“We have the same taste,” he tells me, piling everything onto a plate and carrying it to the microwave.
That would have been at least two meals for me, if not three. Apparently, Alessio has worked up quite an appetite. When I think of how, I need to cross my ankles and press my thighs together to ward off a pang of desire. I have absolutely nodefenses against the things he does to me, the way he makes me feel. How much I want him.
Think of something else, Isla, I tell myself.
“You don’t mind spice?”
“The spicier, the better.” He finishes at the microwave and turns to me with a cheeky grin.
I know he’s talking about more than the Indian food he’s warming up. I also know my face is on fire. The things he did to me, the things we did together. I’ve never experienced anything like Alessio before.
I swallow hard and try to pretend like I’m unaffected. “Same.”
My clit is pulsing, just standing here. I’m thinking about the suction of his mouth, the light abrasion of his teeth. My ass tingles from his finger. No one’s ever gone there on me before, and it’s not something I knew I would like until I felt him playing with me. Any embarrassment or hesitation I might have felt had long since flown out the window at that point, and I’d just given myself over to him.
The microwave beeps, and he hauls out the plate, taking it to the counter where leather-topped stools are lined up. We ate at the formal dining table last night. There’s something laid-back and cozy about him eating at the counter on a stool. I feel like I’m intruding.
“Have a seat,” he tells me, gesturing to the stools. “I’ll go get us drinks. What do you want? Glass of wine? A lemon drop?”
He’s hearkening back to that night I first met him, when I thought he was a bartender. I was so wrong.
“A glass of wine would be nice,” I say as I settle on a stool.
“You got it.”
He disappears for a few minutes, and I know he’s at the bar that overlooks his incredible view of the river. I hear theclinking of glasses, the plunk of a cork being pulled, then the unmistakable sound of wine being poured.
When he comes back into view, he’s got a glass of wine in each hand. He’s so beautiful, his chiseled stomach and muscled chest and arms on display. The bulge in his pants is the stuff of gray-sweatpants-season legend.
I jerk my eyes up to his, but I know he caught me looking by the smirk on his lips as he hands me the glass. “Here you go.”
I take the chilled glass, our fingers brushing. “Thanks.”
Just the graze of his skin on mine is enough to rekindle the fires inside me.
He sits on the stool next to mine and holds up his wine to me. “To doing what we shouldn’t.”
“I can drink to that.”
We clink glasses, and I take a big sip of wine to try to calm my jittery nerves. I still need to figure out what’s going on. Why he blew into the apartment like a hurricane hell-bent on destroying everything in his path.
Alessio tucks into the paneer and chili chicken with gusto. “Damn, I forgot how good this is.”
As he’s chewing, I find my nerve to bring it up.
“Want to tell me what happened today?”
He freezes mid-chew and shoots me a look I can’t define. Frustrated? Annoyed? I’m not sure. Then slowly, he finishes chewing, swallowing the bite with great deliberation, his eyes never leaving mine.
“What happened,tesoro, is that I gave you the proper fucking you deserve.”
Warmth zips down my spine. “Not that. I’m talking about the reason for your dark mood when you got here. You looked like you wanted to tear down the world with your bare hands.”
He takes a sip of his wine. “I do, knowing that Russian prick was after you.”
I try not to let that comment go to my head, but I fail miserably. I like being the recipient of Alessio’s protective side far more than I like being his enemy. But a new surge of fear is tangling me up in knots, because the last thing I want is to get caught in a Russian Mafia spider web.
“Has there been a new development?” I ask.
