“You may not need it.” She traces a circle over my heart. “But it makes you stronger. And stronger men are better bosses.”
“Or it makes you distracted.” I catch her hand, stopping those annoying circles. “Distracted men are dead men.”
She gives me a little smile, the one I’m starting to recognize as the one she wears when she thinks I’m being a fucking idiot but is too polite to say it.
“You might be right,” she says.
Which means I’m not right.
I narrow my eyes at her as she untangles herself from my arms and heads to the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Making you dinner.” She’s already pulling ingredients from the fridge. “You must be hungry.”
I watch her move around the kitchen, every movement efficient, graceful. She’s wearing those little shorts that make her ass look like a fucking religious experience.
Twenty minutes later, she calls me to the table and sets a plate in front of me as I sit down.
“Hungry?” Her eyes are sparkling. “I made some of my homemade gnocchi that you like, with bolognese sauce on one half, pesto on the other.” She’s practically glowing as she describes it. “The gnocchi is made with Italian 00 flour. The pesto base is extra virgin olive oil made from Taggiasca olives from the Ligurian region. The pine nuts are double toasted because you like them crispy. And for the bolognese, I used both sweet and spicy Italian sausage because that’s your favorite, and the very last of my opalescent basil with the sweet, ruffled purple leaves, the same kind I used in the pesto the first night you stayed here.”
I regard her suspiciously, looking from her to the food and back again. The plate is fucking perfect. Two perfectly distinct halves, the gnocchi pillowy and golden, and the sauces smell so fucking good. “Are you trying to prove a point, Sophia?”
“What point would that be?” She heads back to the kitchen and starts cleaning, but I can hear the smile in her voice.
“You know what point. Your ridiculous idea that I can’t just hire a chef to cook like this for me if I wanted. That it takes love—” I stop short, not wanting to say the word. “Never mind.” I grumble, stabbing a piece of gnocchi with my fork and popping it in my mouth.
The second it hits my tongue, I’m done. I groan, my eyes closing against my will. The flavor is fucking—holy shit, just no words. The gnocchi is soft with just the right crisp on the edges, the bolognese is meaty with just the right amount of heat, and the basil is fucking unreal.
When I open my eyes, she’s watching me, her eyes soft, the corners of her lips turned up in that little smile.
“You’ve been to some of the most amazing restaurants in Italy and here in New York.” Her voice is quiet. “Have you ever had anything that tasted like that?”
I shake my head, already scooping up another bite. I can’t stop eating long enough to talk.
She moves closer, leans in. Places a napkin across my lap, her hand brushing over my cock softly in the process. My breath catches. She pauses with her mouth close to my ear, and I can feel the warmth of her breath.
“And how do you think I feel about you, when you have the food I made in your mouth?”
I don’t respond. I can’t. My eyes are glued to her, watching her every move as my chewing slows.
“How do you think your life would change if you came home to a meal like this every night?” Her voice is barely a whisper. “Woke up to someone treating you with as much care as was put into making that food from scratch? You really don’t think it would make you a stronger man? A better boss?”
I swallow hard, the gnocchi suddenly thick in my throat. My eyes feel heavy with lust, with something like fear. “Are you saying you love me, Sophia?”
The question hangs in the air between us, dangerous.
She smiles softly, straightens, and walks back to the sink. “I’m saying eat your dinner, Vincenzo.”
41
Sophie
Vin savors each bite of gnocchi half-dressed in deep red bolognese, half in vibrant green pesto. It’s a visual representation of us, of two halves making one perfect whole. At least, that’s what I see. Vin just sees gnocchi.
When Vin takes a bite and makes that low, guttural groan that rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest, heat pools low in my belly.
“Sophie,” he breathes, reaching for another bite before he’s even finished swallowing.
