He looks down at me with intense eyes. "Mia," he growls.
The word sends shivers through me. Mine.
"Come for me, Gio," I breathe against his lips. "Come inside me."
With a guttural cry, he thrusts into me one last time, a deep, powerful surge that buries him to the hilt. He stills, a shudder running through him, and then he’s coming, a hot, pulsing rush that fills me, marks me, claims me as his.
He collapses on top of me, his body a heavy, welcome weight, his breath a warm, ragged gust against my neck. I wrap my arms around him, my legs still locked around his waist, holding him close, not wanting to let him go.
We lie tangled in the sheets, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts beating a wild, erratic rhythm against our ribs.
Slowly, our breathing slows, and his weight is getting a little too heavy.
As if he can read my mind, he stirs, rolling onto his side, pulling me with him. His arms drape over my waist, his leg thrown possessively over mine.
I snuggle into him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady, comforting rhythm of his heart. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, a slow, soothing caress.
The exhaustion hits me all at once, a wave so intense it's a struggle to keep my eyes open.
The bedroom door is ajar, letting in the afternoon light, and I can see the dust motes dancing in its golden beams. The air isthick with the scent of sex, a sweet, musky aroma that's both arousing and comforting.
Giovanni's arm tightens around me, pulling me closer, and a wave of contentment washes over me.
This is where I'm supposed to be.
This is home.
A thought, unwelcome and intrusive, pops into my head.
Dinner.
My eyes fly open. I bolt upright, a gasp of horror escaping my lips.
"The lamb!"
Giovani startles. "What?"
"The lamb, the beans," I say, my heart thudding against my ribs. "How long have they been in the oven?"
He stares at me, a look of confusion on his face, then understanding dawns. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face.
"They'll be fine," he says.
I am not convinced. "I have to check on them."
"It's lamb. It's forgiving," he says, trying to pull me back down.
"I am not serving a half-assed lamb with a sangiovese," I say firmly, finally breaking free from his arms. "No amount of sex can change that."
"I'm willing to take that bet," he says, reaching for me again.
I scramble out of bed before he can pull me back in—especially since he definitely can distract me with sex—and grab the discarded clothes off the floor. It takes a moment to realize they’re not mine. I look around, confused, before remembering that they’re scattered all over the kitchen.
My face heats.
"I'm not going down there naked," I say, looking around.
"I don't see a problem with that," he says, reclined on the pillow, his hands behind his head, a predatory smile on his face.
