Luca laughs. “No, more like sweetheart.”
“I like that, sounds sweet.”
He leans down beside the door and holds out a white, square box.
I show him a sincere smile and peek inside: an entire dark chocolate cake, dessert from our first date. “Do we have to go out? I’d rather stay here and eat this.” My eyes widen in delight, and I lick my lips.
“You can eat it tomorrow.” He leans down and pecks me on the lips. “Since it’s still a workday.” Luca grasps my hips. “Although I think you can eat carbs any day. And you are eating carbs tonight for dinner.”
“Fine. Come inside,” I demand quickly and put the cake on the kitchen table.
Luca walks over to me and takes my face in his hands to let his tongue trace my lips. Every brush of his tongue brings a surge of excitement, causing me to breathe heavily and tug at the hair at his nape as he continues to taste my lips.
Luca pulls back a fraction and heat flashes across his eyes. “I’m taking you to my place. Pack some clothes,” he announces seductively.
***
After changing into a comfortable dress, I’m wandering barefooted on the hardwood floors of his penthouse - which has a magnificent view of Chicago from the floor-to-ceiling windows - as Luca runs down the street for some groceries immediately after we arrived. His penthouse is decorated in warm off-white and brown colors that must’ve been done by interior designers because everything matches perfectly.
As I head back to the living room, the elevator doors open and Luca steps out with a grocery bag. He places the groceries on his solid black granite-top kitchen island.
I join him in the kitchen and peek in the bag. “What did you get?”
I’m tenderly pushed aside and led to sit on the bar stool on the other side of the island. “No peeking. You sit while I busy myself with dinner.” He takes out the groceries one by one: eggs, parsley, bread, and wine.
“What are we eating?”
“Pasta, of course.”
“You forgot the pasta.” I lean my elbows on the island.
Luca shoots me a disapproving look. “We’re making fresh pasta.” He points his thumb behind him over his shoulder. Next to the refrigerator is a chrome-coated steel pasta machine. “None of that store-bought pasta in my house. You and I are making tagliatelle.”
“I thought you were making dinner, and I only had to sit here?” I tease him.
Luca gets a cutting board and flour from the cabinet behind him. “You are only permitted to help with the pasta, then you need to sit back down.”
“Yes, boss,” I salute.
Luca stills for a split second, but I catch it and frown at him.
He disregards my questioning frown. “Come.”
I stand next to Luca, and he pulls me in front of him, his body heat warming my back. His hand skims down my arm, removing the beige elastic band I always wear - in case I want to put my long hair up - from my wrist. “Never thought a beautiful woman would be prancing around my home, barefooted.” He then pulls my hair into a ponytail and presses his lips softly to my neck.
I rest my head back on his shoulder. “I don’t believe that. Plenty of women have been here, I’m sure.”
Luca palms my face, forcing me to turn my head and look at him. “That’s not what I said or meant. Don’t belittle this moment. The thought of you waiting for me here turned me on, but my fantasy wasn’t as promising as the real thing. You in this white lightweight dress - no shoes, no make-up, just the real you - is enough to make me hard.” He’s rubbing his stiffening length against my backside.
“Thank you.” I bow into him and he takes this as an invitation to run his hands along my cleavage.
“I want you so bad it hurts,” he groans in a breath that caresses my face. Luca massages my breasts in his warm hands while his lips search for skin to touch. “What do you want, Fallon. Do I need to feed you first?” he asks while kissing my shoulder and trailing his hand down to cup me between my legs. My legs open wider, and he buries his hand in my panties, ever so slightly circling two fingers.
I push back against him. “No,” I answer with conviction because I want him. I want to feel all of him.
I’m spun around lightning fast and smothered by a forceful and claiming kiss when he strips my dress off of me and flings it across the kitchen as if he can’t get me naked fast enough. His look is feral as he stares hungrily at my bare breasts. I place both my palms on his solid chest and into the V of his shirt and smile teasingly. He cocks his head in question right before I rip open his dress shirt, making the buttons fly around the room and clank on the floor. I’ve always wanted to do that.
My arms come around his neck when his sexy smirk is close to my mouth, and he lifts me onto the cold counter. Luca unfastens his belt, and I slide his boxers off with my feet to take his erection in hand. He growls into my mouth, and I help him strip my panties and then stroke him as he continues to kiss and bite down my throat, yanking me forward to the edge. He gets a condom from his pants on the floor and quickly rolls it on. Luca hisses as I center him at my entrance, rubbing the head of his shaft up and down myself.
Our hooded eyes lock before he pushes into me, stretching me inch by inch, slow and deliberate, allowing me time to adjust to his thick length.
He groans, feeling how I open up to him. “Fuck, Fallon, you’re so tight. I want to fuck you hard.” And his eyes close while he attempts to compose himself.
I watch his muscular body push into my soft flesh and shoot him a luscious smile. “I want you to fuck me hard, Luca.” I lie back on the counter as he rests my legs against his toned chest, kissing my ankle.
He makes a low guttural sound, barely holding his control, and eases in and out unhurriedly while watching me, allowing himself to enjoy the sensation when he pushes all the way inside. His pumping increases while he hooks my legs under his arms, pushing my knees toward my chest, and starts to ride me. It feels delightfully raw when he kisses me hard on my mouth, jawline, and then bites my shoulder, his powerful strokes enticing me even more. I whimper when he pinches my nipple. There’s nothing tender about what we’re doing, but it still feels intimate to me. My eyelids fall closed as he takes my body without mercy.
He slows his pumping. “Look at me, or I slow down,” Luca hoarsely demands.
My eyes snap open to look up at him as he’s pumping ferociously into me, changing his angle. Luca adjusts my body slightly under his strong grip, moving me into a position where I can only feel the pleasures of his strokes. My orgasm rips through me, and the heat burns at my core, instantly traveling through my entire body. My inner walls clench around his erection, my back arches, and I feel him going in deeper, prolonging my pleasure. He sensually kneads the soft flesh of my breast, and I scream his name once more before I can look at him again through half-closed eyes. Satiated, I slowly drift back from my high.
Luca pulls up my legs again and lets them rest against his chest. His throaty groan through clenched teeth warns me of his impending release. His groin is pressed between my legs, and all I can do is take what he gives me. I feel his erection growing and twitching as he thrust a few more times. Luca’s hands trail down my outer legs and hips as he releases himself with a low, “Fuck!” His thrusting slows and he falls on top of me, his hand on my hip caressing upward to cover my breast.
We lie there panting for a while, deliciously exhausted.
Luca lifts himself off of me and we lock eyes; the same look of pleasured souls is reflected in our gaze. “I was planning to feed you first,” he confesses with a mock smile.
I’m still floating back from this unexpected and extremely satisfying momentum.
He ghosts his lips over mine and covers my body again, letting our flushed skin touch. “If you want to lie here while I’m cooking, I’m not complaining. I’m just getting started with you, dolcezza.”
I laugh and push him away. Luca’s eyes cut to my breasts and his hand wanders over my stomach. “I’ll get
up, chef. I’m suddenly famished.” Before he can make a crude remark, I mumble, “For food.” I’m stuck to the counter from our sweaty activity and slowly rise up.
He places my dress over my head, constantly touching any piece of bare skin he can get his hands on.
After we wash our hands and clean the cooking area, Luca stands behind me again and places the flour on the board to make a well. “Now for the pasta. Crack four eggs into the well,” he instructs.
I get a fork from the drawer and crack them neatly into the flour.
“Now we whisk the eggs until they’re smooth.”
I do as instructed. We do this all with me trapped between his arms. I sigh contently.
Luca traces the spaghetti strap of my dress. “Aren’t you cold?”
“No, I like wearing lightweight, comfortable clothes, and I’m never cold. I look at him sideways. “You’re distracting me, chef.”
A deep rumble leaves his chest. “You are distracting, my sexy student.” He kisses my bare shoulder and eyes the eggs. “Good. Now we mix it.”
Luca covers my hands with his and shows me how to incorporate the eggs with the flour. “Use the tips of your fingers to mix it a little at a time.”
Together, we combine the eggs and flour. “Finally, we knead the pieces together into one smooth lump of dough.” He kneads it himself; smashing, pulling, and reshaping the dough. Then he releases it for my turn. “Keep kneading until it’s all smooth; no lumps.”
I bash the dough continually, which is fun. This could be good anger control. When you’re angry, just bash some dough. I laugh at my own thought.
Luca catches it. “What’s funny?”
“I was thinking, if you need to get your anger out of your system, bashing dough would be good therapy.”
His lips curve into a smile. “Very true. With little casualties,” he adds distractedly. He still lingers behind me and observes my movement.
I feel my biceps working. “This is hard work.”
Again, he covers my hand with his and together we knead, our fingers entwining in the dough. Our cheeks side by side, his closeness is irresistibly tempting me to kiss him.
As if reading my thoughts, he traces his nose over my jaw. “You’re pulling me in,” he mutters in an anguished tone.
“What?” My fingers are sticking to the dough too much, pulling it apart instead of smoothing it out. “My fingers are too sticky.”
Luca straightens. “Rub some flour on your hands.”
I do as he says and smooth the dough out. “Done.”
“Perfect. It needs to rest for thirty minutes.” Luca rolls the dough in a circle with both hands and covers the ball with a large overturned bowl.
“I want to use the pasta machine,” I announce while rinsing my hands.
“You’re an enthusiastic student,” Luca remarks, smiling.
“I didn’t know cooking could be this way. With Teagan, I get screamed at when I do one thing wrong, and then she bans me from the kitchen. I hate cooking with her.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “With you, it’s kind of a turn-on.” I turn to check out the pasta machine. “Um, this looks brand new, Mr. DeMiliano. Are you just showing off for me?”
Luca shows me a hint of a playful grin. “What if I was? Are you complaining? I’ll use any excuse to wow you.”
“Definitely no complaints.” I slip back onto the bar stool.
Luca dazzles me with a lazy smirk. He offers me a glass of red as he starts chopping garlic and parsley.
“Who taught you to cook?”
“Mi zio. First night with him, we made pasta together. I was sad and didn’t want to talk. He understood and just let me make a mess with dough.”
“He sounds so nice. Does he have any children of his own?”
“No. He had one love, but her family didn’t want her marrying my uncle. This was back in Italy. He never married. As far as I know, he never had a serious relationship while living here.”
I taste the wine. “He lives alone in Venice?” The wine has a deep, rich taste which is astoundingly dry, yet delicious.
“He has many friends and some family members. He isn’t lonely over there.”
I hear a vibrating sound, and disapproval paints Luca’s face as he checks his screen and types a short message.
I’ve already finished my second glass of wine and feel lazy and warm. I’m not in the mood to make the pasta anymore. “Luca.” I smile at him. “I think you can make the pasta much better than me so maybe you should do it.” I slip off the stool and sink into the soft couch cushions.
He humors me. “Of course.” Then adds, “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that you just want to hang on the couch.”
“I’m sure it doesn’t.” I laugh him off.
I’ve dozed off and am awakened by Luca’s soft voice near my ear. “Dolcezza, dinner’s ready.” He’s squatted before me on the couch and pushes my hair out of my eyes.
I sit up and see that he has the dinner table set up with candles.
Luca holds out my chair and plates up the food. “You make a mouthwateringly good shrimp pasta with garlic and parsley,” I commend him.
“I don’t cook often, so I’m pleased you’re enjoying it.”
“I never thought I would say this, but no dessert for me tonight.” This pasta is filling.
“Never thought you’d say that either. Are you positive?”
“Quite positive,” I confirm. “Are you busy this week?”
“A little.”
“It’s my birthday soon,” I hint.
“I know.”
“How?”
“I checked your Facebook,” he admits quietly.
“So you do like Facebook—”
“No, I only checked yours. That’s all.”
“Yeah, right,” I throw back. “Well, when you’re not busy this week, you can stop by my apartment after work.”
“I definitely will. I’d rather be busy with you than work.” He smiles wickedly.
CHAPTER 13
Fallon
And that’s what we do for the next few months, busy ourselves with each other. Always planned dates.
I give Luca an unplanned visit after I’ve had a meeting with a client three streets from his penthouse. I try persuading the reception to let me go on up, but they’re unyielding in checking with Mr. DeMiliano first. They’re strict here. I get clearance to go up after they’ve phoned Luca, and he greets me at the door.
“Hi. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to see you.”
“Hi, Fallon. I wish you would’ve called; I’m actually working.” Displeasure is carved in his features.
Taken aback by his rigid, unwelcome posture, I try to look past him into the apartment. Luca has never been anything but courteous, and his discontented manner warrants my suspicion. Normally Luca is in tight control of his emotions to the point that it’s sometimes challenging for me to interpret his reaction. “That’s fine. I just wanted to say hi. I’m obviously interrupting.” I want in that apartment because my instinct is screaming at me to check it out. “I’ll just grab a bottle of water, and I’ll be on my way.”
Luca’s brows crease - he knows I’m on to him and whatever business is going on in there.
I shoulder him out the way and stride to the kitchen. There I’m greeted by the guy who was waiting impatiently outside the coffee shop the second time I met Luca. He has pitch black hair and dark brown eyes, but he has a kind undercurrent about him. His hair is longer than Luca’s, falling over his ears slightly and curling at the nape.
The guy stands from his seat at the kitchen island. He’s dressed in a tailored grey suit, so he obviously shares Luca’s love for the finer Italian suits. “Hi, I’m Adriano. Luca’s business partner. You must be Fallon. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Luca is actually busy with work. Adriano’s here and I see the two laptops on the counter. “Hi, Adriano. I’ve heard significantly less about you.”
He feigns a hurt expres
sion when Luca - who is still not acting like himself - enters the kitchen. “Luca, stronzo, you don’t tell your girlfriend about the most important man in your life.” He points at himself.
Luca provides him a bored look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Adriano returns his attention to me. “Anyway, I’m his best and only friend.” He slaps Luca’s back. “I’m the only guy confident enough to be this Mr. Universe’s friend.” He offers a wicked grin.
Adriano’s comical attitude has eased the stiffening air between Luca and me.
“If you’re my only friend, that means you’re my best friend by default,” Luca chides.
Adriano shrugs. “I’ll take that.”
Luca and Adriano have an endearing brotherly bond. I smile and retrieve a bottle of water from the fridge. I hold the bottle up. “Anyone else?” As I turn back around, I catch a strange look being exchanged between Luca and Adriano.
“No,” Luca answers.
“I’ll be right back,” Adriano informs us and walks down the hall to the guest room.
Taking the cap of the bottle, I take a swig while keeping my stare locked on Luca. “What’s wrong, Luca?”
Luca cocks his head in question. “Why would anything be wrong?”
I close in on him standing next to the kitchen island. “You don’t like surprises? You haven’t even kissed me.”
A lazy smile pulls at his mouth. “You came here for a quickie, Ms. Michaels?”
“Maybe—”
Heels are clicking loudly on the floor. Someone is descending the stairs. Then several things happen that bother me. Luca takes a step back from me. Adriano opens the guest room door and comes out looking contrite. And I see a woman is heading toward us with a smug look on her face.
Shocked, I ask Luca, “Who is that?”
The woman takes a stand beside Luca, effectively making me the outsider in this equation. Annoyance reflects behinds his eyes.
Attempting to defuse the situation, Adriano responds tersely, “This is Gina, a friend of mine.” His irritation deters her from opening her mouth.
For Fallon (Chicago Syndicate) Page 8
