I lift a brow and tilt my head, feigning innocence. “Enjoying what?”
He sets the towel down slowly, like sudden movement might be dangerous. “Pretending you don’t know what you’re doing.”
Heat pricks under my skin. My pulse jumps in my throat. I keep my face composed anyway, because if I don’t, I’ll give away how badly I want him to cross the kitchen and put his hands on me.
I pick up a strawberry—Nutella pooling against the red in glossy, dark ribbons—then add a perfect little curl of whipped cream on top.
I hold it up between us, arm extended.
“You don’t like strawberries?” I ask, and my voice betrays me at the end—too soft, too breathy.
Antonio steps in, slowly. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t take the strawberry from my hand. He just leans down until his breath brushes my knuckles, and my skin goes tight everywhere at once.
Then he opens his mouth and bites the strawberry right off the end, lips grazing my fingertips. My knees practically melt, and I have to lean back against the counter or collapse to the floor.
He chews, eyes still on mine, and swallows like he’s making a point.
“Good,” hemurmurs. “Very good.”
I set the green end back onto the plate, and instead of picking up another strawberry, I drag my finger through the Nutella.
When I turn my eyes back to his, the heat in them nearly makes me gasp.
“Is that for you or me?” he says, moving closer still.
“That would be against the rules,” I say, breathlessly.
His gaze drops to my finger, glossy with Nutella, then lifts back to my mouth.
“Hmm,” he says, and his voice is so deep, it’s practically just a rumble. “What rule exactly would that be? You didn’t say no tasting.”
I swallow, my back flat to the counter. “Th-That’s no touching.”
Antonio’s smile is slow and dangerous. “Ah-ha,” he says, just like he did when giving me the cooking lesson. “That’s not what you said.”
My stomach pitches and heat pools between my legs.
“Y-Yes. No touching, no flirting, no kissing,” I say quietly as Antonio takes another step closer.
He shakes his head. “You said, and I quote, ‘Hands off.’” He holds his hands out, clearly not touching me, before pressing them to the counter on either side of me, boxing me in.
My pulse trips. “Antonio—”
His eyes drop to my finger again, slick and coated with Nutella. His gaze is almost lazy. Almost patient. Like he has all night to wait me out.
I won’t last that long. I swallow hard, my finger still lifted between us like a fuse.
“Your hand. Not mine,” he says. “And I told you, once you break a rule…”
All bets are off.
My knuckles whiten around nothing. My breath clogs in my lungs. His gaze holds mine hostage as he leans over, slow and deliberate, until his mouth hovers a breath from my finger.
I don’t realize I’ve made the move until it’s done. My finger crooks, just the barest amount, and brushes against his lips.
But that’s all he needs.
His lips close around the tip of my finger.
