port from a fifteen-year-old bottle, laughing about something as if they were old friends.
“Salute!” Gianni offered me a glass, smiling as he raised his own and gave a popular Italian toast. “Possa tu vivere cento anni!”
“Salute!” Nico agreed, and we clinked glasses. The port was smooth and reminded me of cherries.
“I’m not sure I want to live a hundred years though,” I commented as Gianni went off to get our antipasti.
“And why not?” Nico raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t life good to you, bella?”
“Sometimes yes.” I shrugged one shoulder, glancing over at one of the other couples. They were older, in their fifties, but they still smiled at each other and touched hands, offering each other bites of their food. It was a lovely sight and made my heart hurt. “Sometimes no.”
“So tell me.” He leaned closer, those dark eyes inquiring. “What has broken your heart?”
I shook my head, glad Gianni had returned with our antipasti- cappesante, canestri, carote e lemongrass — a delicious appetizer of scallops in cocoa butter and carrots puree with thyme and lemongrass. Gianni served as waiter and cook, describing each dish in loving detail.
“Delizioso!” Nico pronounced. I just moaned in response, closing my eyes in pleasure. Gianni went to serve another table, leaving us to fight over the rest of our antipasti, and we did-down to the last buttery bit.
“You are so sexy.”
I smiled, dabbing my mouth with the napkin and lamenting the butter I lost on it. If it wouldn’t have been impolite, I would have licked my finger. “Eating here is like having a food orgasm.”
“Several,” he agreed. “That was just the antipasti. We have primi, secondi, and dessert left to go.”
“Dessert!” I groaned in anticipation. “You spoil me.”