Chapter April
April
TEN MINUTES AND SEVERAL deep breaths later, April slipped through the heavy steel service door. The restaurant beyond was a ghost town of white linens and flickering candle stubs, but the kitchen was a cathedral of golden light, heavy with scent.
Mateo was there, wearing a black undershirt that clung to his muscular frame, his tattooed forearms dusted with a fine layer of flour. When he saw her, he crossed the space in three strides, took her hand, and lifted it to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
"Bellissima," he murmured, his dark eyes sweeping over her. The champagne silk blouse Liam had chosen caught the golden light like jewelry. The slim black trousers made her legs look impossibly long.
“You look ravishing. I look forward to seeing if I can make you moan.” His eyes danced with mischief. “For the food, of course.”
April felt her face heat. "I'm literally just wearing pants."
"You are wearing confidence." Mateo guided her toward the marble prep island and pulled out a stool. "And that champagne silk against your skin? Perfetto. Sit. We don't rush art."
He poured a dark red and handed her the glass.
"To new beginnings," he said, lifting his own.
April laughed and raised her own to clink despite herself.
"To the worst day of my life turning into... whatever this is."
"This," Mateo said, "is a tasting, cara. I need to know what you crave."
He moved to the stove, checking something simmering in a small copper pot. The scent of balsamic and dark sugar filled the air.
"What have you been up to since I saw you this morning?"
April launched into it; Jax's digital sabotage, Arthur's audit wall, the way Chad kept showing up like a pop-up ad she couldn't close. She was buzzing with it, the petty victory energy making her words tumble faster.
Mateo let her talk for exactly ninety seconds. Then he turned, wooden spoon in hand, and gave her a look that was pure chef's authority.
"Enough about the clown."
April blinked. "But—"
"I didn't bring you here to talk about him," Mateo said, setting the spoon down. He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, eyes serious. "Tell me about you, April. Not the revenge. Not the ring. Just... you."
"I..." She took a sip of wine, buying time. "Today has been... I'm actually kind of happy? Which feels insane to say."
Mateo nodded, encouraging.
"I never thought all these people would be interested in me. It doesn't make sense." She laughed, but it sounded shaky. " I feel like I’m not enough and too much at the same time."
She set the glass down, staring at the burgundy liquid like it held answers.
"I'm collecting men like loyalty punch cards, and I don't even know what the free item is supposed to be. Maybe it's me? Am I the free item? Is that… bad?" She shook her head.
"I'm going to try not to overthink it."
Mateo was silent for a long moment before he closed the distance in two measured steps, his hands came up to cradle her jaw as he leaned in, close enough that the room seemed to narrow around them.
“Be greedy,” he said looking into her eyes. “Take everything you want.”
His thumbs moved along her cheekbones, unhurried. “You think wanting makes you cheap?” His mouth brushed the corner of hers. “No.” He stayed there long enough that her breath faltered before he grazed her skin again.
“You don’t owe exclusivity to deserve care.” He didn’t look away when he said it. “I want you. Even if I’m not the only one.”
"If there are other men, I won't shame you. I won't punish you. Jealousy is for men with empty hands."
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering. "Just don't pretend you don't want me, too. Let yourself want. Let me be one of the ones who gets to hold you."
He stepped back, smiling slowly.
“Come here,” he said, releasing her face and returning to the stove. “I need you to taste this.”
April slid off the stool and went to him, steadier now than she had been all day.
A small silver bowl waited on the counter.
Mateo lifted a single wild strawberry from it, deep red and shining, and dipped it into the dark balsamic reduction before bringing it toward her mouth.
He paused just short of her lips, long enough for her breath to give her away.
“Open for me.”
She did.
He fed it to her slowly, his thumb brushing the curve of her lower lip as her mouth closed around the fruit, sweet and slick with reduction. She barely kept the sound in.
“Tell me what you taste,” Mateo murmured, leaning in until his nose grazed hers.
“I—” She swallowed. “It’s perfect.”
“Good.”
His mouth found hers, tasting strawberry and balsamic from her lips as his hand slid into her hair. The kiss deepened and she answered it, matching him.
“Now,” he said, his hands settling at her waist, “let’s see what else you like.”
He lifted her with easy confidence and set her on the cool marble of the prep island. The cold shocked against her thighs and she sucked in a breath as he stepped between her knees, hands braced at her hips.
“It’s my turn to taste.”
He reached for a crystal bowl of champagne sorbet, pale gold and glittering. Instead of a spoon, he dragged his fingers through it and brought the cold sweetness to her mouth. The ice kissed her tongue.
Then he kissed her again, gathering the taste from her lips. The sorbet melted between them, cold dissolving into heat.
His palms slid down to her thighs and drew her forward until she reached the very edge of the counter. Her legs fell open automatically to make room for him.
The kitchen went quiet with the low hum of industrial refrigerators and April's own heartbeat pounding in her ears.
Mateo stood between her knees.
His hands found the waistband of her trousers. He paused, fingers hooked at the button, eyes finding hers.
Oh. She was going to be greedy.
April nodded.
He stripped the expensive black trousers down her legs with the same efficient precision he probably used for everything in his kitchen. The champagne blouse came next, unbuttoned reverently, until it hung open.
Mateo stepped back.
She sat there, half-naked on his prep counter, surrounded by copper pots, bowls of reduction, and fresh rosemary. and some distant part of her brain suggested she should be embarrassed. Should cover herself. Should—
"Perfetto," Mateo breathed.
The way he looked at her obliterated every should she'd ever learned. No one had ever looked at her like this—like she was something to be revered instead of tolerated. Like her body wasn't just acceptable but sacred.
He picked up the crystal bowl again, scooping sorbet with maddening slowness. April watched his hands lift he pale gold ice so it caught the light, and her body heating before he even touched her.
His eyes held hers as he painted sorbet across her nipple, watching it drip down her chest in a slow trail before lowering his head.
She felt his breath first—warm against her ribs, then her stomach. His tongue found the drop where it had settled near her navel and traced it upward, following the melted sweetness back along the path it had taken.
His lips closed over her nipple, still slick with champagne and cream. He sucked hard enough that cold and heat collided, pulling a gasp from her. His tongue circled the peak in slow strokes, catching every trace of sweetness until she was oversensitive and aching.
He shifted to her other breast.
No sorbet this time—just his mouth, hot and wet, closing over her nipple. He sucked until her breath fractured. His tongue circled the peak, then flicked it, and her back arched off the marble before she could stop it.
He scraped his teeth lightly across the sensitive skin, leaving both nipples drawn tight and aching.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while his other dipped into the sorbet.
She watched him scoop the pale gold balanced on his fingertips.
His hand hovered over her stomach. Drifted south.
She stopped breathing. His hand made slow passes along her collarbones, breasts, navel, letting sorbet drip in trails towards where she needed him most, gilding her like an idol he craved to worship.
His hand lowered, close enough that the cold radiated from the sorbet, hovering right where she ached—then he grinned and painted it onto her navel instead.
It pooled there, melting on the heat of her skin before it began to slip downward—a golden drip sliding toward the crease of her hip before his thumb caught it.
He didn't follow it.
Not yet.
He lowered his head and sucked the sweetness from her navel in one unhurried swipe. His mouth lingered there, warm against her skin. His tongue pressed into the hollow, then he turned his head and left a soft kiss beside it.
His tongue moved downward, tracing the golden path the sorbet drip had taken until it reached just shy of where she was already aching for him.
He reached for the bowl again. This time his fingers didn't hover or tease. He painted the cold sweetness between her thighs in one slow, deliberate stroke.
The shock of cold pulled a sound from her she didn't authorize.
He paused, staring at her—at the offering he had prepared. The gold spread where she wanted him, melting against her heat. Then he lowered his head. His mouth closed over the sweetness and he swallowed, eyes closing like he was receiving absolution.
He didn't rush. His mouth closed on the cream, swallowed it, stayed there, breath warm against her skin as his tongue worked from her entrance to her clit, gathering every trace of sweetness. His hands slid beneath her thighs and spread them wider.
Without lifting his mouth, he reached for the sorbet again, added another scoop of pale gold against her heat like it was ritual now.
The cold shocked against the warmth he'd built, and his tongue resumed, hungry and patient.
The contrast rolled through her: sorbet dissolving under the rough heat of his tongue, marble cold against her back while her skin burned where he touched.