I snort, taking another swig from the bottle. “The suits serve a purpose. People respect the packaging.”
“But do you like them?”
The question is simple, but it hits differently. Not asking about the effect or the purpose—asking about what I want. I roll my shoulders, considering.
“I do like them,” I answer honestly. “Though I’ll admit, it sometimes feels weird to go for ice cream at two in the morning in a suit or tux.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Ice cream? You?”
“Why is that surprising?” I ask, genuinely curious about what version of me exists in her head.
“I just pictured you drinking blood or something.” She grins, the expression lopsided and entirely too charming. “Not, you know, doing normal people things.”
“I’m full of surprises, Little Thief.” The corner of my mouth quirks up. “I hate formal events too. All that small talk makes me want to set something on fire.”
She laughs, the sound light and infectious. “Now that tracks.”
Raven reaches for something on the coffee table—a pink permanent marker. She uncaps it with her teeth and pulls one foot into her lap. With surprising dexterity, she begins painting her toenails with the marker, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration.
I watch, transfixed by the mundane intimacy of the act. The way her loose strands of hair fall forward when she bends overher task. The flex of her calf as she angles her foot. The tiny furrow between her brows as she focuses.
“You missed a spot,” I point out, gesturing to the edge of her smallest toe.
She glances up, surprised I’m watching so intently. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she defends. “It’s just an old habit. Something that makes me feel good.”
I set the wine bottle aside and reach for her foot before I can second-guess myself. “Let me.”
Her eyes widen slightly. “You want to paint my toenails?”
“I want to touch you,” I correct her, pulling her foot into my lap. “This is just the excuse.”
She surrenders the marker with a small smile, extending her foot toward me. The trust in that simple gesture hits harder than it should. I take her ankle in one hand, feeling the delicate bones beneath my fingers.
Her skin is soft, warmer than I expected. I run my thumb along the arch of her foot, watching her pupils dilate at the contact.
“Are you ticklish?” I ask, though I already know the answer from the way her toes curl.
“No,” she lies, biting her lip when I press my thumb harder into the arch.
I begin tracing the pink tip across her toenails. Each stroke is deliberate, precise. I’ve always been good with my hands—whether it’s breaking bones or handling delicate objects. Her foot qualifies as the latter, though the way it makes my blood heat is anything but innocent.
“You’re actually not terrible at this,” she murmurs, watching me work.
I finish her big toe and move to the next, taking my time. When I complete all five, I don’t release her. Instead, I bring herfoot to my lips, pressing a kiss to the newly decorated toes. Her breath catches, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
“What are you—”
I run my tongue along the arch of her foot, watching her eyes go wide. When I take her big toe into my mouth, sucking gently, her entire body shivers. I release it with a wet pop, enjoying the way her cheeks flame.
“Do you have a thing for feet?” she asks, voice breathier than before.
I laugh, the sound rumbling deep in my chest. “I’m beginning to think I just have a thing for you.” I meet her gaze directly. “You’re my kink.”
The confession hangs between us, too honest for what we are, for what this is supposed to be. But the wine and the quiet intimacy of her apartment have lowered my defenses. And the way she’s looking at me makes me want her to see me. To know me.
She squirms, not pulling her foot away but shifting against the floor. “That’s… quite a line, Matteo.”
“Not a line,” I correct, dragging my thumb across the ball of her foot. “Just a fact.”
