Luca was deep in conversation with my father, the two men talking business.
I took a deep breath, attempting to settle the unease in the pit of my stomach. Brando hadn’t said anything, but something told me that he might stand up and make an announcement in regard to his thoughts earlier—he’d said Mitch turned him down, but Uncle Tito…
If he did…
Dipping the spoon back in the ice cream, I turned the metal over, trying to get every last drop. The ice cream chilled me again, my anxiety not helping matters, and the warmth that comforted me had melted.
Seeking Brando’s fierce internal fire, I slid my hand underneath his shirt, a thrill of heat shocking the iciness. His back muscles tightened and his skin contracted before he relaxed into my frigid touch.
An electrical current seemed to flow through him to me. My blood almost hummed with gratification. The simplest way to describe it is, my blood sang for him.
Cutting a piece of the warm strudel, I slid the rich dessert into my mouth, but before it got far, Brando turned my face, his lips closing over mine, before his tongue swept in and stole the piece for himself.
He’d done it so subtly, so swiftly, that the table around us continued to buzz with conversation.
“Mmm,” he said, really tasting the piece. “That’s good.”
“I—” The breath left me in a cool, apple-cinnamon pant. “More?” I lifted the empty spoon.
“Only from your mouth.”
The look he sent me ran between my legs, the intense shock causing my pulse to throb.
Our eyes held, caught in our own moment in time. The universe shrank to the size of just the two of us.
I breathed out, he breathed in. He breathed out, I breathed in.
He moved in closer, his hand sliding up my neck, fingers entwining in my hair, pulling my face closer to his.
“What’s wrong, Ballerina Girl?” he whispered. “Afraid that I’ll bite—”
“You know you do,” I said, not giving him a chance to finish.
“Too anxious,” he breathed out. “You didn’t let me finish. Afraid that I’ll bite too hard?”
“You do. Though, in all fairness, not usually at first.”
He smiled, reminding me of a lion in the gazelle’s territory.
With our faces only inches apart, he reached out for his drink and held it to my lips before he took a sip. When he breathed out, the coolness drifted across my skin. The juxtaposition between his heat and the cold made me shiver.
His hand slid lower, powerful enough to snap my neck with one move, over my racing pulse. Counting the frantic beats, feeling the rush of blood through veins, perhaps the singing loud enough to vibrate.
He used his thumb to stroke my chin, his touch so light that it almost felt…teasing, taunting. Whenever he decided to pull away, I expected blisters to have appeared from the intense heat of his caress.
What had brought this on?
“I—I only wanted to warm my hands,” I said feebly.
He gave me a mischievous grin. “That’s enough,” he whispered in Italian. “One touch—"
His mouth touched mine, still cool from the drink, and a rush of memories from the night before came flooding in, reminding me of what he’d done to me with ice…but this kiss was far from ravaging. Soft, tentative, so much passion in one touch that it almost seemed…inappropriate, too private to be shared in front of our family.
Perhaps on the street, on a gondola ride, around people we’d never see again.
Everyonewasoccupied with their desserts and conversation, so—Oh.I sucked in air, loud enough that Brando’s mouth twitched.
All eyes were on us, the table down to a hush.
