Chapter Three
Holy hell, I wanted him.
The waiter, tall and lean, with deep brown eyes like the finest Valrhona chocolate, gaped at me. I wondered if I’d misunderstood the signals from him and he was about to tell me off.
“I’m not—”
“Gay? Neither am I. I’m bi, but if I’ve made you uncomfortable, I’m sorry.” What the hell were these words coming from my mouth? I couldn’t remember the last time I apologized to someone other than Presley or Edward.
“N-no. It’s fine, just that I’ve never been propositioned like this before.” As he spoke, I grinned up at him.
“Well, I’m glad to see I’m your first. And does that mean it’s a yes?”
He took that pouty lower lip between his teeth, and I imagined biting it later while I pushed inside him.
“I don’t spend the night with people I don’t know.”
“Well, then…” I rubbed my chin. “How about we go for a drink after my dinner?” I could tell the moment he capitulated, and my smile warmed. “I promise I’m not crazy. It’s just a drink. Wait, though. You’re not seeing anyone, are you?”
“No. And I don’t know about that drink.” He played with the menu for a moment. “I’ll see how it goes tonight and let you know later.”
It’s going to go my way, if I have any say in the matter.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
His cheeks reddened under his dark stubble, and a flash of heat rose through me. I wanted all that rough hair against my bare skin and that luscious mouth on my dick.
“Torre.”
“Well, Torre”—I sipped my drink, and it was perfect—“better get my order in. I haven’t eaten all day.”
I watched him walk away, admiring the tight curve of his butt in his slim black pants. Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist, and his dark hair curled over his collar.
A busboy brought over a basket of bread along with a dish of olive oil infused with fragrant herbs and spices. The bread was warm and crusty, and the flavor of the oregano and red peppers burst over my tongue. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad, I mused, especially if I ended up spending the night with a hot waiter. From the smell in the air, the food promised to be at least robust and well seasoned. I sniffed appreciatively.
The decor was standard—a bit rustic, with wood-paneled walls and ubiquitous pictures of the Italian countryside. I hoped the tired decorating skills didn’t reflect the quality of the food, but to my surprise, the flowers in the vase were fresh, and the sugars were imported Italian. Perhaps I wouldn’t need that Pepto.
A salad appeared with three types of greens, heirloom tomatoes, red onions, thinly sliced pears, and shaved parmesan. A light balsamic dressing was drizzled on top. Torre waited by the table. “Fresh pepper?”
“No. Thank you.”
I dug into the bowl, and the ingredients melded together perfectly. The branzino, still sizzling on a plate when it arrived, its skin crispy, was accompanied by a side dish of roasted brussels sprouts. The fresh herbs and perfect cooking made the fish and vegetables an absolute delight. I couldn’t stop eating and licking my lips with unabashed pleasure.
“Enjoying it?” With a dark brow raised and a humorous tilt to his generous mouth, Torre waited at my side, a steaming plate of ravioli in his hand.
“It’s incredible.” I eyed the dish in his hand. “Are you going to hold that hostage from me?” I slid aside the decimated fish carcass and motioned to the empty spot in front of me. “Put it down right there. I’m ready for it, if it’s as good as the fish.”
And it was. The creamy, spicy sauce complemented the slightly sweet filling of the pasta. I used a piece of bread to mop up the last of the sauce, then wiped my mouth.
Torre approached with several glasses on a tray. “Digestivo?”
Whoa.Not what I expected from this homespun, out-of-the-limelight place. I spotted Strega, limoncello, and the less commonpassito.
I wondered if he was authentic or trying to show off. “Which is your favorite?”
“Personally, I would go for the Strega. The richness of the ravioli’sbéchamelsauce might make thepassitotoo cloying.”
I schooled my face not to express shock. This man spoke my language, and I eyed him curiously. “Are you a regular waiter here?” I pointed to the Strega. “I’ll take that. But only if you join me.”
