“Oh, I learned from one of the chefs when I was alone one summer in Tuscany.”
“Fuckin’ glad I don’t have you back in America. Jesus, baby, I might not ever take you back.”
I look at him in surprise, not sure if he’s joking or not. “What?”
“My brothers would smother me in my sleep to get to you.”
Oh, right. I forgot the Rossi brothers come to blows over food. I smile to myself.
“Well lucky for you, we’re shacking up.”
He doesn’t so much as crack a smile but pushes himself off the stool by the counter and stalks over to me, his eyes glowing with ferocity. I take a step backward, and my back hits the stove.
“What?”
“It’s sexy watching you cook.”
“There’s no damn way you’re hard again.” I put the food down and wash my hands quickly by the sink. I close my eyes when he comes up behind me, his flank at my back, his hard cock pressed to my ass. I close my eyes.
I always dreamed about this. I’m not really sure why. But this, this right here. I fantasized about a domestic setting just like this, where my husband would catch me doing something mundane and simple like washing dishes or cooking dinner. He’d come up behind me and sweep my hair to the side so he could kiss my neck.
I love that fantasy. It’s so… so normal. And after everything I’ve been through, I crave normal.
“Keep cooking,” he says. I squeal when he grabs my hips and yanks me so that he can grind against me. I squirm in anticipation. And keep cooking.
I stir the sauce and roll the basil before I cut it into thin, vibrant green strips. It smells like sunshine and summer. I’ve always loved fresh basil.
I groan when Tavi’s tongue laps the back of my neck. My fingers flick open over the bubbling pan, and the basil melts into the sauce.
With him still at my back, I open the oven and take out the garlic toast, just as the timer goes off for the pasta. He backs off and gives me space to do the more dangerous kitchen tasks, but when I begin plating the food, he’s back at me, his hands at my breasts and his mouth at my neck.
“We’re ready to eat,” I whisper.
“Yeah, baby, I’m ready to eat you,” he responds. My thighs clench together and a deep spasm of need washes over me. Oh God, he’s so hot it’s unnerving.
“Well first, let’s eat some dinner.” I turn to face him with a plate in each hand. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
We opt to sit side-by-side on little kitchen stools by the counter.
He groans with the first bite.
By the second, his eyes are closed.
At the third, he asks me to marry him.
“We’re already getting married,” I say, taking a sip of wine. It’s so crisp and clean, my tastebuds sing. “And my God, where’d you get this wine from?”
“From our vineyards.”
“Nooo,” I breathe. “I heard of the Rossi family vineyards when I was little! I forgot all about them.”
I twirl the pasta around my fork and spear a bite of chicken. He’s right. It is good. “Okay, this is delicious but it has more to do with the quality of the ingredients than anything else.”
“Uh.” He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare go all modest on me.”
“But I’m not going to brag. My father taught me never to talk about my own accomplishments.”
“And if you don’t brag, I’ll spank you,” he says nonchalantly. “So take your pick.” He takes a huge bite of chicken and groans again. “Your father was a prick.”
He was. No argument there.
“Tell me about the rest of your family.”
He’s spearing more pasta with his fork when he asks, so I don’t get to look in his eyes. I guess it doesn’t much matter. I’m marrying him. I won’t be a Regazza anymore, and thank God for that. Still, I’m curious if he’s fishing for intel or genuinely curious.
“Why do you want to know?” I ask, filling my own mouth with pasta and not answering at first.
That earns me a stern look from beneath lowered lashes. “Excuse me?”
“What?” I say around a mouthful of food.
“You don’t balk when I ask you a question. You answer. Thought we’d covered that.”
Definitely not just a dominant in bed.
“I’m curious why you want to know.”
My heart does a little somersault, half expecting that I’ve riled him, but he only takes another large bite of food, follows it with an entire slice of garlic toast that he eats in two large bites, and washes it down with enough wine to drown a small boat.
“When you marry me, your family becomes my family. It’s only custom and logic that demands I ask about your family.”
Ah. Well, that makes sense. “Not much to tell you. You know I was an only child. My mother’s alive but estranged, and I haven’t seen her in years.”