by Leigh, T. K.
“Dante,” I moaned, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
“Don’t go,” he said, this time rougher, more callous, more demanding.
“Dante,” I hissed, my chest heaving.
“Don’t. Go!” his voice grew louder, violent, desperate.
“Dante.” I pressed my hands against his chest, digging, clawing, hurting. This was ugly and brutal and heartbreaking, all at once.
He grabbed the back of my neck, forcing my lips against his, his hold on me tightening, as if it would keep me here with him. But nothing would. Not anymore. I moved against him with more urgency, his tongue tangling with mine, his body intertwining with mine, his heart pounding against mine twisting me tighter and tighter until I cried out, every inch of me shaking violently as one of the most intense orgasms I’d ever experienced ravaged through me. He thrust into me again and again, his fingers painfully gripping my hips as he came inside me, marking me, claiming me as his. But I could never be his. Not anymore.
My breathing labored, I collapsed on top of him, my head falling against his chest, listening to his heart race in time with mine. Arms swallowing me, he kissed the top of my head, smoothing back my hair as he held me close, the affection in his motion in stark contrast to the way I just fucked him.
Everything came to a head at that moment. Growing up without a parent’s love. My relationship with Brock. The fact that he would have killed me if Dante hadn’t walked in when he did. I’d never allowed myself time to process any of it, simply brushing it aside and forgetting it happened. It was what I’d been taught since early on in life. Button it up and hide it away. I’d never allowed a single crack in my armor to show in all my twenty-eight years. That would make me weak. But now, the walls started crumbling around me, my throat tightening as I fought back a scream. Not because of my past, but because of my future, a future that Dante couldn’t be a part of, not with everything going on. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I now knew I needed to be on that plane on Tuesday, even if my heart stayed here with Dante.
Chapter Eleven
“What smells so good?” I asked as I walked into the kitchen after a much-needed shower. Dante and I had spent the remainder of the afternoon relaxing around his “cottage”, as he called it. If he thought this was a cottage, I hated to think what he considered to be a manor or villa, like he said he owned on the Amalfi Coast. He promised to take me one day, and I didn’t say anything to make him believe otherwise, not wanting to arouse his suspicions even more after the way I screwed him by the pool, then broke down in his arms. If we were living in the clouds, I may as well keep dreaming along with him.
Dante turned from the stove, throwing a dish towel over his shoulder. Butterflies swam in my stomach, my cheeks heating from the lustful expression in his eyes. God, there was nothing sexier than a man who could cook.
“I’m sautéing onions, Eleanor.”
“You even make onions smell divine. I shudder to think what you could do to steak.” I smiled, doing my best to be the same Eleanor I had been before I’d eavesdropped on his conversation. To my surprise, he hadn’t acted any differently toward me after learning my father may be responsible for Lilly’s death. In fact, he’d become even more affectionate, if that were possible.
“Steak?” He lifted a brow.
I nodded. “I’ve always loved the smell of steak. When it’s done right, of course.”
“How do you prefer your steak prepared?”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “You can tell a lot about a person by knowing how they prefer their meat.”
“Medium rare.”
“Good answer. If you had said well done, I would have had to ask you to leave.” There was a lightness in his tone that warmed my heart. While I certainly grew weak in the knees with every salacious word he whispered in my ear, with each wanton stare, with each addicting brush of his hand, I loved this side of him, the carefree and at ease man I could tell he once was…before he had no choice but to become guarded and skeptical. I supposed we were somewhat alike in that manner.
“No way.” I cringed in disgust. “I like my food to have flavor. Of course, whenever I’m at a restaurant, I usually have the chef prepare my meal however he or she recommends. I’m not the expert. I don’t go to my doctor’s office and tell him how to do his job. So I won’t tell a chef how to do his or hers, either.”
“We certainly appreciate that.” He turned back to the stove, moving the onions around the pan. I approached him, wrapping my arms around his waist, standing on my tiptoes to feather my lips against his neck. He was dressed casually in a pair of khaki shorts and a white linen shirt. I loved the juxtaposition between the darkness of his complexion and the light shade of his clothes.
“Do you miss it?”
He grabbed my hand in his, feathering a kiss on my knuckles as he spun around.
“Miss what?”
“Being in the kitchen. Do you ever wish you could go back to nobody knowing who you were?”
He paused, considering my question for a moment. “Sometimes. I certainly don’t miss the long days and even longer nights. But I do miss the thrill of being in the kitchen. I don’t get to do it as much as I wish. But sometimes I do. Like the other night at my restaurant when you came in to eat. I made each of those dishes myself.”
“You did?” I cocked a brow.
“Of course.” He placed a soft kiss on my forehead, then turned back around.
I watched as he grabbed a bulb of garlic and broke away a few cloves. He smashed them with a knife before peeling and chopping them with incredible ease, barely even looking at what he was doing. I would have lost a finger, but Dante chopped the garlic as if he could do it in his sleep. I had a feeling he could.
I studied his motions as he finished chopping, scooping the garlic off the cutting board with the knife, then adding it to the pan, his movements as lyrical as a dance. “Teach me.”
“Teach you what?”
“This.” I waved my hand around. “Show me how to do what you do.”
He met my eyes, studying me for a beat, then shrugged. “Okay. Chop these.” He handed me a colander containing a handful of mushrooms.
“Any way in particular?”
“I’m making a Bolognese, so I’m looking for small little chunks to complement the ground meat.”
“Any tips?” I asked as I stepped toward the sink and turned on the faucet, running my hands under the water.
“You’re slicing mushrooms. Not performing open heart surgery. Just do what you think feels right.”
“Okay.”
I wiped my hands on a nearby dish towel, then grabbed a butcher’s knife and brought it up to the mushroom, feeling oddly nervous. I had no idea what I was doing and felt more on edge chopping mushrooms in front of Dante Luciano than I did arguing cases in a courtroom.
“You’re not going to stand there and yell expletives at me for the way I cut up this mushroom, like they do on all those competitive cooking shows, are you?”
“Certainly not. While I expect my kitchen staff to have their shit together, I don’t swear at them for no reason. That’s mainly done for ratings.”
“I figured as much. Just thought I’d ask first.” I returned my attention to the mushroom, my back stiff.
“Relax,” he soothed, running his hands down my arms. “Take a deep breath.” He brought his body closer to mine. I fluttered my eyes shut, melting into him when his lips skimmed against my neck. “Keep your elbows close to your body,” he said in a sultry voice. “Quick, fluid movements.”
“You’re making this extremely difficult,” I whimpered, goosebumps prickling my skin.
“Am I?” he responded coyly, trailing his hand down my side, lifting the hem of my skirt and brushing against the line of my panties.
“You’re very distracting. I have half a mind to turn off the stove and haul you upstairs.”
“Yes, but you need to be fed.”
“It can wait.”
“Remember what I said when I first brought you to my apartment?”
“What’s that?” I leaned my head back against his chest, aching to feel this man on every inch of me.
“I promised you’d be well fed and well fucked. If I’m not mistaken, I’ve taken care of the latter quite a few times today.” He brought his hand up to my neck, lightly grabbing it before his fingers snaked a path down my chest, settling on my stomach. “In the tub.” He nipped on my earlobe, his mouth hot on my skin. “In the pool.” He gripped my hips, tugging me against him. “On the pool table.” He wrapped my hair around his hand, forcing my head back even farther. “I need to keep you well fed so you have the stamina for what I have planned for tonight.”
“And what’s that?” My tongue darted out, moistening my lips.
“You’ll just have to wait and find out,” he answered flirtatiously, then released his hold on me, stepping back.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I groaned, whirling around.
A satisfied smirk grew on his face as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, his biceps stretching the fabric of his shirt. “What? Is something wrong, Eleanor?”
I shook my head, turning back around and grabbing the knife in my hands once again. “You are a tease, Dante.”
“I told you. I love foreplay. Now, chop those mushrooms.”
Passing him a sly grin, I refocused my attention on the cutting board, following Dante’s instruction to keep my arms close. I brought the knife down, chopping the mushroom into slices, then into smaller pieces.
“Good girl. You’re getting the hang of it. Once you’re done, add them to the pan.”
“You don’t want to inspect them and make sure I didn’t fuck them up?”
“They’re mushrooms. It’s okay if they’re not chopped into perfect little pieces. Life isn’t perfect. It should be a little messy at times. That’s what makes it fun.”
I glanced over my shoulder, meeting his smile, then returned my attention to the cutting board.
“Now what?” I asked after I combined the mushrooms with the onions and garlic.
I felt Dante approach behind me. He peered over my shoulder, his proximity and heat causing a tingle to trickle down my back. His breath danced on my neck, his hands running down the contours of my frame. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your ass is?”
“Only you,” I responded.
“Good. I hope to keep it that way. I could sit back and watch you work for hours.” He cupped my ass, squeezing, before abruptly stepping back. “Go ahead and add the meat.” He handed me a bowl containing ground meat that had already been browned.
Trying to pretend he didn’t affect me like he did, I squared my shoulders and added the meat into the pan, then mixed it into the aromatics, inhaling. “It smells delicious.”
“Just wait.” He retreated to the island, grabbing a bunch of herbs. After rinsing them, he chopped them with the same precision he seemed to do everything. “Now we add some crushed tomatoes,” he instructed, reaching past me to add a large jar of tomatoes to the simmering mixture. “Go ahead and stir it to incorporate.”
I did as he asked, the aroma becoming more heavenly.
“And now for the seasoning. We’ll adjust as it simmers, of course. There’s already so much flavor with the meat and tomatoes, we don’t want to overdo it, so just some salt, pepper, and oregano.” Working over my shoulder, remaining close, he sprinkled a bit of salt before cracking some pepper. Then he added a handful of fresh oregano.
Cooking had always been something I’d done out of necessity. I’d never truly enjoyed it. But here, with Dante, it was so much more than something I did simply so I wouldn’t starve. It was an experience, one I’d never forget.
“Now what?”
“Now we wait.” He reached beyond me, covering the pan with the lid. “Slow and steady wins the race.” He nibbled on my neck. I craned my head, giving him better access. “You want the flavors to have time to merge and incorporate with each other. Too many people try to rush things and end up having to add copious amounts of salt to cover up the lack of flavor. I promise…” His hand fell on my hip and he spun me around. “The wait will be worth it. It always is.” Our eyes bored into each other, my breathing increasing from the hunger in his gaze.
Too soon, Dante stepped back, breaking our connection. I had no idea how he remained so calm and seemingly unaffected when I was moments away from jumping onto the island and spreading my legs.
He rummaged through his cupboard, retrieving a sack of flour, then grabbed a carton of eggs from the refrigerator.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he poured some flour onto the surface of the island.
“Making pasta.”
“Homemade?” I raised my brows.
“Of course. What other kind is there?”
“The kind from a box.”
“Like I told you the other night, you deserve nothing but the best while you’re with me. You can go back to eating pasta from a box if you decide to return to California.”
“You mean when,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.
“No, I mean if. I prefer to keep the hope alive, regardless of how misplaced I’m beginning to believe it may be.” When he glanced at me, I swallowed hard at the devotion and promise I saw in his expression. “Now…” His voice turned light once more, a devilish glint in his eyes. “I’m assuming you’ve never made pasta dough before?”
I approached the island, studying as he added a bit of salt to the flour, then formed the mixture into a mound, making a well in the center. “You assume correctly.”
“Then today’s your lucky day. You could just as easily do this in a bowl or use a stand mixer. But I’m a hands-on kind of guy.” He winked.
“I’m beginning to figure that out.”
“Measure out a few cups of flour,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.” I followed his instruction, pouring the flour onto the surface in front of me. “No precise measurements?”
“I do it by feel.”
I giggled. “Don’t we all.”
“I like this side of you,” he commented after a brief pause.
“What side’s that?”
“This. You’re happy,” he answered, more as a statement than anything else.
I met his eyes, my lips parting. “I am happy. I…” I shook my head.
I thought I’d been happy when I arrived in Rome and was finally able to shed the girl I was forced to be the past several decades of my life. But that wasn’t true happiness. That was more relief than anything else. Even after my first night with Dante, I hadn’t felt like this. I wondered how I could be this content and at ease, even after learning that my father may be involved in some pretty harsh criminal activity. The truth remained. My parents had never shown me any love. But Dante had. I barely knew him, but I knew I’d choose him over my parents in a heartbeat.
“I’m truly happy, not just pretending I am.” I exhaled a tiny breath, my shoulders relaxing. “It feels good to finally just be me.”
“I wouldn’t want anything else,” he responded with a genuine smile. “I just hope I had something to do with this newfound happiness.”
I swallowed hard, returning my attention to the flour in front of me. I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs that yes, he’d made me happier than anyone else in my life ever had. He wanted to keep the hope alive. But I needed to be realistic or my heart wouldn’t survive.
Once he realized I wasn’t going to respond, he released a long sigh, his expression falling. The tension between us grew, the silence deafening. I wanted the fun, light atmosphere back. Grinning deviously, I shot my eyes to him, watching as he cracked a few eggs into the pit of his flour volcano, scrambling them with a fork.
I grabbed a handful of flour, giggling, and flung it at him. He immediately stopped what he was doing, his hands covered with the flour and egg mixture he’d just begun to incorporate. Slowly turning to face me, his expression wa
s unreadable. He’d always been relatively serious around me. I hoped he wasn’t upset I’d done something so juvenile.
Then his lips turned into a playful smile. “You’d better run, Eleanor.” When he grabbed a handful of flour, I shrieked, dashing from the island and through the kitchen, laughing and screaming as he chased me throughout the lower level. He could easily catch up to me with little effort, but he didn’t, prolonging our game. Every few seconds, I’d glance over my shoulder, my heart racing from the carefree, yet devious smile on his face.
When I came to the library, I ran behind a set of reading chairs. Instead of following, he went around me, cutting me off. His stance was wide, blocking me from stepping past him.
“There’s no way out now.”
“I could go back the way I came,” I retorted through my heavy breaths.
“But why would you want to? Why would you want to go back?” His buoyant expression became serious.
I blinked, my smile faltering. I knew he wasn’t just talking about our little game of cat and mouse. He was talking about us, the bigger us, the us I could sense he desperately wanted.
The us I desperately wanted, too.
“Please,” he begged in a soft voice. “Don’t go back.”
I stood, my mouth open, staring at this beautiful man in front of me, his face covered in flour, his hands sticky from the eggs, pleading with me to keep the hope alive, to stop living in my past, to only look forward to a future with him, despite the personal costs to either of us.
Overwhelmed with everything I’d experienced and learned the past several days, I rushed toward him just as he lunged for me, our bodies colliding, our kiss ravenous, greedy. I clung onto him as he clutched my face in his strong hands, fearing if I let go, he’d disappear and I’d find this was all just one beautiful dream.
Lowering his hands to my hips, he lifted me with ease. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he pushed me against the wall. He peppered kisses down my neck as I tilted my head back, relishing the feeling of his two-day scruff on my skin.
“Dante,” I moaned, raking my hands down his back.
