"I was beginning to think you'd sleep all night," he said, voice warm with amusement. "Though I couldn't blame you. I worked you pretty hard."
Heat flooded my cheeks, but I lifted my chin. "Satisfied would be the word I'd use."
His eyes darkened at that. "Good."
I gestured toward my improvised covering. "I should probably go put some clothes on."
"Don't," he said immediately. "Stay just like that."
I pointed toward my makeshift sarong. "I'm naked under this."
"I know." His grin was pure sin, all white teeth and dimples against the dark shadow of stubble that had grown in since morning. "That's precisely why I want you to stay like that."
My body responded immediately to the heat in his gaze, nipples hardening beneath the soft fabric of the throw. "You're insatiable."
"Only for you." He turned back to the stove, but not before I caught the intensity in his eyes—something beyond mere lust that made my heart stutter inside my chest.
Heading over to the kitchen island, I slid onto one of the high stools and arranged the throw to cover all the essential bits while still giving Rafe an eyeful of leg. Two could play at this game.
"What are you making?" I inhaled deeply. "It smells incredible."
He gave me a tentative glance over his shoulder. "Chicken cacciatore. Nonna's recipe."
Recognizing the dish, I perked up. "Wait, isn't that what you bring to Sunday dinners sometimes? The chicken everyone raves about?"
He turned fully and pressed a finger to his lips with an exaggerated expression of secrecy. "Shh. Everyone thinks Nonna makes it for me to bring."
"You're telling me you make it yourself?"
"Don't sound so shocked," he said, mock offense coloring his tone. "I'm Italian. Cooking is in my blood."
"I thought Lucia handled all the food around here."
"She does, usually." Rafe stirred the sauce, then replaced the lid on the pot. "But there are a few things I prefer to make myself. This is one of them."
"Why the secrecy?" I asked, genuinely curious. "You could impress everyone with your cooking skills."
He shrugged, the movement drawing my attention to the way his shirt pulled across his chest. "I like having things that are just mine. Things no one else gets to see." His eyes met mine and the intensity in them stole my breath. "Well, almost no one."
Something warm bloomed in my chest at the thought that I was being granted access to parts of him others never saw. First the music, then the club, and now this. He was letting me in, piece by piece.
"Your secret's safe with me," I promised, drawing an X over my heart. "Though I might need to sample this famous dish before I can fully commit to silence."
He laughed, a real laugh that flipped my stomach. "Coming right up. Wine?"
"Please."
He moved with easy grace around the kitchen, opening a bottle of red and pouring two glasses. The domesticity of the moment struck me—how natural it felt to be here with him like this, me in nothing but a blanket, him cooking for us both as if we'd been doing this for years.
"You know," I said conversationally as he handed me a glass, "there's an entire social media phenomenon dedicated to men in gray sweatpants."
Raising an eyebrow, he took a slow sip of his wine. "Is that so?"
"Mmm." I nodded, gaze deliberately drifting down to where the soft fabric clung to his narrow hips. "Women have very specific thoughts about men in gray sweatpants."
His lips stretched into a devilish grin while those dark eyes danced with mischief. "Why do you think I wore them?"
I nearly choked on my wine. "You did not choose those on purpose."
