Page 24 of Triplets for the Rival MC

I realize then that instead of going out to a restaurant as I anticipated, Cyrus has cooked dinner for me. It’s a thoughtful yet romantic gesture that touches me.

“Can I help?” I ask as I walk over to him.

He startles a little as I catch him off guard, whirling around to face me, a colander filled with freshly washed lettuce in his hands. He breaks into a smile. “Hey, you. You look beautiful. I hope you’re not disappointed that we’ll be staying in for dinner. I’m no chef, but I make a pretty mean spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Not at all, it smells delicious. Is that homemade garlic bread?” I ask, spying the rising dough in the oven, which is filling the kitchen with an incredible smell.

He nods bashfully. “Yep, my nonna was Italian, everything had to be made from scratch, the noodles too,” he says, gesturing to a pasta maker. “I thought it could be fun if we made them together?”

“Sure, that sounds fun,” I agree.

I wash my hands in the sink, and then I listen as Cyrus patiently explains how to make the pasta noodles. My first few attempts are atrocious, and we laugh at my ineptitude.

“I hope you have some dried pasta spare, at this rate we’re either going hungry or eating thick, funny-shaped noodles,” I say in despair as I hold up my pathetic attempt.

“Don’t worry, everyone makes a few mistakes on their first try. Soon you’ll be an expert, I’m sure,” he says confidently as he opens a bottle of wine. “Want a glass?” I nod in agreement, too focused on my dough to risk speaking and breaking my concentration. He pours us both one and takes a sip of his.

“Your nonna would probably tell you to date a nice Italian girl who is a noodle-making expert,” I grumble, only half joking.

“Not at all, Nonna would have loved you.” He moves behind me, helping me carefully feed the dough into the pasta maker. I’m painfully aware of his proximity and have to force myself to focus on the task at hand instead of how warm his hands feel on mine, how good he smells. “Though not that I would ever let my nonna hear us calling pasta noodles. That was an Americanism she couldn’t stand,” he adds with a wry chuckle and a slight shake of his head, lost in the memory.

Finally, I seem to get the hang of it, and he smiles in encouragement as they start to come out right. He turns to check on the sauce, the rich smell of tomatoes and basil filling the room as he takes off the lid. He brings me a spoonful of sauce to try.

I close my eyes and let out a moan of approval. “Mmm, that’s incredible. I’ve never tried such a delicious bolognese sauce before. Maybe one day you can share your secret recipe with me.”

“Nonna told me I could only share it with the girl I was going to marry,” he says. His words carry weight, as if the notion of me being that girl isn’t out of the question. I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to dismiss it or offend him, but I also don’t want to seem too keen, like I’m desperate to marry him someday. Technically, this is only our first date, after all. Thankfully, he saves me from having to respond, no doubt awkwardly. “What were your grandparents like?” he asks.

“I never knew my grandparents. I always wished I’d had them. I used to imagine as a kid that one day I would run away and live with my grandparents, and they’d be everything my father wasn’t. I’d play silly games, thinking of what they’d be like,” I admit, feeling a little foolish.

“That doesn’t sound silly to me at all. That sounds like a lonely kid with an active imagination. I’m pretty sure most kids would feel the same way.”

The conversation continues easily from this point, as usual, Cyrus is kind and understanding, thoughtfully listening and putting me at ease. We chat about everything, from our childhoods to our favorite foods and hobbies. I talk about my other dates, and he is happy, not jealous. The food is, unsurprisingly, delicious, and I eat far more than I should. He immediately shuts down my knee-jerk reaction to refuse dessert, insisting that I can treat myself once in a while and calling my father an asshole for making me think I was fat. “You have a body most women would kill for, and all men find sexy, trust me,” he says, putting down the cheesecake in front of me. “I made this too, so you’ll hurt my ego if you don’t try it,” he jokes.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” I reply, taking a bite. It’s amazing, and I find myself wolfing down a whole piece.

As he pours the last drop of wine into our glasses, I realize how late it is. I presume the guys must be hiding out downstairs, giving us space for the night, since I haven’t heard them come home. “How are you guys feeling now, about everything, about me?” I ask, trusting that Cyrus will be honest while sparing my feelings.

“Good. You were right to knock some sense into us. There’s no point in us dwelling on the past and making the same mistakes again. We all want this to work. We really like you, Tori. I really like you.”

“I really like you too,” I reply, closing the space between us and kissing him.

The kiss feels right. Different from the others, gentler, more tender, but just as good. I know that after today, I’m ready to take our relationship to the next level.

Chapter 15

Cyrus

Before our dates, we’d all discussed how we would move at Tori’s pace. If she wants to be with any of us sexually, either alone or all of us, that’s her call. I’m well aware that my choice to arrange the final date worked to my advantage, as there’s no rush to end. That being said, I wasn’t expecting anything more than maybe a kiss, if I was lucky. When I told her my feelings, I wasn’t doing it for any other reason than the simple desire to let her know how I feel.

I knew I liked her, that I was inexplicably drawn to her, beyond simple physical attraction, from the first day we met. I’ve been wrestling with my jealousy ever since I found out that she’d hooked up with Hunter. I was relieved and also a bit scared when she finally admitted to us all that she wants all of us. I don’t want a repeat of what happened with Bella, but I don’t want to let this opportunity slip through my fingers like sand. Tori is worth trying. But the pressure of living up to expectations, of being worthy of her, almost left me frozen. I wasn’t sure I was going to make a move at all until I found myself blurting out my feelings.

The kiss happens naturally, as easily as breathing. We move in perfect sync, without the usual clashing of teeth some first kisses involve. Tori tastes of wine and cheesecake. Her lips are soft, welcoming. I never want the kiss to end.

She presses her body close to me, and my arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer. I can’t get enough. Her hands work at the buttons of my shirt, never breaking our kiss. She runs her nails up my chest, unpeeling my shirt over my shoulders, her hands tantalizingly running over them and down my back as she removes it.

My fingers run through her hair, cupping her head as she arches her neck, an invitation. I kiss the sensitive skin, enjoying the soft gasp of pleasure she emits. I breathe her in. She guides me to remove her dress, turning so I can unzip it, the silky fabric dropping to the floor in a puddle. My eyes take in the gentle curve of her spine, the dimples on her lower back, her rounded ass, ripe like a peach.

She turns to face me, and I kiss her once more, unclasping her bra with one hand. She shrugs out of it, casually throwing it aside. Her breasts are full and heavy, perfectly rounded with pink nipples I capture in my mouth.