8. Luca
Luca
My words hang in the air between us, and I watch the way her breath catches.
That little hitch in her chest—I love that sound.
I love being the one who puts it there. She’s still pressed back against the counter, my hoodie bunched around her hips, her thighs brushing against the front of my trousers.
I keep my arms locked on either side of her, caging her in.
“Luca,” she whispers, but it’s not a protest.
I answer by dropping my mouth to her neck.
My lips trail down the slope of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my tongue.
One hand leaves the counter and slides down her stomach, palm flat, pushing the hoodie up as I go.
The cotton bunches around her ribs, and I pause just below the hem of her underwear.
I hook my fingers into the waistband and tug.
I slide them down her legs, and I drop to my knees in front of her.
The polished kitchen floor is hard under my knees, but I don’t care.
I push her thighs apart, gently but firmly, and she opens for me like she’s been waiting for this all day.
I look up at her. Her eyes are dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling under my hoodie.
She’s fucking beautiful like this—flushed and needy, her hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her.
“Keep your eyes on me,” I say, and then I lower my mouth to her.
The first taste of her hits my tongue, and I groan against her.
She’s already wet, already ready, and I take my time, like I promised.
I lick slowly, dragging the flat of my tongue from her entrance up to her clit, circling it once before pulling back.
A sharp, breathy whimper escapes her, and her hips twitch forward, chasing my mouth.
“Easy, Baby Girl,” I mutter against her thigh, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there. “I told you, I’m taking my time.”
I slip two fingers into her while I go back to work with my tongue, pressing deep, curling them, and her gasp turns into a moan that she tries to stifle by biting her lip, but I don’t want her to stifle it.
“Let me hear you,” I say, pulling back. “I want to hear you fall apart.”
I dive back in, tongue circling her clit while my fingers fuck her slow and deep.
Her thighs start to tremble, her grip on the counter white-knuckled, and I know she’s close.
I double down—faster and harder. She comes with a cry that echoes off the kitchen tiles, her body shuddering against my mouth, and I don’t stop until she’s gasping and pushing weakly at my shoulders.
I rise from my knees, wiping at my mouth. She’s still sprawled against the counter, chest heaving, eyes glazed, and thighs trembling. I kiss her forehead, then her nose, then linger at her lips. She’s trying to catch her breath, trying to form words. I pull back.
“So,” I say, my voice amused, “chili tonight?”
Her eyes snap into focus. For a second, she stares at me, disbelief warring with the aftershocks still rolling through her body. Then her hand flies up and cracks hard across my chest. I laugh, the sound filling the kitchen. She hits me again, but I catch her wrist this time, pulling her into me.
“You’re such an asshole,” she mutters, but she’s fighting a smile now, her face pressed into my shirt.
I kiss the top of her head, still chuckling. “Yeah. But you came on my tongue five seconds ago, so I think we’re even.”
She shoves me, but there’s no heat in it.
“The chili,” she says, pointing at the stove. “Stir it. Or I’m making you sleep on the couch.”
I hold up both hands in mock surrender, still grinning, and reach for the wooden spoon as she pulls her underwear back up.
“Don’t hurt me.”
“Please,” she says. “You’re six-two and built like a fucking house.”
“You’re pretty scary,” I tell her, smiling.
She marches toward me and throws a finger into my chest, glaring up at me. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder, but that doesn’t seem to concern her. If anything, she looks more determined because of it. I’m trying too hard not to laugh.
“You better watch it, Mister Mafia.”
The words wipe the smile from my face. Sarah notices. I can see it happen. The glare falters for half a second before she lifts her chin.
“You went there.”
“What if I did?” she asks.
For a moment, I look at her. Two days ago, she stood in our bedroom staring at the guns under my arms like she didn’t know who I was.
I reach for her before I can stop myself. She lets out a startled sound as I pull her against me. Her hands land on my chest, but I don’t give her a chance to say another word. I kiss her hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs.
I back her toward the counter until the edge digs into the backs of her thighs, and she makes a soft noise against my mouth. One hand slides into her hair while the other settles at her waist.
When I finally pull away, we’re both breathing harder.
“I fucking love you.”
“I love you too,” she says. She looks into my eyes intently. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Let’s eat for real this time.”
She turns and opens the cabinet. I reach above her for the bowls and hand one down.
“Thanks.”
I grin. “Ladies first.”
She gives me a look but goes ahead and fills her bowl. A minute later we’re sitting across from each other at the table. For a while, the only sound in the room is the clink of spoons against ceramic.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Go for it.”
She takes another bite before looking up at me.
“Where are your guns?”
I nearly choke on a mouthful of chili. She waits while I cough.
“My what?”
“Your guns. The ones you had on the other night. You’re not wearing them. Where’d they go?”
I stare at her. Two days ago she could barely say the word Mafia. Now she’s asking about firearms over a bowl of chili.
“In the SUV,” I finally say. “I don’t usually bring those inside.”
She nods.
“Why’d you have them that night?”
“You were supposed to be at work. They needed to be cleaned. I was going to do it while the house was empty.”
Another nod. There’s no anger on her face. There’s only curiosity.
“Do you keep other guns in the house though?”
I lean back in my chair and take a drink of my beer before answering.
“Yes.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Does that scare you?” I ask. “Make you angry?”
She looks down at her lap before lifting her gaze back to mine. Then she shakes her head.
“You know I lived on a ranch. My Daddy always had guns in the house.”
“Yeah.”
The room falls quiet again. Sarah takes another bite of chili. I watch her do it, turning the bottle slowly between my hands. For two days, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the fight we haven’t had yet. Waiting for her to look at me and decide this is too much.
“Sarah...”
She swallows and looks up.
“Yeah?”
I might as well fucking say it.
“How are you so okay with all of this?”
She doesn’t answer. At first, I think she’s thinking about it. It’s not exactly a small question. She stares down at her bowl, her spoon resting against the edge, and I wait.
I take a drink of my beer and set it back on the table. She still hasn’t moved. She isn’t eating. She isn’t looking at me. She’s staring at her food.
“Sarah?”
No response. Slowly, she lifts her head and looks toward the living room windows. The ocean sits beyond the glass, dark beneath the fading evening light. She watches it without saying a word.
“Baby Girl.”
She swallows, and I wait longer. The seconds drag by. Finally, her gaze drops from the window. She looks down at the table. When she speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper.
“Because you’re not the only person in this room who’s killed someone.”