I can’t help smiling back. “It looks—and smells—amazing.”
“Dig in! Only the best for my girl.”
His girl who hasn’t told him some of the most fundamental facts about herself.
He bustles around the condo, grabbing a couple of candles from a cupboard and lighting them to decorate the table before sitting down himself. Determined to set a romantic atmosphere even though his match shouldn’t need any special treatment to want him.
I matter that much to him.
I swallow hard and pick up my fork. Looking down at the creamy pasta with the tidbits of bacon mixed in, my stomach balks.
I spent three years training myself in an aversion to any food this indulgent. If I wasn’t going to risk eating it, it was easier to outright dislike it rather than having the temptation hanging over me.
Salvatore’s watching me. I don’t want to shun the effort he’s made either. I managed to choke down a slice of pizza for Aunt Daphne’s benefit the other week—I can handle this too.
I dip the fork into the noodles and twirl it around to gather some. The first bite fills my mouth with a buttery, peppery flood of flavor.
A noise of appreciation slips out of me as I swallow. “It tastes amazing too.”
Salvatore beams and digs into his own meal.
With less scrutiny on me, it’s easier to nibble away with little bites that don’t set off as many alarm bells in my gut. The rolls are the perfect mix of breadiness and cheesiness, dense but soft with flecks of fresh herbs mixed in.
I eat a whole one of those and about half of my pasta, and then a twinge runs through my abdomen that tells me I can’t handle more. I may have trained myself into an actual sensitivity after all that sustained healthy eating.
My enjoyment of the flavors must have shown on my face enough that Salvatore doesn’t take offense. “I gave you too much. I only wanted to make sure you had enough. No pressure to clean the plate.”
“I’d like to,” I say honestly, and pat my belly. “What I had was so good.”
“Just what I want to hear.”
Salvatore gathers up all the dishes and carries them back to the kitchen to dump them into the sink. When I follow him over, he makes a shooing motion. “I’ll take care of them later. Elodie Devine doesn’t wash dishes.”
If he had any idea how many filled sinks I’ve scrubbed through in my real life…
He prowls back to me and lifts his hand to the corner of my mouth. “You’ve got a little sauce on your face. Maybe I should clean you up too.”
He swipes his thumb over my skin and brings it to his mouth, his gaze holding mine. My pulse stutters. The clang of need that reverberates through me every time one of my matches is near resonates from my scalp to my toes.
I should step away from him. I didn’t mean to let this happen.
Or maybe I did, coming here at all, and all my excuses were nothing more than that.
“Tore…” His nickname slips off my tongue. My body sways toward him of its own accord.
Salvatore tucks one hand against the small of my backand brings the other to my cheek. The bond thrums eagerly, urging me on.
He’s my match, and I’m his, and there’s nowhere I belong more.
Except there is, there is.
I scream at myself to pull away, but the rush of sensation overrides everything else. My head tilts back of its own accord to meet his kiss.
As our lips meld together, heat courses over my skin. My fingers curl into the front of Salvatore’s shirt. I feel as much as hear the pleased rumble in his chest.
“Figures those other matches of yours would interrupt us when we were having so much fun by the river,” he mutters, pressing another kiss to the corner of my jaw, then the side of my neck. “It’s been fucking torture staying away.”
Another noise tumbles out of me, this one embarrassingly like a whine. Salvatore’s chuckle tingles against my skin.
