Exactly. He gave me a speech about how he would never cheat and that I’m the only woman he’ll ever touch again.
And… you believe him?
I shouldn’t. Should I?
I mean… perhaps he took his vows seriously?
This isn’t helping me. I’m supposed to be pushing him away. Making him regret marrying me and desperate for a divorce. Not sitting here wondering what it would be like if I believed I was the one woman a man like him chose. Why is he making it so difficult to hate him?
Shit. YOU LIKE YOUR HUSBAND.
No.
YES.
I CANNOT LIKE MY HUSBAND. HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN WHO HE IS AND WHAT HE IS USING ME FOR?
…Spanking has a way of making you forget. Maybe it should become part of your nightly routine. You can live in ignorant sated bliss *emoji clapping* *emoji peach*
I barked out a laugh, and I threw my phone down on the bed, groaning. She was not helping.
“Ribelle,did you hear me?” Santino’s deep voice boomed from somewhere in the apartment. “Or are you ignoring me again?”
I’d never scrambled to my feet so fast.
When I walked into the kitchen, I realised I must have been in some alternative reality where I was the one being tested, not him.
Because the universe was trying to finish off my floundering resolve by showing me the man could cook. He was still wearing only those goddamn sweatpants, moving around the kitchen with easy confidence and plating our meal himself. When he saw me standing there, one side of his lips tugged up into that sexy, lopsided smile that was utterly devastating to the female population, and then he walked forward, carrying a spoon with sauce.
“Tell me if you want more salt,” he said, hovering the spoon in front of my lips. I was too dazed to come up with a witty response or even think about how to act like a brat. Instead, my lips parted around the spoon, and the most delicious,aromatic sauce hit my tongue. He stared at me, bending his knees slightly and holding his arms wide to show he was waiting for my answer.
I shook my head. “It’s… perfect. No salt,” I muttered, and felt my cheeks flame as he gave me that triumphant smile again. This man was lethal. To prove that point, he stepped closer, tilted my chin up, and bent down, licking a drop of sauce I hadn’t realised had fallen onto my chin.
“Mm,” he moaned. “It is perfect.”
He moved back to the kitchen as my hand shot out and gripped the island to keep me upright.
“Sit,” he ordered, pointing toward the table. “It’s ready.”
He placed the bowls down and topped up his… oh God. My cocktail, the sickliest, sweetest blend of alcohol I could invent, shimmered in his glass. He poured me one and sat down opposite me.
“What’s this called?” he asked, lifting the glass to his lips and suppressing a smirk.
“Glitter bomb.” A name I made up on the spot as I watched him shudder slightly after his sip. “You don’t have to drink it. It's probablynot your thing, right?”
“I’m on my third glass. It gets better.”
I tried to fight back my smile. I really did. But it was impossible. I took a bite of the homemade pasta with red sauce and succulent meat to hide it. The shredded, tender meat melted on my tongue, and the explosion of deep, rich flavours was like an orgasm in my mouth.
“Is that ox cheek? Did you seriously make this from scratch?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder to check for any evidence in the kitchen that he’d bought a microwavable meal or that someone had delivered this from a five-star restaurant.
“Don’t sound so surprised that your husband can cook. It’s one of my many talents. Don't worry, there's still more for you to discover,” he said, shooting me a suggestive smile.
Vagina, stop getting excited. Not happening.
“I am surprised,” I said, thinking of how Callum always had an in-house chef at home to prepare all his meals. “Most wealthy men like you have chefs, don’t they?”
“Do they?” he teased, taking a mouthful. “I’m 100% Italian. It would be an insult if I didn’t know how to cook. But yes, I have a chef who can cook for me when I can’t be bothered, or I’m too busy. But I wanted to cook my wife her first meal myself.”
