Chapter 24
“I didn’t make dessert, but I did buy gelato,” he says after we’ve cleared the table.
He goes to the freezer and pulls out a Styrofoam container. It’s unmarked, but I know it’s from Belpagna. I grab two spoons from the drawer, and I love the delighted grin he gives me at the obviousness of my heathen intentions.
I sit back on the counter, and we eat the gelato just like that—together, straight out of the container, no words needed as we enjoy it.
But when he sets the container down and comes closer to me, I already know I’m done for.
I wrap my legs around him. “The goal wasn’t to get me in your house?” I tease, my arms propping me up and the torture of not grabbing on to him already exquisite.
He seems to be thinking the same thing because even as he lets himself get pulled closer, he still doesn’t bring his hands to me, instead letting them bracket me on the counter. But he does bring his face so close to mine that I can smell the sweetness of the gelato on him.
“The goal was to cook dinner for you,” he repeats, not giving an inch.
“And if it just happened to get me into your house?”
“Excellent side benefit.”
Neither of us moves, and it’s a delicious game of chicken, watching each other and waiting.
He comes closer, still not moving his hands off the counter, but now with his lips next to my ear. “I do like having you here,” he says softly.
“Not enough to fix your duvet cover, though,” I say, completely distracted by the way he’s staying put, his mouth not moving away and his breath on my neck making me shiver.
“If I’d known you’d pay such close attention to my bed, I would’ve tried a little harder.”
“I think it was the perfect amount of trying.”
He kisses my neck and nuzzles into me. It’s like plucking on a violin string—all that tension suddenly making me vibrate with want. My exhale is shaky, and he chuckles against my skin.
“Do you want me to take you home?” he asks quietly. “Now that dinner is over?”
“No,” I rush, the word coming as quickly as it possibly could, my hands finally coming to his chest, as though I want to show him I don’t intend on going anywhere.
His hand comes to the top of my thigh, hovering like a question. “What do you want, then?”
I reach for the bottle of olive oil again and drizzle a little bit on my finger.
I rub it across his collarbone, like he did to me earlier, and lick it off, slowly.
He hisses in a breath but still doesn’t grab for me.
I take my time with the moment, lingering, relishing. I want him to be at a perfect simmer.
“Just finishing what you started,” I say with a smile. “I promise I won’t waste any more olive oil.”
But he steps back, eyeing me. He grabs the bottle off the counter and pours a little bit on my upper thigh, making me gasp.
“I swear there’s never been a better use of anything,” he says, kneeling so he can put his mouth right where he poured, his hands gripping the fabric of my shorts, a promise of what’s to come.
Oh my god. I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on with all my clothes still firmly on my body.
He sucks at the skin on my leg and whispers, “Mine,” and I can’t control the sounds that spill out of me.
I’m aching to make him feel as upended as he makes me, and I can’t take having him so torturously far away. I grab his shirt, drag him up, and whisper in his ear, “Since your duvet covers are in such a state, do you think you could make me forget about them right here?”
He pulls back, and I can see his eyes searching mine, wondering if I meant what he thinks I meant. But I’m done talking and joking and flirting. I need us closer. I reach out to unbutton his pants, and a groan escapes his lips, desperation sounding so good on him.
His pants fall to the floor, and he immediately pulls my shirt over my head, then lifts me up as though I weigh nothing and slides my shorts off in one move, taking my underwear with it.
He’s gotten me naked on the counter in about five seconds, and I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so delirious from looking at him right now.
I motion for him to remove his shirt as well, my dexterity failing me in the moment, but he takes the hint and unbuttons, that adorably ironed shirt soon joining the heap of our clothes.
I push his underwear down, and wow the view is good.
I pull him to me, into me, and I lean back, grabbing on to the counter for purchase. All the lights are still on, but I like it. I want to see everything. I want to feel everything. I want his hands and mouth on my skin.
He grabs my hips and moves us close, watching our bodies come together with eyes that look like he’s committing me to memory.
I want to kiss him, but I don’t want either of us to stop watching—one strong arm holding me up, the other touching me in a way that has me gasping, his stomach tightening, my leg hooked around the hard planes of his hips, my hand in the smattering of hair on his chest.
I don’t think I’ve ever been savored like this before, like he wants every inch of me, the last bit of gelato you’re scraping from the bottom of the cup so you don’t waste a drop.
And maybe that’s because everything in my life has always been explosive—hard work, big stakes, a fire literally burning things down.
But Nico is the opposite of everything I’ve known.
He’s the slow burn.
He’s the luxury of taking your time and letting something melt inch by inch instead of all at once.
But that thought slips away because I’m tipping over the edge. All-consuming need takes hold of me, fingerprints indenting into his bicep while I lose the ability to think straight.
When it’s over, we stay still for a moment, breathing each other in, his head resting on my shoulder and my fingers tangled in his soft hair.
The backs of my legs are sore from pressing up against the counter, but it makes me feel alive, every inch of me buzzing, awake like I’ve had Emilia’s usual four espressos.
He grabs a dish towel that’s in reach on the counter and hands it to me.
“Such a gentleman,” I giggle.
“I wouldn’t say losing my grip on reality on my kitchen counter qualifies me as being a gentleman.” He’s fussing with my hair, smoothing it down as though he’s suddenly realized I’m disheveled.
“Lose your grip more often, then, please.” I hop off the counter, give him a kiss, and pop into the bathroom.
When I come out, he’s turned most of the lights off. He takes my hand and leads me over to his bed, pulling back the covers before gently pushing me onto it.
“Duvet problem solved,” he says, climbing in with me.
“Because you made me forget about it until you could just unmake the bed again?” I ask.
“Exactly,” he says with a laugh, pulling the covers over both of us.
The desperation of the countertop has been replaced by the cocoon of his bed. It’s funny that this feels more intimate than what we just did—that being relaxed and playful, our guard down, is more personal, more rare. More happy.
He reaches out to push my hair back behind my ear, apparently not content with his work earlier.
“Is it safe to assume I get to keep you here tonight?” he asks.
“Did you pull me into bed so I’d be too lazy to ask you to drive me home?” I joke, nudging him a little.
He pulls me into a hug. “That’s only part of it.”
“What’s the other part?” I ask, the words easier now that I’m not looking into his eyes.
“I want you here,” he replies, as simple as the simplest recipe. Then he turns off the one remaining light next to his bed.
I nuzzle into him, the lingering olive oil and his woodsy smell even better this close and corralled under the covers. His arms wrap around me a little tighter, gentle but with clearly no intention of letting go tonight.
I feel Luce hop onto the foot of the bed, circle around, and then plop down. And I know it’s only temporary, but I let myself drift off, fully swathed in this little home that so openly wants me in it.