“Good, isn’t it?”The predatory smile returns to his face, full of triumphant heat.
A faint, needy sound escapes my throat, a sound I barely recognize as my own.
Without breaking eye contact, he dips his finger into the sauce a second time.This time, he paints it directly onto my lower lip.
My eyes flutter closed.
“Open your eyes, Amy,” he commands in a silken rasp.
When I do, he’s right there.His deep greens bore into mine as he leans in and licks the sauce from my lip with an excruciatingly slow swipe of his tongue.
My whole body ignites.
He pulls back a fraction, his breath hot against my mouth.Both of us panting.His hands slide from the counter to my thighs, gripping them firmly, making me gasp his name.With a low growl deep in his throat, his mouth crashes down on mine.The kiss is deep and searing.A frantic claiming that speaks of hunger, of possession, of a fire now completely untamed.It tastes of wine, rich herbs, and him.I meet him with equal force, my arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.
Then, with a groan torn from his very soul, he rips his mouth from mine.He wrenches himself back with a shuddering effort.
Hands still gripping my thighs, he presses his forehead to mine, eyes squeezed shut.“Dinner,” he forces the word out.“I promised you dinner.”He gives me one last, hard kiss, full of that broken promise, then forces himself to step back.Leaving me breathless and burning on the island.
I watch, captivated.He grabs the bowl of beef and turns back to the stove.Every movement is efficient, graceful, unapologetically masculine.He adds the shredded beef to the sauce, gives it a final stir, then drains the pasta.Sipping my wine, I follow his every move as he combines the pasta and fragrant ragù in a large pan, tossing them together with a deft flick of his wrist.The muscles in his arms and shoulders flex under his form-fitting T-shirt.
The air is thick with the rich scent of food and our own palpable, unresolved desire.
Matthew grabs a wide pasta bowl and plates a generous, steaming portion, garnishing it with fresh basil.He fetches a fork, then turns back to me, setting the bowl down beside my thigh.With eyes alight with a teasing warmth, he gently nudges my knees apart, stepping right back between my legs.Reclaiming his place.
He reaches for his wineglass.“To the most captivating sous-chef,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
“And to the hottest chef,” I reply, the words tumbling out between giggles as I sip.
He sets his glass down and picks up the bowl of pasta.Expertly swirling the fork, he captures the perfect bite.His eyes glint with a wicked light as he brings the fork to his own lips.
His gaze locked on mine, he takes the bite, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second.“Mmm… perfect,” he declares in a low drawl.
The sight of him, so pleased with himself, so at ease, makes my mouth stretch into a genuine smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”His lips curve into a sexy, crooked grin.“Did you want some?”The teasing question makes my smile explode into laughter.
He chuckles, twirls another perfect bite, and holds it up to my mouth.
The flavor is incredible.
Rich, complex, and so full of care it tastes like comfort itself.
“Wow!”My eyes widen.“This is actually delicious!”
“Okay, don’t sound so surprised.You’ll bruise my ego,” he replies, his shoulders shaking with a soft laugh.
“No, honestly, it’s delicious!”With a mischievous grin, my hands dart out, snatching the bowl from his grasp.
Amusement dances in his eyes.He leans back, sipping his wine, watching me with pure delight as I enjoy another forkful.
“Sorry, but I don’t think there’s enough for you,” I declare in mock sympathy as I prepare another generous bite.
Before the fork can reach my mouth, his fingers wrap firmly around my wrist.“Nice try, love,” he murmurs, skillfully redirecting my hand, bringing the forkful of pasta to his own mouth instead.
The audacity makes me drop my head back with a helpless, cheerful laugh.
“Okay, okay.Truce,” he says, his laughter warm as he releases my wrist.
