I glance over my shoulder and almost melt.
He’s wearing a dark green button-down, sleeves rolled, fitted perfectly.
The exact shade of my alternate dress upstairs.
He did it on purpose.
Coordinating us without saying a word.
My heart somersaults. “You’ll get icing on your clothes,” I warn breathlessly, holding up my icing-smeared fingers.
“Worth it,” he murmurs. His lips graze below my ear again, slower this time. “Why aren’t you wearing the green dress?”
“I’ll change,” I manage, cheeks heating. “I’m bound to make a mess of this one anyway.”
He hums, low and pleased, the vibration sliding through my spine. His hands move to my hips, thumbs brushing slow circles.
“You will,” he says, voice deep. “But not because of icing.”
Warmth spills down my neck. His grip tightens, nudging me back into the hard lines of his chest, and I have to force my attention back to the gingerbread man before me.
“Santo,” I warn, though it comes out soft, almost breathless. “I have thirty cookies to decorate before everyone arrives.”
“You have hours,” he whispers, lips brushing that spot behind my ear that makes me melt. “And I’ve been patient.”
I turn in his arms, careful to keep my sticky fingers lifted away from his shirt. “Patient? Santo, you’ve been anything but patient. The crib, the doctor, the child locks—”
He meets my eyes, his mouth curving into that dangerous, devastating smile that still steals my breath. “That was different.”
“How?” I whisper.
“That,” he says, sliding one hand to my stomach, warm and possessive through the soft knit of my dress, “was for our baby.”
His other hand glides up my spine, slow, deliberate, pulling me closer until there’s barely an inch left between us.
“And this,” he murmurs, gaze darkening as it drops to my lips, “is for me.”
My breath catches. My pulse jumps.
“You’re distracting me,” I whisper.
“That’s the point,” he says, his mouth grazing my jaw. “You always look so sweet right before you make a mess.”
I step back just enough to breathe, but Santo follows, crowding me gently into the counter.
“Santo Amato, I have to finish—”
“You will.”
His eyes sweep over me, darkening; intent, hungry, certain.
“Give me your hand.”
Not a suggestion.
A quiet command.
I offer it, and he takes my wrist in a firm, steady hold, guiding my fingers toward his mouth. He doesn’t break eye contact, not for a heartbeat.
