Chapter Eight #2
Victoria finally moves, taking out glasses. She pulls out a bottle of sparkling water and fills them.
We do not speak.
We simply move around each other in her small kitchen, an unspoken choreography that feels too natural.
I serve pasta onto both plates and bring them to the small table by the window.
There are two chairs.
We sit and the silence continues.
Then she picks up her fork and takes a bite.
Her shoulders relax almost immediately.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes her.
Simple, unguarded relief.
Something in my chest loosens.
I eat.
It is not my pasta.
The sauce is too sweet. The pasta is slightly overcooked.
But watching her eat makes it taste like the best meal I have had.
She is hungry. That much is obvious. She eats methodically, efficiently, but with a growing pleasure that she doesn’t bother to hide anymore.
“What is this place?” she asks between bites.
“Small family-owned. I have not eaten there before.”
“It’s good.”
“It is adequate.”
She pauses and looks at me, a small smile playing at her lips. “Adequate?"
“I have had better.”
“Where?”
“A little village outside of Florence. The woman who runs it is ninety years old and makes the pasta every morning by hand.”
That small smile widens, grows soft.
“Have you been to Florence many times?”
“My family is from Italy. I have been to many places.”
“I’ve never been,” she says.
“You should.”
“Maybe one day.” She takes another bite. “When I’m not so busy building security protocols for demanding clients.”
Her tone is light, teasing.
A joke.
From a woman who has not once joked with me.
I feel my own lips curve into a smile. “Demanding clients expect the best.”
"Not always," she says contemplatively. "Some just like it. Makes them feel like they have control."
"Those men are usually the ones with the least control of all," I reply.
I am surprised by how easily this conversation flows.
Stripped of the office, of the contracts, of the professional barriers, this is… easy.
And dangerous.
It is one thing to want her body.
It is another to like her.
“Are you going back to Italy soon?” she asks, spooning up some soup.
“Eventually. Business calls me back often.”
I do not tell her that my business there has become more complicated lately. Or that the reasons are not entirely legal.
She doesn’t press. She just nods, accepting the information without question.
We finish the pasta in comfortable silence.
She starts to clean up, stacking the plates, but I stop her.
“No.”
She looks up, surprised. “No?”
“I brought the food. I clean.”
She opens her mouth to argue—I can see it in her eyes, the stubborn refusal to yield—but then she closes it. She leans back against the counter, watching as I stack the containers in the fridge, rinse the plates, and load them into her small, efficient dishwasher.
It is such a small, ordinary thing.
But it feels monumental.
When I turn back to her, the kitchen is tidy again, and the only thing left on the table is the container of tiramisu.
Her eyes follow mine.
She looks like she wants to refuse. It's become a habit.
One I greatly enjoy.
One I intend to break.
“A promise is a promise,” I say.
She doesn't argue.
She simply nods.
I get two small forks from the drawer and take the container to her sofa.
She follows.
She doesn't sit right next to me, but not too far away either. Just enough space that I can feel the warmth radiating from her, enough that I can smell the clean scent of her skin, the faint floral trace of her shampoo.
I want to put my mouth at the curve where her neck meets her shoulder and breathe her in.
I open the container and dip in a fork.
The cocoa dusting is too dark, the cream too sweet. Another inferior imitation.
I take a bite.
She takes a bite.
She takes a bite, and her eyes flutter shut for a second. A soft sigh escapes her, barely audible.
My body responds instantly, a pressure building in my groin, at that small, involuntary expression of pleasure.
It's more potent than the most skilled seduction.
“Good?” I ask, my voice rough.
She opens her eyes, and the drowsy pleasure is gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp awareness.
She knows what I am thinking.
“Acceptable,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Adequate, even.”
I find I want to take her somewhere. Somewhere she can experience the best this world has to offer. I want to give her the best pasta, the best tiramisu in the world. Just to watch her face when she tastes it, hear the noises of pleasure.
I want to clear the table with one sweep of my arm, lay her back on it, and eat my dessert from between her legs. Just to see what noises she would make then.
The thought is so vivid, so visceral, that I have to set my fork down.
Her gaze falls to my empty hand, then back to my face.
The air in the room thickens, becomes heavy with the unspoken. The conversation is over.
We both know it.
But... she is still exhausted. She may have revived to some degree through the shower and meal, but it's still there. I can see it in her posture. The slump. The dark circles. I am still keeping my promise not to let her make a bad decision when she is weak.
She is not in her right mind, which also means I am not in mine.
“We should—” she starts.
"You need to rest," I interrupt, my tone leaving no room for argument.
“I’m not—”
“Victoria.”
"No," she says, her jaw setting.
I lift my brows.
"No?" I repeat slowly, warning clear in my tone.
She stands up. She is standing in front of me, her arms crossed, her chin lifted in an infuriatingly stubborn way.
“I am not a child, and I am not an employee you can order around,” she says, her voice tight. “I’m tired of you telling me what to do.”
“You are also exhausted,” I say, rising to my feet. “And if you think I am going to fuck a woman who is dead on her feet, you are mistaken.”
I watch her throat move as she swallows, her eyes flashing. She is angry, but underneath it, I see something else. Arousal. She likes it when I’m crude. She likes it when I’m demanding. She likes it even as she hates it.
“You are the most maddening, arrogant, controlling man I have ever met,” she says.
“And you are the most stubborn, infuriating, self-sacrificing woman I have ever met,” I reply, stepping closer.
Her breath hitches.
I close the remaining distance between us, my body crowding hers. She doesn't step back. Her back hits the wall, and I place my hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.
She is trapped.
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, her lips parted. Her chest rises and falls with each ragged breath.
"You can't just decide what's best for me," she whispers.
“Someone has to,” I say. “Because you refuse to do it for yourself.”
Her eyes flash with anger again, but it’s a losing battle. The desire is stronger, more potent. I can see it in the way her pupils dilate, in the way she presses back against the wall.
I lean down, my lips hovering just above hers. I can feel the warmth of her breath, the faint scent of chocolate and coffee. I want to kiss her. I want to devour her.
But I don't.
I am in control. Of this, if nothing else.
"Go to bed, Victoria," I say, my voice rough with need.
She leans in until her lips just brush mine.
"No," she says, a soft, defiant whisper.
And that's it.
That is the final crack in my resolve.
My control shatters.