Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
Isla
The night air settles around us in a hush.
Knox and I are outside on the terrace, taking a break from our incessant lovemaking to eat.
The outdoor kitchen looks like it was carved straight from a Tuscan dream. The smooth stone counter gleams against the moonlight, and the small gas cooktop glows blue beneath Knox’s pan.
He’s treating me to his homemade ravioli tonight.
I don’t know what’s better—the delicious-looking food I’m about to be served or watching the sexy, shirtless man cooking behind the stove.
Both. Definitely both. Although I’ll admit I’ll never get enough of watching Knox—shirtless or fully clothed.
I’m sitting around the counter relishing the sight, my tastebuds yearning for the taste of him and the food he’s promised is to die for.
The scent of garlic and seasoning drifting into the night certainly sways me to believe him.
The quiet hum of the lights and the faint chorus of crickets in the garden blend with the soft clatter of Knox moving around the stovetop like a sous chef in a high-end restaurant.
I lean against the counter, watching him.
Like this, he looks nothing like the sharp, polished billionaire who commanded the room this morning. He’s relaxed in a way I almost never see with his shoulders loose, jaw soft, and hair slightly mussed from my fingers earlier.
And he’s cooking.
Actually cooking.
Handmade ravioli sits drying on a wooden board, dusted with flour. A pan simmers behind him, filled with butter, sage leaves, and garlic that perfumes the whole kitchen.
“I can’t believe you’re cooking.” I can’t hide the smile tugging at my lips. “And you’re making ravioli?”
He glances over his shoulder, giving me that slow, dangerous grin that makes my stomach flip-flop. “I learned to cook it when I was sixteen. It was my go-to trick for impressing my first Italian investors.”
“Did it work?”
“They signed the deal. And their grandmother offered to adopt me.” He shrugs. “I took that as a compliment.”
We both laugh. It’s nice, hanging out with him like this.
“I learned to cook when I was fourteen, and I was terrible.” I pretend to pout. “My mom was livid. She said I couldn’t be the daughter of a Russian restaurateur and not know how to cook.”
“I’m guessing you eventually learned.”
“I did, but it took years. My grandparents whipped me into shape. They taught me to make my favorite meal, which was one of their signature dishes, and I took it from there.”
“And what is your favorite meal?” He leans in, looking curious.
“I like beef stroganoff. But your ravioli might be my new favorite. It smells amazing.”
“It will be your new favorite, or at least an addition to your list. I wouldn’t want to disrespect your grandparents’ efforts.” He chuckles.
“I’m sure they’d be fine with that. They loved Italian food, too. They wanted the restaurant to provide a taste of Europe. That’s why people loved it.”
“It sounds like they were very wise.”
“They were.”
He returns to the stove, moving with this calm confidence that feels… domestic. Almost intimate. Like this is a snapshot of some alternate universe where we wake up together every morning and do this without thinking.
Knox spoons the ravioli into the pan, and the butter pops softly. “While this cooks, we can enjoy some wine.” He retrieves a bottle of wine from the cupboard.
It’s Russian. And seriously expensive.
“Oh my God, is all the wine you have crazy expensive?” I giggle.
“No, but I like fine things.” He looks me up and down with that spark of desire in his eyes.
“I’ve never even tasted that wine.”
“Krasnostop Zolotovsky. Seemed fitting for the occasion.”
I smile, fascinated by his pronunciation. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn he was native Russian. I remember him speaking Russian in the car weeks ago to annoy me.
“Ty vyglyadish' vpechatlyonnoy.” He smiles, saying in Russian that I look impressed.
“Da. Ya vpechatlyón. Gde ty nauchilsya govorit' po-russki?” I answer, telling him I am and asking where he learned to speak Russian.
“My grandfather. He was fluent in ten languages. He insisted we all follow in his footsteps.”
My mouth drops. “Ten languages?”
“Uh huh.”
“But ten?”
“He said since our clients were worldwide, we had to speak their language, so they’d be more confident in trusting us.”
“Now, that sounds wise.” I nod.
He inhales the air and stirs the ravioli. “This is ready.”
I clasp my hands in delight. “Can’t wait to eat it.”
He grabs two plates and serves the ravioli. When he’s done, he slides mine over to me. “Try it.”
I pick up my fork and sample the meal. And oh my gosh, it’s divine. “This tastes fantastic.”
“Fantastic enough to add to your list of favorites?”
“Oh yes. Hmmm hmmm.”
Knox smiles with appreciation. “You can make that sound again when we have dessert.”
“What are we having for dessert?”
“I’m having you, and you’re having me.” He gives me a saucy wink. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength.”
Heat thrums through me, from his words and the way he’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing.
“This is nice.” I hold his gaze. “All of it. I thought I was going to have a very different day.”
“Good thing I came to my senses.” He swallows a bite of ravioli and watches me eat mine.
“Good thing you did.”
We eat, and his eyes hardly leave me. And when I look at him, he doesn’t hide that he’s completely fixated on me.
He finishes his food first, and the moment I finish mine, he takes my plate and reaches for the wine.
“This next.”
I lean away while he uncorks the bottle. It opens with a pop, and he pours me a drink. Like before, he watches me, his eyes lingering on my lips as I take a big gulp.
“Wow. Everything tastes so good.” The deep ruby liquid carries notes of smoked cherry and bitter chocolate, each sip revealing layers of plum and spice that linger on my tongue.
“Glad you like it.”
He continues staring as I drink more.
“Are you going to watch me all night?” I prod with a wave of my hand.
“Yes. Among other things.”
“Like what?”
He holds my gaze. “You’ll see.”
“Aren’t you having wine?”
He straightens and stares at me, menace lurking in his blue gaze. “Definitely. Just not in a glass.”
“Where are you going to have it?”
“Off you, love.”
Instantly, my core heats, and a hot shiver rolls through me, pooling deep between my thighs. My breath slips out in a quiet rush, betraying just how hard that line hits.
He sees it. Of course, he does.
His mouth curves, wicked and sure with the kind of smile that promises I’m not ready for what’s coming next.
“Knox…” My voice thins.
He leans in, forearms braced on the counter, gaze locked to mine. “Finish your wine, love,” he murmurs. “Then I’ll show you.”
The air shifts, thickening with something dangerous and delicious. I grip the stem of my glass just to stay grounded and drink.
His smile widens when I drain the last of the wine, and he takes the glass from me.
Circling the counter, he makes his way to me, unhurried. He stops in front of me, the moonlight carving shadows along the lines of his body.
“What exactly are you going to do to me?” My voice breaks, my throat thick with arousal.
Knox tilts his head, studying me like he’s deciding exactly where to take me apart first, then, with an easy grin, he picks me up and sets me on the counter. “This. I’m going to take advantage of having the house to ourselves.”
He hooks his fingers in the hem of my camisole, his eyes dragging down my body like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
My breath hitches, and my mind dissolves with the brush of his fingers over my skin.
The fabric lifts, grazing over my chest, and the night air kisses my skin in its place.
“Arms up,” he murmurs.
The command vibrates straight through me.
I obey. God, I obey so easily it scares me, but I’m too far gone to care.
Knox slides the camisole over my head in one smooth pull. I’m not wearing a bra, so my bare breasts are exposed to the air.
Without breaking eye contact, he tosses the top somewhere behind him, then his hands skim down my sides, stopping at the waistband of my shorts.
His thumb drifts along the band, teasing more heat from me. I tremble from the lulling effect.
“You’re shaking, love,” he says softly, almost like he’s proud of it.
“I’m not.” My voice betrays me instantly.
He smiles, slow and sinful, devastating my nerves. “Yes, you are. And I’ve barely touched you. How will you handle all the filthy things I plan to do to this body?”
Holy shit.
We’ve been in bed all day. He’s taken me all sorts of ways, yet this… it feels like the first time.
Knox starts to peel my shorts down inch by inch, like he’s savoring the process more than the destination. Slowly, he drags them down my thighs, his gaze following every inch of skin he reveals, hungry in a way that makes my pulse spike.
When he finally pulls them off, he takes off my panties, too, and my pumps.
He steps back just enough to look at me sitting here, naked on the counter under the moonlight like some offering to the gods.
“Perfect,” he murmurs. “Every inch of you. Now, to drink.”
He reaches past me for the wine bottle, his arm brushing my bare hip; the contact sends heat racing up my spine.
When he straightens, he’s holding the bottle loosely by the neck.
My breath shakes as I realize what he’s about to do. He said he was going to drink the wine off me. He wasn’t joking.
He steps between my knees, spreading them with a gentle, possessive nudge until I’m completely open to him.
His free hand comes up to cradle my jaw. “Eyes on me.”
I lift my gaze to his, and that’s when he tips the bottle of very expensive Russian wine over me.
A thin stream of ruby liquid spills onto my chest, cool at first, then warming. It trails down the swell of my breasts, pooling beneath them before dripping onto my stomach.
I gasp, arching into the sensation.