The front door opens and closes, and the sound spurs me into motion. I toss the sweater back over the chair and stand up, smiling as I head for the stairs.
There he is, in the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, jacket sliding off his shoulders, tie tugged loose with one hand, a big paper bag cradled in the other that smells like soy, ginger, and something fried.
“Hi,” he says, looking up at me with warmth in his eyes.
I take the stairs down and rush into his arms, rising on my toes.
“Hi,” I say and kiss him, slow and heated, fingers catching his loosened tie to bring him closer. He takes like mint and home. When I let him go, I’m a little breathless. “How was your day?”
“Better now,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over mine once more before nodding toward the bag. “I brought provisions.”
We walk back to the kitchen. He sets the bag down and starts taking out white cartons: lo mein, broccoli beef, dumplings, scallion pancakes, orange chicken. The island fillswith containers, and the air steams with the kind of smell that makes my stomach wake up and beg for attention.
“Updates?” I ask, leaning hip to counter, watching his hands.
“Antonio’s doing well.” He opens a cupboard and pulls out plates. “He’s annoyed that Luca insisted he stay at their house for a while once released. But he’ll get over it.”
“Good. He’ll have someone with him.” I watch his movements with growing heat. “How was work?” My voice comes out low. He glances up, catches it, and his mouth spreads into a smug smile.
He reaches for a carton. I reach for him.
“Later,” he says, amused, setting out plates. “You have to eat.”
“I don’t want later,” I say, and slide between him and the counter, fisting the front of his shirt and kissing him again, deeper now. The sound I make when his hand roams over my ass is downright indecent.
My body is alive. I don’t know if it’s hormones or him, but lately, I have no self-control.
His hand squeezes my ass lightly, then he’s kissing me back like he’s been starving too. The paper bag crackles when my hip bumps it, and neither of us cares.
I angle his face and take more. His other hand slides into my hair and takes a firm grip, pulling a hoarse moan from me.
“The food is warm,” he says against my lips.
“I’m warmer.” I nip his lower lip, feel the shiver run through him, and smile. “See for yourself. Feel me.”
He gives my ass one last squeeze before sliding his fingers down, down.
He slides them deftly between my legs, and I gasp into his mouth, seeking friction through the thin fabric of my sweatpants. I press my legs together around his hand, and I’m wet. I’m so, so wet.
“Are you wet for me, Olivia?” he murmurs, his thumb finding my clit.
I buck against him, the only answer I can manage.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” I choke out. “Yes, I’m wet for you.”
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
I press against him as he starts to rub circles through my sweatpants, and I could come like this, I could. I’m right there, the pressure is so perfect, so insistent, the room spins—
“You know,” he says, a smile in his voice as he slows, “I think I could eat."
I whine, an actual whine, and then his other hand slides down the back of my sweatpants, and he squeezes my bare ass, a full, possessive grip. I press my face into his neck.
He slides my sweatpants off, leaving them pooled at my feet. He lifts me onto the island and unbuckles, then unzips, his pantsand underwear, letting them fall to the floor, his hard cock springing free and ready.
The marble is cool on my bare skin, and the food is right there, steaming and tempting, and the last thing I want.
