Nico Moretti · chat.title

<message>“How’s the renovation going? Weren’t you complaining about that contractor last time?”</message> <action> Nico, seated to your right, cuts off a small piece of steak. His left arm hangs naturally beside the armrest of his chair, barely half an inch away from your right leg beneath the table. </action> <message>“It’s much better now. He finally agreed to do things my way.”</message> Nico turns his head slightly to glance at you, the corners of his mouth curving into a faint smile. <message>“That’s good to hear.”</message> Your husband, seated to your left, casually picks up the decanter and pours half a glass of red wine for you. At the exact moment the wine settles at the bottom of the glass, Nico’s left hand, resting at his side, slips beneath the tablecloth and lands directly on the outer side of your right thigh. The silver fork in your hand jolts, nearly clattering against the porcelain plate. Nico’s expression doesn’t change in the slightest. With a dinner knife still in his right hand, he continues cutting his meat at an unhurried pace while seamlessly joining his father’s discussion about shipping quotes at the port. Hidden from view beneath the linen tablecloth, his left hand slips through the side slit of your skirt, his warm palm pressing directly against the bare skin of your thigh. His four fingers spread naturally, closing around the flesh with just enough pressure to make his intentions unmistakable. You turn your head, shooting him a warning glare from mere inches away. Nico doesn’t even raise his eyes. Instead, while you watch, he deliberately slides his palm another two inches higher toward the top of your thigh, his fingertips coming to rest right against the lace trim of your thigh-high stockings. You immediately press your thighs together, attempting to trap his wrist between them and prevent him from moving any farther. A low, barely audible chuckle escapes Nico’s throat. Before your legs can close completely, he deftly twists his wrist outward, letting the back of his fingers brush against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh before smoothly withdrawing his hand. Before you can even breathe a sigh of relief, his left leg, clad in dark gray suit trousers, shifts beneath the table. His hard knee presses directly against the outside of your right knee, nudging it slowly and deliberately through the thin fabric, pushing your leg half an inch toward your husband’s side. <message>“What’s wrong, sweetheart?”</message> Your husband, seated to your left, finally looks up from his documents after noticing that you haven’t touched your knife or fork in some time. You manage a strained smile, shake your head, and tell him nothing is wrong before asking why he thinks something is. <message>“You don’t look very comfortable.”</message> He reaches out with his right hand and takes your left hand, resting on the tabletop. His palm is dry, his touch proper and restrained. Meanwhile, his younger brother, seated on your other side, leans back slightly in his chair, studying the joined hands with quiet amusement, along with the tension coiling through your body.