I take the bowl I just cleaned and place it on the counter, pulling three egg yolks apart from their whites with my hands then whip the yolks with three teaspoons of sugar until they are pale andribbony. Lucia watches me pull espresso shots and measure the hazelnut liqueur by sight rather than jigger.
When she nods slowly, I feel like I’ve been blessed by a priest.
“I will take a nap,” Lucia says, setting her wooden spoon on its rest then holds up a finger at me. “One hour. You break anything, I find you.”
“Understood.”
She pauses in the doorway and looks back at me through narrowed eyes. Then she’s gone.
I wait until I hear her footsteps on the stairs before I let myself smile.
It’s not long before Vin comes into the kitchen wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, his black hair wet and messy. I finish preparing the drink I was making as he settles into a chair at the small kitchen table.
He looks wrecked: hollowed out, dark bags under his eyes, his jaw unshaven. He watches me through bleary eyes as I set the cup in front of him.
He stares at it. “What is this?”
“Hair of the dog.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you saying? You bitching about my drinking?”
“No.” I turn back to the stove. “I’m making you something to eat.”
He’s quiet as I flip the omelette in the pan and slide it onto a plate. Then he takes a sip and groans. ”Fucking Christ.”
I bite back a smile.
“You know,” I say lightly, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, “usually it’s me wearing nothing in a kitchen. Or have you forgotten your rules?”
“So you remember the rules.” His voice is rough. “Didn’t look like it.”
I don’t answer, and I make no move to undress. As far as I’m concerned, this is Lucia’s kitchen and that would definitely fall under the category of disrespectful. I’m here to help Vin put himself back together then I’m going home to sleep in my own bed and open my restaurant tomorrow morning. That’s all.
No matter what just happened in the shower.
The chair legs scrape across the floor as Vin rises. I can feel him behind me before he touches me.
His hands find the hem of the huge t-shirt I borrowed from him, and he lifts it over my head in one motion.
“Vin—”
He wraps one hand around my mouth, hooks the other into the waistband of the sweatpants I’m wearing and drags them down until they pool at my ankles. I should try to move away from him. I don’t.
“Spread your legs.” His voice is low, rough. “I need somewhere to come.”
I close my eyes. The shower was amazing. Slipping into that submissive dynamic with him was so easy, so satisfying. But this is even better. This is us, in the kitchen, me cooking, him enforcing the rules.
“The way I see it,” he says, his mouth at my ear, his body pressed along the length of my back, “this one’s on you, Sophia. You showed up to my house unasked, uninvited.”
His hands are everywhere. One gripping my hip, one sliding between my thighs, like he can’t move his hands fast enough. His voice is a steady, filthy refrain. “This is my pussy. My ass. My thighs. My tits. You know that, don’t you, Sophia?”
I can barely grunt in response, my eyes closing, feeling the warmth of him all through me.
“My little cum slut. My fuckdoll. Mine. All fucking MINE.” He pauses then smacks my ass so hard my eyes fly open and I gasp. “Keep fucking making my breakfast, Sophie. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
I hate that I feel his words rather than hear them. I grip the edge of the counter and hold on, actively touching no utensils, no food, nothing on his plate. Because I’m done doing what he wants me to do. I’m done following his rules. I won’t stay in the lane he defines for me.
But I’m also not going anywhere.
