“I’d like to learn to make pasta.” He placed a plate in front of her and took a seat across the breakfast bar. Their knees almost touched beneath the polished granite, the space between them filled with electricity. “I watched an old woman in the Mercato Centrale make fettuccine this summer and I’ve been fascinated ever since.”
“I can teach you,” he said as he took a bite of his risotto and gestured with his fork for her to do the same. He could picture it – the two of them, half dressed, their bodies dusted with flour as their hands kneaded the dough. He’d never wanted anything so domestic before, but now that he’d pictured it, he wanted nothing more.Careful….
She took a bite and he reveled in the pleasure that washed over her face as the flavors hit her tongue. “If your pasta is anywhere near as good as your risotto, I’ll take you up on that offer.”
As they ate, he told her more about his mother, how she always smelled of cinnamon and almonds, how she passed when he was just a teenager. Every time the conversation veered towards his father, though, he’d redirect. He didn’t want to share any part of Min with his father, not even with his memory. Someday he’d tell her everything. But not then, on only their second night together.
She told him about her grandmother, how they would pick fresh rhubarb and berries from her garden and suddenly it was a pie. Her eyes danced when she shared the memories, her entire body coming alive with the joy of it. He wanted to be a part of that joy, to bring her that kind of untarnished happiness.
“Is this the same grandmother with the firefly farm?” he asked.
She laughed, “Yes, but I don’t think anyone has ever called it that before.”
“And she was a painter?” he prompted.
Min looked at her plate, swirling her last scallop through the lemon butter sauce. “She was,” she smiled. “I was always so jealous that she could take these globs of color and turn them into a picture.” He chuckled and waited for her to continue. “But she got pregnant really young and…” Min shrugged and popped the scallop in her mouth.
He narrowed his eyes, hearing the words she hadn’t said. “She gave it up,” he finished for her.
“Yeah. I mean she always painted, but she dropped out of art school and got a nursing job to help support the family,” she shrugged again.
“And what about your parents? Your mom is a teacher, right?” he asked, leaning back in his seat and trying not to smirk as her eyes zeroed in on the way his jeans pulled tight over his spread thighs.
“Right. She teaches 7thand 8thgrade English,” she said.
“And your father?” he prompted.
Her spine straightened, as if preparing for judgment. He hated the defensiveness of the movement. “Last I knew, he was a lawyer. He left when I was in kindergarten. I don’t really remember him.”
He cursed under his breath before he could stop himself. Of all the things they could have in common, asshole fathers were not something he had wished for.
“My mom was his secretary. When they fell in love, he offered to pay for her to go back to school. She had my brother really early on, only a year or so into their marriage. And between raising babies and going to school, they hardly saw each other.” She sighed, pulling on her fingers and he waited for her to continue. “At least that’s the excuse he gave for sleeping with his new secretary. And the one after that, and God knows who else,” she winced. “So good riddance. My mom and grandmother raised my brother and me. And a few years ago, mom met a nice guy and got remarried. Tom.”
“Is she happy?”
The surprise in her eyes was evident, but he couldn’t help it. He had always thought that if his mother had lived long enough to divorce his father that she could have found someone who really loved her and didn’t blame her for his own failings. Started over. It was the fairytale he told himself whenever it was too much to remember how awful her last years had been.
“Yeah,” Min said. “I think she’s happy.”
“Good,” he said gruffly before he pushed the plates aside and knit his hand with hers across the countertop, his thumb sweeping over her wrist.
He didn’t want to talk about their mistreated mothers and good-for-nothing fathers anymore. He didn’t want to talk at all. He wanted to drown in her, bury thirty-five years of anger and resentment so deep in her it would never resurface, build himself anew from the way she looked at him.
Liam lifted her hand and kissed Min’s palm, “Would you like more wine?” he asked. She shook her head as he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Dessert?” he arched his eyebrow and planted a kiss on her wrist, her eyes going liquid as his mouth met her skin.
She shook her head again. “Maybe later.”
He leaned across the granite countertop and kissed her, holding her face as gently as he could. His body rioted between the overwhelming need to claim her, to ravage her, consume her, to drive himself into her until they could never be parted, and the desperate desire to protect her. He wanted to leave marks on her skin and also keep her from ever feeling any pain. He held out his hand for her and she took it, rising from her seat in the kitchen and letting him lead her down the hall.
Chapter Twenty-three
Once more in Liam’s bedroom, Min kissed him deep and long, savoring the taste of wine that lingered on his tongue, sucking on his lower lip and dragging it between her teeth until he growled in response. She pressed him back so he sat on the edge of the bed. He obliged with an amused smirk. She dropped to her knees in front of him, his legs cradling her sides, and ran her hands up his thighs, grazing her nails over his clothed erection. Would she ever get used to being able to touch him so freely? He sucked on her neck as she fumbled with his belt buckle, finally succeeding in freeing him from the constraints of his jeans.
Liam pulled her shirt over her head, tossing it aside and unhooking her bra. It fell to the floor and he buried his face in her chest, his stubble scratchy against her smooth skin as he took her nipple between his teeth. He broke away just long enough to let her pull his shirt over his head. She was desperate for him – for every touch, every breath. She would meld their bodies together permanently if she could and never come up for air. She dragged her nails over his back, around those magnificent lines of muscle at his hips, urging him to rise up just enough to pull his jeans and boxer briefs to his ankles.
She trailed her tongue over his collarbone, across his chest, circling and nibbling at his nipples. “My God, Min,” he groaned as he dropped his head back, his hands running up and down her sides as she worked her way lower. She wrapped her hand around his base and glanced up to be sure he was watching her. His eyes on her made her feel unbelievably sexy and bold in a way she’d never been before.
She lowered her head, but he caught her chin with his hand before her lips could touch him. “You don’t have to do that,” he said.
