42. Allie #2
Meanwhile, as my ovaries meltdown, he moves to the fridge to grab the green swamp sludge he drinks religiously after every workout.
I watch—purely for science—as his biceps flex when he opens the bottle and veins standing out along his forearms. The lid clicks, and then he tilts his head back, throat working as he downs the monstrosity in one long gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing like a hypnotic pendulum.
Great. Now my thighs are at it again, and I’m two seconds away from crossing my legs so tightly I cut off circulation.
I tear my eyes away, catching the clock—9:07 a.m. He’s never here this late. Usually, he’s gone before the sun even thinks about rising, avoiding me at all costs.
"What are you doing home?" I blurt, my voice sharper than I intended, but my body and mind are fighting for control over my hormones. I can only do so much.
He glances at me over the rim of his bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—because why wouldn’t he give me another image to sear into my brain? His gaze holds mine, cool and unreadable, but those amber eyes...
I shift in my seat, suddenly way too aware of every part of my body and how close he is. My coffee cup feels too small, my fingers too tight around it. Maybe if I squeeze hard enough, it’ll distract me from the walking fantasy sitting in my kitchen.
I drop my eyes to my iPad, scrolling through nothing just to look busy, pretending I’m unaffected. Which is a bold-faced lie, because with the way my body is buzzing inside, I must have swallowed a beehive.
He takes a seat across from me, casual as can be, unaware he's responsible for every filthy thought I’ve had since the last night we were together.
"You didn’t answer the question," Rico states in his usual monotone, his voice annoyingly deep and distracting.
I barely keep myself from flinching. He never sits with me unless it’s required. Even that hasn’t been happening since I’ve been at the restaurant late and not home for dinners.
"What question?" I ask, playing dumb as I flick through my notes.
"You were smiling."
I glance up, narrowing my eyes. "I know you avoid facial expressions like they’re contagious, but is it a crime to smile?"
Yeah, I’m going for the jugular today. No more dancing around this ridiculous, silent, tension-laced dynamic we have going on. Nonna told me I needed to get creative if I wanted to break through to my husband. So, I’m improvising.
"Who texted you?"
My phone lights up on the table, another message popping up on the screen. I don’t even hesitate. "Kai."
I go back to scrolling.
A heavy, palpable silence settles over the table. My senses scream that he’s still looking at me, so I peek up. Yup.
Gosh, I wish this man came with a handbook. Something that translated those eyes of his that they say so much more than his actual words while his feelings are in "do not disturb" mode.
His gaze sharpens, and even though his expression remains neutral, something in the air shifts. My traitorous body registers it before my brain does—my stomach tightens, my thighs press together (again), and my eyes flick to the other end of the table.
Yeah, that part of the table.
The very same table that has been thoroughly broken in despite barely being a month old. A plank of wood that has seen far too much action for a piece of furniture meant for dining.
Rico’s eyes follow mine, and his jaw ticks. Wonder if he has the same thoughts when he looks at it…
"Why is he texting you?"
I blink at him, then glance down at my phone before looking back up, just to make sure I heard him right. "Because he’s my sous chef? We have to communicate?"
"At work. Not at home."
Oh, this is fun.
"You sound jealous."
"No."
Right. Because jealousy requires an emotion, and my husband isn’t human enough for that.
"He was asking if I needed a ride, but I told him I was fine," I add, observing him, waiting for… something.
I get nothing.
Rico is silent as he drinks the rest of his protein shake, his throat moving with each swallow. The tension in the air thickens, pressing against my skin, and I swear I can taste it—bitter and lingering, turning my moment of inappropriate lust into full-blown annoyance.
If he wants space, I’ll give him space.
I push back from the table, take my coffee mug to the sink, and rinse it out, mentally prepping myself for the day ahead.
But before I can turn around, I slam into something solid, warm, and sweaty.
“Shit, Rico!” I yelp, my hands smacking against his chest, which is still damp.
Oh, how I'd love to peel it off him, see the abs that I only glimpse through wet shirts in person.
Touch them. Explore them. Okay, also lick them.
Before I can even recover, he presses me back against the counter, arms caging me in.
“I don’t like it.”
I blink up at him, still a little frazzled. “Like what?”
“Stop being cute.”
Oh, this fucking man.
“So you think I’m cute?”
“I don’t think you’re cute.”
Wow, that was unnecessarily fast.
“Gee, thanks. Every wife’s dream is to hear from her husband that he doesn’t find her attractive.”
I try to duck under his arm, but he shifts, blocking me again. His hand snaps up, fingers curling under my chin, tilting my head up so I have to look at him.
“Did I say that?”
“You just said you don’t think I’m cute, Rico. How else am I supposed to interpret that?”
“Cute and attractive are different words.”
Oh, we’re doing this today?
“So you find me attractive but not cute?”
“Didn’t say that either.”
I exhale sharply. “Rico, I have things to do. I need to get ready for work. Why are you even home, anyway? We both know you prefer to avoid me, so why the surprise reveal?”
That jaw of his? Yeah, it clenches so hard I think I just heard his molars cry for help. No response. He’d rather suffer internal bleeding from biting his tongue than actually answer a question.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I shove at his chest again, determined to escape.
Only, I don’t. Because instead of letting me go, he does the exact opposite. His arm snaps around my waist, yanking me closer.
“Rico—”
His mouth crashes into mine—hungry, ravenous—and suddenly I’m drowning. Heat. Tongue. Teeth. My head spins as he devours every breath, every coherent thought, inhaling me as if he’s been suffocating without.
His fingers slide from my chin to my hair, threading through the braid I didn’t bother taking out this morning, tugging just enough to make my toes curl. He tilts my head back, angling me exactly where he wants—because of course he takes control, and I let him. Gladly.
A whimper slips out before I can trap it, and the second he hears it, his grip tightens, the kiss turning rougher, deeper, urgent. Possessive.
I don’t realize we’re moving until my back hits the cool marble of the kitchen island, a shock that only sharpens the edge of everything. My legs part on instinct when he lifts me onto the surface, stepping between them with the confidence of someone who knows damn well he belongs there.
And when he drags me closer, until there’s no space left between us and I feel all of him pressing hard and thick against me, I can't control the moan that comes out of me. Those sweatpants don’t hide a thing—and right now? I’m not sure I want them to.
My hands, traitorous as ever, fist in the front of his T-shirt, pulling him impossibly closer. Fingers find their way into his damp hair, scraping against his scalp, and the low growl he lets out vibrates through both our bodies.
“I have needs,” he grits out against my lips, his breath ragged, voice wrecked as if he’s fighting himself and me all at once.
And then he’s kissing me again, more demanding than before.
But even as my pulse races and my body arches into his, that one word echoes in my head, splashing cold water all over my fire.
Needs.
Not want. Not desire. Not you drive me crazy and I can't stay away from you.
Nope. Just a body in reach to scratch an itch.
Despite the grip he still has on my hair, I pull back, breaking the kiss, shoving lightly at his chest.
“So, this is all about you getting off?” My voice is breathy, but I still pack in as much judgment as humanly possible.
Rico doesn’t let me go. His fingers grip my waist, his amber eyes darkening as they roam over my body—lingering on my silk shorts and camisole.
“No.”
The single word sends an unexpected thrill down my spine.
I should push him away. I should tell him to go get himself off with his own hand. But the way he’s looking at me? He wants to devour me.
Yeah. My traitorous body is not on the same page as my petty-ass mind.
“So you stayed home to screw me? That's why you didn't slip out early to avoid me. Just figured you’d drop in for a quickie and then disappear for another few days until you need it again?”
Without a word, he releases my hair and shoves me down against the island, his hands gripping my shorts and yanking them down my legs in one fluid motion.
I let out a small gasp as the cool stone kisses my bare thighs.
“I have to get ready for work, Rico.”
I say this, but do nothing to stop him.
Because my body, that traitorous little witch, wants this. Wants him. And it’s been five very, very, very long days without an orgasm, and let me tell you, I have learned things about myself in these past five days. Mainly? That I am not the woman who can just go without.
A flicker of something passes through his eyes, and for a moment, I think he might actually respond, but instead, he grips my thighs, spreading them apart as he settles in between them.
“I am home…” He pauses, jaw working as if forming words scrapes against his instincts. “Because I needed my breakfast.”
That’s all the warning I get before his head dips between my legs.