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“Maybe you should have married one of them then,” I said, watching as he tried to keep his lip from twitching at those words.
I was sure for one breath-stealing moment that he was going to kiss me.
But then, just as suddenly as he’d grabbed me, he released me.
“What are you making?” he asked, motioning around.
“Sausage, peppers, and onions on pasta with garlic bread and a salad.”
“Is everything done?” he asked, making me gesture around to my three active prep stations. “Put me to work then,” he demanded, pulling off his cufflinks then rolling up his sleeves.
I put him on the salad so I could focus on my task. It was a simple thing. But my gaze kept slipping to him as he chopped the lettuce, radicchio, tomatoes, onions, Pepperoncini peppers, and olives. I told myself it was to make sure he wasn’t screwing anything up. But I hardly even noticed what he was putting in the bowl because my gaze was focused almost exclusively on the man’s hands and forearms, watching at the way his muscles and tendons flexed.
I did not—absolutely did not—think about how those hands and arms would look when they were doing another, very distinctive motion between my thighs.
Ugh.
What the hell was wrong with me?
“Baby?” Primo called, making my gaze shoot up.
“Huh?”
“Called you three times,” Primo told me, lips curved upward a bit at one side.
“Oh, sorry. I was, ah, worrying about your fingers,” I told him, trying to make it sound the least bit convincing.
“How so?”
“You know… because you chop so fast,” I lied.
“Are you sure you were worrying about my fingers, and not thinking about my fingers inside your pussy again?” he asked, making my sex clench hard at the memory.
“Why… why would I want to think about that?” I asked, turning toward the stove as I said it so he couldn’t see what I was thinking.
It wasn’t until I’d dumped the pasta into the strainer that I realized he’d abandoned his post making his salad, and had crossed the space to come up behind me.
“Because, lamb,” he said, his front pressing into my back as his hands grabbed the counter on either side of my body, trapping me in, “you might have put on a good act afterward, but I know you’ve been thinking about me making you come every day since then.”
“No, I…” I started, but lost my sentence as Primo leaned down further, his face in my neck, his warm breath on my skin.
“No?” he asked, and I could feel his lips on me as he spoke.
That time, the shiver wasn’t just inside.
My whole body trembled.
Which made one of those low, sexy chuckles move through Primo again.
“Primo, I have to finish dinner,” I told him, hearing the breathlessness in my own voice, knowing there was no way he missed it.
“Fuck dinner,” he said as his hand slid off the counter and across my lower stomach.
In one move, he flicked open the fly of my pants and plunged his hand inside, his fingers stroking up my cleft.
“Already wet for me, hm, baby?” he asked, voice a smooth sound that washed over me, making me helpless but to lean back into him as his thumb found my clit. “Good, hm?” his voice rumbled as my head fell back onto his chest and a low, throaty whimper escaped me. “More?” he asked as two of his fingers drifted downward to tap at the entrance to my body.
“Yes,” I moaned as my hips wiggled against his touch, demanding more.
And just like that, his fingers slid inside me as a little growling sound vibrated through Primo’s chest as my walls tightened around him, pulled him in.
His fingers were slow and gentle at first, teasing me, driving me crazy, hinting at fulfillment, but making it clear he was going to drag it out first.
“I bet you’re thinking about my cock in—“
I was barely cognizant of the beeping sound. A part of me was so far gone that I thought it was possibly the sausage in the oven. In which case, I was willing to let them stay in and dry out if I got relief from the clawing need for release growing inside me.
But I knew the moment I felt Primo stiffen and slip his fingers not only out of my pussy but my pants as a whole that it wasn’t the oven.
Which left… the elevator.
“I’m sorry to break it to you, Izzy, but they didn’t have the dessert… oh, hey, Primo,” Dulles said, sounding surprised to see his brother there. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, making Primo move away from me.
“No, I was telling my wife that she’s supposed to save some of the pasta water to put inside the sauce,” Primo said, making me stiffen as I turned, not knowing if my cheeks were flushed, but figuring Dulles would blame anger or the heat in the kitchen if they were.
