Page 43 of The Ache That Stayed

Maybe because for a split second, it felt normal. Maybe because I was happy I’d nailed it. Maybe because I wanted to prove I wasn’t rattled.

Big mistake.

He didn’t move right away. His eyes shifted to my finger. Then up to my face. His expression shifted then, subtly, jaw flexing, breathing slowed. His pupils widened just enough to darken the grey of his eyes into storm steel.

He leaned forward slowly. I could have pulled back. I should’ve pulled back. But I didn’t.

His mouth closed around my finger. Warm. Firm. Like he had all the time in the world. His tongue dragged once, slow and deliberate, collecting the dip from my finger—and my stomach dropped hard enough to make me take a deep breath. My throat constricted like the walls were stuck.

Every sound in the room disappeared—the kettle, the wind, the creaking floorboards. All of it drowned out until every fibre of my body focused only on the place where his tongue touched my skin.

Electricity shot through me so violently, streaking down my spine straight to my core in one merciless pull, heat flooding my face until I knew I’d gone crimson. My nipples tightened painfully beneath my shirt. The air stuttered out of me, uneven and fragile.

But his eyes never left mine. He released my finger slowly.

“Good,” he said, voice gruff. “You didn’t burn the garlic this time.”

My pulse thrummed in my ears. I pulled my hand back too quickly. But he caught my wrist and pulled me closer. I staggered a step toward him, chest brushing his for half a second.

His body went still. Not relaxed still, controlled still. Like restraint had locked every muscle beneath his skin at once.

“Wait.”

I swallowed. “W-what?”

“There’s some left.”

Before I could react, he lifted my hand to his mouth again, the corner of his mouth lifting. This time he took his time. His tongue slid from the base of my finger to the tip with slow precision, like he was tasting something far more dangerous than garlic and olive oil.

His eyes never left mine. Neither did mine. And that felt like its own kind of mistake. He held my finger there a second longer than necessary. Then released it with an unmistakable pop.

“All clean,” he murmured.

The words were casual, but the look in his eyes wasn’t.

My entire body turned traitor before thought could intervene. Before loyalty. Before sense.

The hair at the back of my neck stood. My thighs pressed together instinctively, stomach tightening. Heat pooled low and sharp between my legs. My pulse staggered so hard I felt dizzy. My breathing felt uneven, and I hated that he could probably see it.

Why is my body reacting this way to him?

This was Santino, for God’s sake.

I yanked my hand free and wiped my finger down the front of my apron.

“Dinner’s in ten,” I said, turning away too fast.

My throat was dry, but my voice sounded steady. Almost.

Behind me, I didn’t have to look to know he was smirking.

Satisfied.

Asshole.

And worse of all, he hadn’t forced anything. I’d been stupid enough to offer. And my body had answered before my pride could pull away.

He walked away without another word. Silence settled behind him, heavier than any argument we’d ever had.