I lean. He doesn’t put it in my hand. He brings it to my mouth. I open. The spoon is hot. Sauce even hotter. He watches the waymy lips close around the metal. I breathe out through my nose so I won’t make a sound I can’t take back.
“Salt?” he asks.
“A little,” I manage.
He turns his wrist, flicks a pinch in. The muscles in his forearm jump. I watch them like an idiot. He sees me seeing and smiles.
He moves to the sink, and the back of his shoulder brushes my chest. I pretend it was an accident. We both know it wasn’t.
There’s bread. He tears off a piece and hands it to me. Plain. No oil. No plate. I bring it up and he catches my wrist, gently, thumb just at the inside where my pulse is trying to break out. He watches it jump. His thumb presses once, like he’s testing doneness.
“Slow,” he says.
“I am,” I say, but I’m not. I’m nowhere near calm.
He lifts my hand the rest of the way and takes the bite I was about to take. The bread is nothing, but the sound he makes is not. A quiet hum that travels through his palm into my wrist, up my arm. He doesn’t let go right away.
“Again,” he says. He means the food. It doesn’t feel like he means the food.
I turn to the board because I need something to do, or I’ll do something else. He comes with me like I’m a magnet. The knife starts its rhythm—heel to tip, heel to tip—and I feel him fall into it, right behind me, a breath off my spine. My body knows where he is, like it’s a sixth sense.
“Bianca.” Soft, at my ear.
I put the knife down. I’m not stupid. My hands don’t need to be near blades right now.
He takes my wrist again and sets my palm flat on the counter. His hand covers mine. Larger, warmer. “Hold,” he says, like I’m about to move before I should.
I don’t move.
He steps that inch closer that puts him against me. Heat all down my back. My breath shortens. My knees want to buckle. I lock them and hate myself for it.
“Turn around,” he says.
I do. Slowly, because I decide to. Not because he told me to. The lie helps.
His face is right there. Closer than we’ve ever been. The pot on the stove bubbles. A timer ticks down somewhere and doesn’t matter. His eyes drop to my mouth and back up. He’s asking without asking.
I tip my chin. That’s all he needs.
He kisses me like he does everything else—decisive, controlled, no wasted motion. Not soft, either. Not rough. Just sure. His hand slides from the counter to my waist and fits there like he knew it would. I open for him like a flower in bloom. It’s embarrassing how easy it is.
The kiss isn’t polite. It gets messy fast. My fingers curl into the front of his shirt because I need something to hold onto, or I’ll float off the floor. He makes that sound again, low, and I swallow it like I swallowed the spoonful of sauce.
He breaks the kiss first, which somehow infuriates me. I chase him back, and he laughs against my mouth, breath warm, and that’s a problem because I like the sound too much.
“Easy,” he murmurs, one hand coming up to the side of my throat, thumb under my jaw. Not choking. Not even pressing. Just there. Claiming.
“You started it,” I say, which is childish and true.
“I’ll finish it,” he says, and I feel that promise all the way through.
The timer dings. Neither of us moves. He kisses the corner of my mouth in apology and steps away just enough to reach the knob and kill the flame. That little crack of space feels wrong. He fixes it fast. His palm is at my hip again, dragging me back. His mouth finds the spot under my ear that undoes me.
“Giovanni,” I hear myself say on a moan, and his name on my tongue does something to him. He growls against my skin, goosebumps breaking out all over.
“Say it again,” he says.
I do. He answers with teeth, a sharp scrape that lights every fuse I’ve got.
