Mateo stood between her knees.
His hands found the waistband of her trousers. He paused, fingers hooked at the button, eyes finding hers.
Oh. She was going to be greedy.
April nodded.
He stripped the expensive black trousers down her legs with the same efficient precision he probably used for everything in his kitchen. The champagne blouse came next, unbuttoned reverently, until it hung open.
Mateo stepped back.
She sat there, half-naked on his prep counter, surrounded by copper pots, bowls of reduction, and fresh rosemary. and some distant part of her brain suggested she should be embarrassed. Should cover herself. Should—
"Perfetto," Mateo breathed.
The way he looked at her obliterated everyshouldshe'd ever learned. No one had ever looked at her like this—like she was something to be revered instead of tolerated. Like her body wasn't just acceptable but sacred.
He picked up the crystal bowl again, scooping sorbet with maddening slowness. April watched his hands lift he pale gold ice so it caught the light, and her body heating before he even touched her.
His eyes held hers as he painted sorbet across her nipple, watching it drip down her chest in a slow trail before lowering his head.
She felt his breath first—warm against her ribs, then her stomach. His tongue found the drop where it had settled near her navel and traced it upward, following the melted sweetness back along the path it had taken.
His lips closed over her nipple, still slick with champagne and cream. He sucked hard enough that cold and heat collided, pulling a gasp from her. His tongue circled the peak in slow strokes, catching every trace of sweetness until she was oversensitive and aching.
He shifted to her other breast.
No sorbet this time—just his mouth, hot and wet, closing over her nipple. He sucked until her breath fractured. His tongue circled the peak, then flicked it, and her back arched off the marble before she could stop it.
He scraped his teeth lightly across the sensitive skin, leaving both nipples drawn tight and aching.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while his other dipped into the sorbet.
She watched him scoop the pale gold balanced on his fingertips. His hand hovered over her stomach. Drifted south. She stopped breathing. His hand made slow passes along her collarbones, breasts, navel, letting sorbet drip in trails towards where she needed him most, gilding her like an idol he craved to worship.
His hand lowered, close enough that the cold radiated from the sorbet, hovering right where she ached—then he grinned andpainted it onto her navel instead. It pooled there, melting on the heat of her skin before it began to slip downward—a golden drip sliding toward the crease of her hip before his thumb caught it.
He didn't follow it.
Not yet.
He lowered his head and sucked the sweetness from her navel in one unhurried swipe. His mouth lingered there, warm against her skin. His tongue pressed into the hollow, then he turned his head and left a soft kiss beside it.
His tongue moved downward, tracing the golden path the sorbet drip had taken until it reached just shy of where she was already aching for him.
He reached for the bowl again. This time his fingers didn't hover or tease. He painted the cold sweetness between her thighs in one slow, deliberate stroke.
The shock of cold pulled a sound from her she didn't authorize.
He paused, staring at her—at the offering he had prepared. The gold spread where she wanted him, melting against her heat. Then he lowered his head. His mouth closed over the sweetness and he swallowed, eyes closing like he was receiving absolution.
He didn't rush. His mouth closed on the cream, swallowed it, stayed there, breath warm against her skin as his tongue worked from her entrance to her clit, gathering every trace of sweetness. His hands slid beneath her thighs and spread them wider.
Without lifting his mouth, he reached for the sorbet again, added another scoop of pale gold against her heat like it was ritual now. The cold shocked against the warmth he'd built, and his tongue resumed, hungry and patient. The contrast rolled through her: sorbet dissolving under the rough heat ofhis tongue, marble cold against her back while her skin burned where he touched.
He worked her with the same focused patience he'd used on her breasts—circling, flicking, sucking—until her hips lifted off the counter chasing pressure, friction.
Her hands gripped the marble edge so hard her knuckles went white.
