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It felt like being hit by a bus, the dominance and insistence of those words. I watched, utterly captivated, as he shrugged himself out of his jacket, folding it and tucking it into one of the tall stools at the center island. His tie soon followed, and then his thick fingers were unbuttoning the top two buttons of his dress shirt and rolling his sleeves neatly up to his forearms.
The sight of his tan arms made me dizzy. They were long and toned, dying to break free from the restrictive cotton they’d been trapped within. “Come.” His voice broke me out of my daze. “Sit down here.” He indicated to the empty chair beside the one holding his pile of discarded clothing. I forced my feet forward and folded myself onto the soft cushion, eyes fastened on those arms the entire time.
Leo threw a kitchen towel over his shoulder before placing a small pot on the cast-iron stove and flipping the heat on. He added a few tablespoons of butter to the pot before gracing me with a wolfish grin. A laugh burst out of me at the sight. “This is pretty impressive,” I said, my brows climbing up my forehead.
He shrugged. “It’s just a simple Alfredo sauce. I’m going to use store-bought noodles, so the meal isn’t completely homemade. Do you eat meat?”
“Yes,” I responded as a whoosh of air left my lungs at the thought of other things I might taste tonight.
Leo nodded, adding a flat skillet to the stove top and moving back to the fridge to pull out a deli-wrapped parcel. “You like a little heat?” Mischief had joined the hunger in his eyes.
“Yes.” I smiled.
Another grin as he grabbed a thick cutting board from beneath the island, setting it on the marble surface. His confidence in navigating around his kitchen was . . . hot. I’d have thought a man who lived alone—especially in a place like this—would have a personal chef. An expense that probably wouldn’t even graze the sum of his accounts.
Settling deeper into the stool, feeling the fabric rub against the backs of my exposed thighs, I watched how Leo’s shoulders stretched out wide through his shirt, rolling as he moved. His movements were fluid, his body poised for action—like he’d have the ability to curl himself into any space with ease, despite his impressive height and build. He was probably a good dancer.
Probably a great lover.
After seasoning the chicken, Leo moved the breast to the skillet. There was a satisfying sizzle as the meat hit the steel, and he let out a pleased hum. I wanted to feel that hum vibrate against my skin. My desire was winding its way up my spine, sinking its claws in deep. It was heady, edging on the verge of need. To have a man like him on top of me, inside of me, where no man had been in almost two years—it was all I could think about as he focused on my meal.
We stayed quiet while he continued to display his prowess in the kitchen: boiling salted water in a pot for the pasta; adding seasonings and cheese to the cream-based sauce; flipping the chicken to browned perfection. He didn’t measure any of his ingredients, didn’t have to pull out a recipe to follow—he was comfortable and assured in every move he made.
I was so focused on his hands that I didn’t notice he’d turned his attention back to me. “Mara,” he rasped. My eyes lifted to his, finding them dark and hungry once more. Something told me it wasn’t in response to this meal he was preparing. “If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to stop myself from bending you over this island and giving you what you want.”
His cheeks were pink with the traces of a flush I was sure matched my own. “What?” I feigned innocence, but I knew he had me. The directness of his words only aroused me further.
Leo stared at me for a long moment before his attention was captured by the bubbling pot of sauce at the stove. “Shit,” he mumbled, turning his body away from me to stir it and turn down the burner.
After draining the noodles in the sink, Leo pulled a black ceramic plate out of a cabinet and scooped the pasta and sauce onto it. He sliced the crisped chicken breast and added it on top of the pasta before sprinkling some red pepper flakes over it all and pushing the plate in front of me. The food smelled incredible. “Wow, this looks amazing, thank you,” I said, smiling as I picked up my fork from the setting he’d handed me earlier.
He wrapped his fingers around the neck of the champagne bottle and refilled my glass. “You’re welcome. Please”—he nodded toward the plate—“enjoy.”
“You’re not going to have any?”
“No, I ate dinner at a normal hour with the rest of the world.”
I made a show of rolling my eyes again, and his eyes darkened as they dropped to my mouth, the potency of his expression back in full force. I ripped my gaze away from his, forcing my gaze down to the food in front of me. I took a bite and couldn’t help the small moan that escaped from the back of my throat. “Oh my god,” I said through a full mouth, “this is so fucking good.”
Leo grinned, satisfaction evident in those lips that were the perfect shape for biting.
As I tore through the whole plate of food, Leo stood next to me with his hip leaning against the island, sipping from his glass of champagne. It only took me a few minutes to eat every bite—I’d been much hungrier than I let on. But it was also a testament to Leo’s skills in the kitchen . . . the food truly was so fucking good.
When I finished, Leo swiped the plate and fork away and moved to tuck them into the sink before turning to look back at me. There was still an intoxicating energy in the air, thick and all-consuming. I squirmed in my seat under the heat of his gaze—though I couldn’t deny the excitement beneath the surface. “Thank you for dinner,” I said as my heart pounded in my throat.
He smiled but didn’t say anything. He gripped the edge of the counter behind him, as if holding himself back—from what, I wasn’t sure. But it thrilled me all the same. Eventually, whatever war he was waging in his mind transitioned into a firm decision. I saw the confidence return to his gaze, along with those obvious traces of desire.
He stalked toward me, rooting himself into the ground by my chair. “Mara,” he murmured as his eyes roamed my face, “was a champagne toast all you wanted from me tonight?”
My lips parted and my mouth went dry again. I didn’t know how to answer his question . . . so I simply stared up at him.
He lifted a hand, gently running his fingertips across my jaw before letting them flutter down my neck. “Hm? Mara?”
He wanted me to say it. To admit that I wanted more.
Fine. I could be bold, too.
Taking a deep breath, I said simply, “No.”
