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I inch closer and take her in my arms. “There’s a lot more sweetness where this came from.”
“I have no doubt,” she says, with a wistfulness in her voice that rings alarm bells in my head. There’s something in her tone that’s telling me she’s keeping something from me. Perhaps it’s too much, too soon. But I don’t push her. With time and trust, she will unveil her worries, and I’ll be here to catch her.
I pull away. "Well, I thought it would be a nice change of pace from our usual encounters. And besides," I add, "I wanted to impress you."
"Consider me impressed," Romola replies, her eyes following me as I continue cooking.
An hour later, we’re both a little tipsy. The oven dings, and I pull out the chicken I have prepared. With everything finally laid down on the table, I watch Romola for her reaction. The flickering candles cast a warm glow on her face, giving her a radiant look.
“Fish, chicken, salad, pasta. What are we doing? Eating for four?” she jokes.
“Just practice,” I say as I begin to serve her.
“Practice for?”
“Practice for the future,” I reply with a mysterious smile, pouring some more wine into her glass. Romola watches me closely, her eyes searching mine as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning behind my words.
"Salute," I say, raising my wine glass toward her. She smiles sweetly and lifts her own glass, our eyes locking into place.
"Salute," she echoes after a few seconds, and we sip our wine, still gazing at each other. When we don’t break eye contact, she whispers, “so, when do we eat?”
I laugh and shake my head. “You’re right, you’re right,” I say. “Dig in! It’s just that I don’t know which looks more appetizing.”
“All of it,” she says, glancing around her plate with excitement.
“No,” I say, almost in a trance. “I meant, the food or you…”
Romola’s cheeks take on a rosy hue that adds a look of innocence to her beauty. She looks down at her plate, trying to hide her flustered state. I can't help but chuckle softly at her reaction, finding her shyness endearing.
As we eat, our conversation comes alive, filled with stories of our families and friends and some lighthearted banter. We laugh together, sharing memories that bring us closer.
"Did I ever tell you about the time Papà tried to teach me how to shoot?" Romola asks, giggling at the memory. "I was so terrible at it that he swore never to let me near a gun again."
"Ah, but I bet we might have to pick up on those lessons," I tease. "You seem like the type who'd be quite good at taking aim – especially when it comes to capturing someone's heart."
She rolls her eyes playfully while another blush creeps up her neck. "You're incorrigible, Fiero."
"Guilty as charged," I admit, my heart swelling with affection for this woman who has managed to find her way into a heart I never thought was open.
All through dinner our gazes linger on each other, our desire for each other growing.
Once we finish our wine I clear the plates and sit back down, just to jump up again. “I almost forgot the dessert.”
“Sit down, Fiero,” Romola says to me in this low, husky voice. I turn around, confused.
“You don’t want something sweet?”
She looks at me in this strange, sad way, mustering me. When a frown comes on my face, a light of realization enters her eyes. Her face contorted into a sly smile, and she said, “I believe the desert stands right in front of me.”
My heart skips at her words, the heat that has been pooling in my groin throughout dinner is now making me uncomfortably hard. With a groan, I stride over to her, lifting her to her feet, both my hands on her waist.
Her breath hitches just before our lips clash in a ferocious battle, both of us wanting more from the other. I bite into her lower lip; she tastes my tongue.
The chairs scrape the floor as I kick a few out of the way.
"Romola, I want you naked. Now." I rasp
"Desert is served," she whispers, her voice filled with longing and desire.
