Page 20 of The Taste of Deceit

He steps forward again, caging me against the counter with both arms and leaning in until his lips brush my ear. “And I’m planning on taking my sweet time eating you.”

Chapter 8

Luca

My words hang in the air between us, and I watch the way her breath catches. That little hitch in her chest—I love that sound. I love being the one who puts it there. She’s still pressed back against the counter, my hoodie bunched around her hips, her thighs brushing against the front of my trousers. I keep my arms locked on either side of her, caging her in.

“Luca,” she whispers, but it’s not a protest.

I answer by dropping my mouth to her neck. My lips trail down the slope of her throat, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling her pulse flutter beneath my tongue. One hand leaves the counter and slides down her stomach, palm flat, pushing the hoodie up as I go. The cotton bunches around her ribs, and I pause just below the hem of her underwear.

I hook my fingers into the waistband and tug. I slide them down her legs, and I drop to my knees in front of her. The polished kitchen floor is hard under my knees, but I don’t care. I push her thighs apart, gently but firmly, and she opens for me like she’s been waiting for this all day. I look up at her. Her eyes are dark, lips parted, chest rising and falling under my hoodie. She’s fucking beautiful like this—flushed and needy, her hands gripping the edge of the counter behind her.

“Keep your eyes on me,” I say, and then I lower my mouth to her.

The first taste of her hits my tongue, and I groan against her. She’s already wet, already ready, and I take my time, like I promised. I lick slowly, dragging the flat of my tongue from her entrance up to her clit, circling it once before pulling back. A sharp, breathy whimper escapes her, and her hips twitch forward, chasing my mouth.

“Easy, Baby Girl,” I mutter against her thigh, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin there. “I told you, I’m taking my time.”

I slip two fingers into her while I go back to work with my tongue, pressing deep, curling them, and her gasp turns into a moan that she tries to stifle by biting her lip, but I don’t want her to stifle it.

“Let me hear you,” I say, pulling back. “I want to hear you fall apart.”

I dive back in, tongue circling her clit while my fingers fuck her slow and deep. Her thighs start to tremble, her grip on the counter white-knuckled, and I know she’s close. I double down—faster and harder. She comes with a cry that echoes off the kitchen tiles, her body shuddering against my mouth, and I don’t stop until she’s gasping and pushing weakly at my shoulders.

I rise from my knees, wiping at my mouth. She’s still sprawled against the counter, chest heaving, eyes glazed, and thighs trembling. I kiss her forehead, then her nose, then linger at her lips. She’s trying to catch her breath, trying to form words. I pull back.

“So,” I say, my voice amused, “chili tonight?”

Her eyes snap into focus. For a second, she stares at me, disbelief warring with the aftershocks still rolling through her body. Then her hand flies up and cracks hard across my chest. I laugh, the sound filling the kitchen. She hits me again, but I catch her wrist this time, pulling her into me.

“You’re such an asshole,” she mutters, but she’s fighting a smile now, her face pressed into my shirt.

I kiss the top of her head, still chuckling. “Yeah. But you came on my tongue five seconds ago, so I think we’re even.”

She shoves me, but there’s no heat in it.

“The chili,” she says, pointing at the stove. “Stir it. Or I’m making you sleep on the couch.”

I hold up both hands in mock surrender, still grinning, and reach for the wooden spoon as she pulls her underwear back up.

“Don’t hurt me.”

“Please,” she says. “You’re six-two and built like a fucking house.”

“You’re pretty scary,” I tell her, smiling.

She marches toward me and throws a finger into my chest, glaring up at me. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder, but that doesn’t seem to concern her. If anything, she looks more determined because of it. I’m trying too hard not to laugh.

“You better watch it, Mister Mafia.”

The words wipe the smile from my face. Sarah notices. I can see it happen. The glare falters for half a second before she lifts her chin.

“You went there.”

“What if I did?” she asks.

For a moment, I look at her. Two days ago, she stood in our bedroom staring at the guns under my arms like she didn’t know who I was.