I step in. The island presses at my hip; the oven ticks behind her. My other hand finds her waist, the thin knit and the heat beneath it, the small give of her body meeting mine. She rises onto her toes before I pull, as if we’ve rehearsed it.
The first touch of her mouth is soft and sure, no flinch, no apology. Heat floods my chest. I angle her closer with my palm at the small of her back, and she comes to me, opening like she’s been holding her breath since New Jersey.
She tastes like olive oil and salt and the promise of the wine we’re not drinking yet.
She makes that small sound I’ve only heard over a plate. This time it’s for me.
I keep it unhurried. No rush, no grabbing. Just the slow press and slide that says yes, and yes again. Her fingers curl in the front of my shirt. I lift her jaw a fraction, changing the angle, taking a second kiss like I have all the time in the world and none to waste.
The garlic confit is supposed to go in the oven.
The beans need checking. The lamb, soon, will need its turn.
I do not care.
I kiss her again, a little deeper this time, a little slower. Her breath hitches, and she holds my shirt tighter, her body a question I am aching to answer.
I draw back just enough to see her face. Her lashes are dark against the flush on her cheeks. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wide, and she’s looking at me with a mixture of desire and apprehension.
“What are we doing?” she whispers.
“What we both want,” I say.
She doesn’t argue, doesn't deny. Her fingers loosen their grip on my shirt. I let my thumb brush the underside of her jaw, feeling her pulse, steady and fast under my touch.
“I should check the beans,” she says, but she doesn’t move.
“They can wait.”
She nods. “Okay.”
I dip my head, kissing a slow path along her jaw. She shivers, a little sigh escaping her lips. I trace the shell of her ear with my tongue, feeling her breath catch. I bite down gently on her earlobe, and she arches into me, her hands fisting in my hair.
“Giovanni,” she breathes.
I’m lost. Lost in the scent of her, the taste of her, the way she’s melting against me. The kitchen fades, the ticking oven a distant hum, the afternoon light a blur. All that exists is her, the warmth of her skin, the softness of her sighs, the way she’s moving with me, like we’ve been dancing this dance for years.
My hands slide down her back, cupping her ass, pulling her flush against me. She grinds her hips, a slow, deliberate movement that sends a jolt of electricity through me. I’m hard, and she knows it, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips.
I take that smile with a kiss, a hard, hungry one this time, a claiming. She meets it, her tongue tangling with mine, her hands roaming over my chest, my back, my shoulders. I slip a hand under the hem of her sweater, my fingers tracing the smooth skin of her stomach.
She tenses, a sharp intake of breath. I freeze, my hand resting on the warm skin of her belly. After a moment’s pause, I continue my exploration, my fingers tracing a path up her ribcage tothe soft swell of her breast. She moans, her head falling back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat.
I kiss my way down, my lips, my tongue, my teeth, until I reach the delicate hollow where her neck meets her shoulder.
I bite down, not hard, just enough to leave a mark. A claim.
She cries out, a sharp, beautiful sound. Her body buckles, her knees going weak. I catch her, lifting her onto the island, her thighs parting to make room for me.
The sweater, that damn sweater that’s been teasing me all afternoon, is rucked up around her waist. I smooth it down, my hands lingering on the curve of her hips. She looks down at me, her eyes dark, her lips parted.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says, her voice husky.
I grin. “So are you.”
She reaches for the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head in one smooth motion. She’s wearing a simple white lace bra, and the sight of her, all pale skin and dark hair and the faint, freckled dusting across her shoulders, takes my breath away.
I reach out, my fingers tracing the delicate lace, the swell of her breast. Her nipple pebbles under my touch. I lean in, my mouth closing over it through the thin fabric.
