Our breathing syncs up, heavy and shallow. I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and lick off the sauce as he watches.
Abruptly, he releases my wrist and turns back to his food, rolling salami around pecorino, drowning both in pesto, and devouring it in one bite.
His eyes close. “Jesus Christ,” he murmurs, then directs his full attention to the plate, coating each bite in pesto and consuming it with single-minded focus.
I sit and watch him, barely able to contain my pride in how much he likes my food. When he’s done, I take his plate and rise, returning to the kitchen. “Would you like more? Or maybe dessert?”
He stands, his gaze predatory, and follows, standing behind me at the sink.
“I’m doing the dishes,” he says.
I laugh. “I would never ask you to do that. I don’t have a dishwasher, so it’s a real pain, I promise you.”
His hand grazes over my ass, deliberate and possessive. I freeze. I think I hear him swallow a groan, but maybe I’m imagining it?
“Princess, unless you want me to shove your face in that sink and fuck your ass, you’d better move and let me wash the God damn dishes.”
My eyes fly wide open. I suck in a sharp breath and glance over my shoulder at him, then place his plate in the sink. “Since you put it so eloquently…”
I’m pinned between him and the sink, his erection growing against my lower back, and I have to pull hard to extricate myself and give him access to the dishes.
When I’m free, he works quickly, washing each dish by hand. Those strong hands submerged in soapy water, his forearms flexing, veins popping with each movement as he washes dishes with the same intensity he brings to everything when he’s in this mood. I’m acutely aware of how violent those hands can be andyet somehow everything about him radiates safety laced with danger.
Watching him, fatigue hits me hard. I bring his small coffee cup into the kitchen and place it next to the moka pot that holds the rest of the strong brew.
Standing on tiptoe, I kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you. Your coffee is ready when you are.”
His movements still, but before he can respond I slip away to my room and shut the door. Leaning against it, I draw in a deep, steadying breath.
Rein it in, Sophie. He probably has women drooling over him constantly. And he made it very clear he needs to focus.
I laugh softly. I doubt he usually hates female attention and he certainly seemed interested in my attention at the party, but now is not the time. Like he said, he’s practically family since he’s Siena’s brother-in-law. I need to be a good host and friend.
I change into pajama shorts and tank top, piling my hair into a messy bun. When I step out of my room, I freeze mid-step. He’s standing in the middle of the living room pulling off his shirt.
Holy. Wow.
That man is a work of art, sculpted to perfection, and his shoulders are freaking massive.
Keeping his jeans and shoes on, he flops on the couch, his gun on his chest, and catches me staring. He stares back, raking his gaze over my body slowly.
Sophie, stop!
I clear my throat and retreat to my room, returning a minute later with an armload of blankets and a pillow, but stop short when he gasps.
“Holy shit, what the fuck is this?”
I can barely see over the blankets in my arms, but I start moving toward him again. “Something wrong?”
“This coffee is fucking amazing.”
His praise sends heat radiating straight to my core. “Espresso Napolitano. You like dark roast?”
“Fucking incredible.”
I deposit the blankets and pillows on the coffee table.
“Do you always sleep in your shoes?”
