I eat my lasagna and I gather my courage, Samuel’s elbow brushing mine every time he lifts his fork to his mouth.
Jesus, even the way he eats is sexy. He takes his time, thoughtfully savoring every bite. I try to do the same, although it’s hard because this stuff is so delicious I want to devour it in giant bites. But slowing down does heighten the experience. This is not a meal to be rushed through. Lasagna is time-consuming to make, and I’d bet my life everything in it is homemade, from the sauce to the noodles to the ricotta cheese.
As trite as it sounds, everything Samuel cooks is made with fierce, real love.
“It’s truth,” I say, sipping my wine.
Samuel cuts me a confused look, his blue eyes glowing in the dim light of the fire. “The lasagna?”
“Yes. My God.” I scoff. “How did I not see it sooner? Your truth—it’s in your food.”
He grins. “See? I’m not all bad.”
“You were a jerk for a minute there, yes, but…what if food is your way of showing love? You put a lot of effort into feeding the people who mean something to you. Filling them up fills you up. That’s why you adore sobre mesa so much. It’s people eating what you love and connecting over it, connecting with each other. Your food brings them together. See? You’re honest here”—I hold up my empty plate—“and you always have been. That love and that authenticity and the courage to put yourself out there, it’s been here”—I press my finger into the center of his chest—“all along.”
His eyes soften, and so does everything inside my body. “That’s beautiful, Emma. It’s beautiful that’s what you see in a plate of noodles and way too much cheese.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it.”
“You know it.” His eyes hold mine. “You know how much I want to kiss you, Emma Crawford.”
My heart leaps, and my stomach drops, and I sit, waiting for him to finish that thought.
He sets down his plate and tugs a hand through his hair. “Since we’re on the subject of honesty. I know you said you wanted to keep things professional, and I have every intention of respecting your wishes. But I couldn’t not—” He groans. “I’m trying to be a better man here, and right now that feels like being up front about what’s going on inside my head.”
Those fingers of his tighten on the stem of his wineglass, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t break eye contact. He’s feeling his feelings, and he’s not running away from them like he did when we first met.
He’s trying for me.
It’s affirming and arousing in a way I can’t quite describe.
“Samuel Beauregard,” I say, setting down my wineglass on the hearth. “I’d very much like to kiss you too.”
His eyebrows pop up. “Really?”
“Really.”
“And you’re okay with it?”
“I am.” I flatten my palm on the floor beside Samuel’s hip and lean into it. “Right now, I really am. In fact, I’m okay doing a lot more than that too.”
“Promise me. Promise me that no matter what happens, you’ll stay on the farm.”
I meet his eyes. “That’s quite the commitment.”
He curls a hand around the nape of my neck. My body ignites at the feel of his fingers on my skin. His palm is huge and warm, and I already feel myself melting into a kiss that hasn’t even happened yet.
“Promise,” he repeats.
I look at his lips. They’re full, dark from the wine. “I promise.”
My initial impulse is always to take charge in sexual situations. If I’m in control, no one gets hurt. Not if they don’t want to, anyway.
Ceding that control, surrendering rather conquering—it’s scary. But I try it on anyway.
I let Samuel lean in and angle his head. I tilt my chin, lips parting, welcoming his kiss.
I let him in.
The moment his mouth finally comes down on mine is a rush. He’s confident right off the bat, his tongue licking my bottom lip before moving into my mouth. His lips are soft, sure, and he tastes clean, like water and wine. His scruff catches on my chin and I bring my hand to his face, unfurling my fingers through his beard. He groans, this half helpless, half rowdy sound, and my nipples harden to tight points. They brush against the inside of his sweatshirt, making my clit pulse.
He goes slowly but my heart still thunders inside my chest, blood running wild inside my skin. A beat tightens between my legs. He deepens the kiss, drawing me up to him, and I meet him stroke for stroke, his tongue licking into my mouth, my teeth coming down on his bottom lip before I give it a quick, hard suck.
Samuel groans again, his other hand finding my hip. He guides his fingers inside my—his—sweatshirt, not stopping until he finds skin. He glides his hand up my bare side, my body arching into his touch.