Chapter 51
ABOUT A MONTH LATER
This apartment has been filled with the rumble of power tools, short-tempered shouts of contractors, and the constant scent of paint and sawdust. Movers delivered the last of our furniture today, and this place finally looks like a home.
Tonight, it smells like one, too. A very Italian one—the warm, rich aroma of garlic and roasted tomatoes floating in the air, causing my mouth to water.
Enzo is standing at the stove, his back to me, stirring the sauce like he’s terrified it’s going to burn to the bottom of the pan. “You’re holding that spoon like it’s a weapon,” I tease, leaning against the kitchen island.
He smirks over his shoulder. “ Everything is a weapon if you’re creative enough.”
I laugh, not doubting his response. “Should I be worried?” I tease, grabbing a spatula to defend myself.
He turns toward me, wiping his hands on the kitchen towel slung over his shoulder. “Only if you plan on insulting my culinary skills before tasting this.”
“I’m just saying... The last time you cooked by yourself, we ended up with the fire alarm screeching and you cursing at the stove.”
“That was a fluke,” he insists, stalking toward me with mock determination. “And you were of absolutely no help. Actually, if I recall correctly, you were the distraction who caused me to burn everything.”
I take a small step back, snickering. “I helped by staying out of the way.”
“Splayed naked on the counter is not the same as”—he pauses to air quote—“staying out of the way.” Enzo corners me against the counter, his arms boxing me in.
I shrug, trying to keep a straight face. “Technically, I was not in the way.”
He’s so close that I can feel the warmth radiating from him—close enough to steal some of my breath.
His hands slide along the counter, his forearms resting lightly on my hips.
Looming over me, he quips, “For a woman who can handle just about anything, you’re awfully mouthy about a guy trying to cook you dinner. ”
“And for someone with such a dangerous reputation,” I counter, lifting my chin, “you’re awfully sensitive about your pasta sauce.”
He chuckles, soft and low, the vibrations of it rattling beneath my skin. “You’re lucky I like your sass.”
“You love my sass, Daddy.” I wink at him.
He narrows his eyes in mock warning, then, without hesitation, lifts me effortlessly and sets me on the edge of the counter. I let out a surprised laugh, gripping his shoulders for balance. “You can’t just manhandle me like that.”
A devilish grin pulling at his lips, he growls, “Oh, but I can.” He slides his hands up the outside of my thighs—slow and confident—and plants a kiss at the corner of my mouth. His fingers gather the loose skirt of my dress, pooling it on my lap. “Watch me.”
I smile against his lips and tease, “I have very high standards.”
“And I exceed them daily,” he retorts—not a question, just a fact.
I laugh again, threading my fingers through his hair. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”
“Maybe. But you’re going to be—” he leans in close, his lips brushing my cheek and traveling toward my jaw—“so fucking of full of me that I’m dripping from you during dinner.”
“Daddy?” I chirp, swinging my legs lightly, my heels tapping against the cabinets.
“Yes, princess,” he exhales with an annoyed sigh.
“I’m pretty sure your sauce is burning.”
He gives the sauce one last stir and turns the burner off, quickly returning to me.
Kissing me before I can say a word, his mouth is warm as he steals the air from my lungs.
It’s the kind of kiss that makes the rest of the apartment disappear—the scent of garlic, the simmering pot, even the fact that I’m half sitting on a cold granite counter.
“I don’t think this is very chef-like behavior,” I quip when he pulls back from our kiss, giving him a mock-scolding look.
Enzo stands between my knees, his hands firmly gripping my hips. He tips his head slightly, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. “It’s not. But I’ve decided I’m hungry for something other than pasta.”
My cheeks flush, and I roll my eyes even as I lean into him. “You’re impossible.”
He leans in until his lips graze my jaw. “You love it.”
I do. God, I do.
The kitchen is warm with the scent of the meal he was preparing, but all I can focus on is the warmth of his hands, the closeness of him, the way his breath fans against my collarbone.
I run my fingers up the front of his shirt, letting them lightly clutch the fabric. “Dinner is going to be ruined.”
“Worth it,” he says without hesitation, his mouth finding mine again.
I sink into him like I’ve done countless times before, though the butterflies still flutter in my stomach like it’s the first. His lips trail down to my neck, and I tilt my head, giving him more space—more of me.
My hands slide into his hair, lacing through it and curling around his locks as he presses a kiss beneath my ear.
My breath catches as his hands find the small of my back, and he pulls me into him “I think this is the first time the apartment’s been truly quiet. ”
“You saying I should shut up?” I quip, unable to hold back my smile.
“No,” he laughs. “Just thinking I know of a few sweet sounds that could fill this too-quiet space.”
He leans down and kisses me again, and when his hands slide around my neck, I stop caring about dinner being ruined. Our kiss goes from soft to hungry, his hands tightening on my waist, until my back is arching and my legs wrap loosely around him.
His lips trail down my jaw to the hollow of my throat, and I gasp, my hands fisting the fabric of his shirt.
I reach for the buttons, and I tear at them with need, hastily freeing him from his shirt.
My hands roam over his chiseled bare chest, and when he pulls back, his eyes are darker—now focused and determined.
Enzo lifts me off the counter, his lips not once leaving my skin. He carries me through the apartment we’ve furnished together, and I know—no matter how chaotic our world may get again—we’ll always come back to this.
To each other.
To home.