Chapter 49 #3
Matthew grabs a wide pasta bowl and plates a generous, steaming portion, garnishing it with fresh basil.
He fetches a fork, then turns back to me, setting the bowl down beside my thigh.
With eyes alight with a teasing warmth, he gently nudges my knees apart, stepping right back between my legs. Reclaiming his place.
He reaches for his wineglass. “To the most captivating sous-chef,” he says, clinking his glass against mine.
“And to the hottest chef,” I reply, the words tumbling out between giggles as I sip.
He sets his glass down and picks up the bowl of pasta. Expertly swirling the fork, he captures the perfect bite. His eyes glint with a wicked light as he brings the fork to his own lips.
His gaze locked on mine, he takes the bite, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second. “Mmm… perfect,” he declares in a low drawl.
The sight of him, so pleased with himself, so at ease, makes my mouth stretch into a genuine smile.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” His lips curve into a sexy, crooked grin. “Did you want some?” The teasing question makes my smile explode into laughter.
He chuckles, twirls another perfect bite, and holds it up to my mouth.
The flavor is incredible.
Rich, complex, and so full of care it tastes like comfort itself.
“Wow!” My eyes widen. “This is actually delicious!”
“Okay, don’t sound so surprised. You’ll bruise my ego,” he replies, his shoulders shaking with a soft laugh.
“No, honestly, it’s delicious!” With a mischievous grin, my hands dart out, snatching the bowl from his grasp.
Amusement dances in his eyes. He leans back, sipping his wine, watching me with pure delight as I enjoy another forkful.
“Sorry, but I don’t think there’s enough for you,” I declare in mock sympathy as I prepare another generous bite.
Before the fork can reach my mouth, his fingers wrap firmly around my wrist. “Nice try, love,” he murmurs, skillfully redirecting my hand, bringing the forkful of pasta to his own mouth instead.
The audacity makes me drop my head back with a helpless, cheerful laugh.
“Okay, okay. Truce,” he says, his laughter warm as he releases my wrist.
My laughter subsides into a soft smile. My eyes return to his handsome face, and I notice a tiny, errant smear of red sauce near the corner of his mouth.
“You have some sauce there,” I point out softly.
He chuckles, swiping confidently at the wrong side of his mouth.
“No, still there,” I giggle. “Here…”
Without second-guessing the impulse, I lean forward, cupping the side of his face to hold him still.
His breath hitches as I cover the small smear with my mouth, my tongue darting out to leisurely lick it away.
I taste more than the ragù. I taste the salt of his skin. The heat of his flush. I taste him.
I pull back just an inch. His eyes have turned a molten green, their playfulness incinerated by a wave of raw heat. His entire body has gone rigid. He lets out a sound from deep in his chest. The sound of a man at the absolute end of his restraint.
“Fuck dinner,” he rasps. A guttural surrender.
The bowl and fork clatter forgotten onto the countertop as his mouth devours mine.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he sweeps me from the island and into his arms. My legs wrap around his waist as if they were made to be there.
He carries me from the kitchen and into the living room, laying me down on the large, soft sofa. His body immediately follows mine down.
His kiss is hungry. His hands attack the strings of my apron. He fumbles with the knot, his movements clumsy with a desperation that is both thrilling and amusing.
“Damn this apron,” he growls against my neck.
A breathless, almost hysterical laugh bubbles out of me. The sheer absurdity of this powerful man being so utterly thwarted by a simple knot.
My laughter seems to snap something in him. A challenging glint ignites in his eyes. He pushes himself up, his knees settling on either side of my hips. He looms over me, eyes blazing with desire and frustrated amusement.
His lips twitch. A devastating grin fights to break through. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” His voice is a dangerous purr as his fingers renew their assault on the stubborn knot. “Laughing at me in my moment of weakness?”
With a final, triumphant tug, the knot gives way.
“Fuck, finally!” He rips the apron from my body and tosses it heedlessly into the darkness. His expression makes my laughter bubble up even harder.
“Let’s see about that laughter now.” His warning is a husky threat as he leans down, his lips trailing up my neck to my earlobe.
My laughter dies instantly, replaced by a gasp.
His hands slide with agonizing slowness under the hem of my T-shirt.
His palms are warm against the bare skin of my stomach, blazing a path of fire in their wake.
My back arches off the couch, my gasp turning into a broken moan as his touch roams higher.
I feel the curve of his triumphant smile form against my skin. “I see that laughter is gone,” he murmurs. His words a victorious, silken caress.
There’s a frantic urgency in our movements.
The way his hands are in my hair, tilting my head back.
The way my own hands fumble with the hem of his T-shirt, needing to feel his skin on mine.
He groans my name against my lips, helping me tug his top over his head, tossing it aside.
Then his hands are on my sweatpants, sure and desperate.
There is no hesitation left in me. Only an answering, all-consuming need.
My own hands work at his waistband, a frantic fumbling until we are finally skin to skin.
“Amy,” he whispers, framing my face with his hands. “Look at me, love.”
My breath catches.
His eyes, even in the shadows, are blazing with a universe of love and untamed desire.
This is the man who has seen my ghosts. My messy reality.
He isn’t running.
He’s here.
He’s staying.
This is not just a joining of bodies…
It’s a homecoming so profound it shatters the last of my fears into dust.
Every dark corner of my past, every whisper of not being enough, is incinerated in the blazing light of this one, undeniable truth.
I am not a mistake.
I am not a curse.
I am his.
And he is completely and utterly…
Mine.
A comfortable, contented silence settles over us. I’m nestled against his side on the sofa, his arm a heavy, warm weight around me. A low rumble starts in his chest, growing into a chuckle. I lift my head to look at him. His eyes are full of a happy light.
He turns to me, his voice laced with amusement. “So how about some pasta?”
I stare at him for a second before a deep laugh bursts from my very soul. “Yes, please!” I giggle, feeling happier and lighter than I have in my entire life. “I’m starving.”
“But for the love of God, whatever you do, do not wear that apron,” he pleads, making us both laugh out loud.