Which, to be fair, she did about four hours ago.
She laughs warmly. “You can take it with you. You don’t have to rush.”
But I do. I do have to rush because if I stay any longer I’m going to do something stupid like ask her to make me lunch too, or fuck her on this table, or—worse—just sit here and talk to her while she drinks her coffee and looks at me like I’m not a violent criminal who’s sole purpose right now is to murder his father.
I’m already standing, chewing, wiping my mouth and moving all at the same time. I bring the dishes to the kitchen, ignoring her reach for them with a warning glare, and wash them while I finish swallowing.
The routine is becoming automatic. Eat her food. Wash the dishes. Try not to think about how fucking easy this feels.
“You’re not eating?” I ask, scrubbing at the plate harder than necessary.
“I don’t really eat breakfast. The coffee, I love though.”
I freeze, hands in the soapy water. She made all this, and she’s not eating any of it?
“You made all this for me?”
She meets my eyes with that gentle smile. “You are a good houseguest.”
When she winks at me, something snaps in me. Before I can think better of it, I grab her by the waist and jerk her against me. She squeals, that high-pitched sound that goes straight to my cock, as I look down at her.
“With this amazing food, that wet pussy, and your gorgeous fat ass, you’re going to land yourself a nice traditional husband to cook for in no time, princess.” I nuzzle into her neck, growling, breathing her in.
She’s still laughing, her hands on my chest. “I’m in no rush, Vincenzo.”
I pull back and narrow my eyes at her. There’s something in her voice that makes me uncomfortable as fuck.
She laughs again, reading my face. “Don’t worry. I could just mean that I enjoy playing with you until my husband comes along.”
“Youcouldjust mean that, huh.”
She kisses me on the cheek, just a soft press of lips, and turns to the refrigerator. “Don’t overthink it.” She pulls out a insulated bag, the same kind she gives me each morning. “I made you lunch.”
My eyes pop open wide. “Mmm! Best host ever.”
I take it from her, kiss her on both cheeks, and head for the door. I need to leave. Now. Before I do somethingcatastrophically stupid. But when I open the door, my feet stop moving.
The morning air hits me. The door’s open. I could walk through it right now, text her later with some excuse, never come back. That’s what I should do. That’s what I always do. After a second that stretches too long, I turn back toward her.
She’s leaning against the counter, coffee cup cradled in both hands, watching me with those big brown eyes that see too fucking much.
“Make some of those arancini again tonight.” It’s not a question. Orders are easier than requests.
Her lips curve. “Actually, I’m making a crispy roast chicken with a side of tagliatelle and alfredo sauce, stuffed artichokes, and pesto green beans.”
I just stare. My brain short-circuits trying to process how incredible that sounds. Roasted chicken with crispy skin. Fresh pasta. Alfredo made from scratch, not that jarred bullshit.
I nod slowly, hoping I don’t look as fucking dazed as I feel. “I’ll be here at 8.”
“It won’t be ready until after 9, Vincenzo.” She sips her coffee, unfazed by my intensity. “I’m working through the dinner rush and then it takes a couple of hours to make.”
She’s got that kitchen bossiness that makes me want to bend her over and fuck the attitude out of her then tie her to the bed and show her exactly who gives the orders. But it also makes me want to show up at 8 and watch her cook.
Fucking Christ.
I hold her gaze. She doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away. Just watches me with those big eyes over her coffee cup. “I’ll be here at 8.”
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. Matti probably wondering where the fuck I am.
