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“Frikadeller.It’s not my mom’s original recipe, but it’s close enough to the ones I can remember her making for me as a kid.”
My stomach twists, and I press my thighs together in an attempt to relieve the throb between them. There’s something so fuckinghotabout this made man being domestic, that if I weren’t already pregnant, I think the sight before me might result in the same predicament.
“Aren’t meatballs supposed to be Italian, though? Like, isn’t that kinda your thing?”
“Pasta iskind ofour thing, although that’s debatable, too. Meatballs transcend culture, Caroline.”
“Maybe all the baking’s gone to my head.”
“Well, in any case,” he says, dropping the pork in his hand into the skillet and reaching for another handful of the mixture, “the main difference is spices. If I were making them with my Italian heritage, I’d add Italian seasoning, parmesan cheese, maybe even some olive oil.Frikadelleruses nutmeg and sage. And I never mix meats, because the all-pork method with these makes them more savory, which works really well with the gravy.”
He drops more into the skillet, pressing the tops down with a fork, so they resemble tiny patties. I chew on the inside of my cheek and resist the urge to reach out and slide my arms around his neck, distracting him from the task at hand.
“Does your dad do a lot of cooking?”
Shaking his head, he adjusts the heat and moves down the counter to work on mixing the gravy ingredients. “Not since I moved out. I guess, with just him in the house, he doesn’t see the point. But for me, it makes me feel connected to my ancestors. And my mom.”
“How come this is the first time I’m seeing you make anything?”
“Baby, you hogged my kitchen for weeks when you moved in. I was scared to ask you to move over; sure you’d chop me up in my sleep and add me into a batch of banana nut bread.”
Laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I move closer to him, seeking out his warmth. Our shoulders brush as he measures flour in a glass cup. My tongue darts out subconsciously, roving over my lip while he works, and he glances at me from the corner of his eye.
“You okay?”
I clear my throat, trying to blink through the fog of need pulsing through my body. “I’m good.”
He straightens, dumping the flour into a ceramic bowl. “Okay, well, stop looking at me like you want to eat me. I won’t be responsible for my actions, otherwise.”
Pulling my lip between my teeth, I rake my eyes over his body the way I want to run my tongue over it. “What if Idowant to eat you?”
A low growl rips from his throat; he shoves the bowl back on the counter, slipping his arms around my waist and hauling me up. I wrap my legs around him, pulling his erection flush against me through our clothes, and he sets my ass on the edge of the counter.
His hands tangle in my hair, tilting my head back so he can feather kisses along the column of my throat. “Fucking hell,mio amore.Why does this just keep getting better?”
My mouth parts as if it has an actual answer to give, but nothing comes out. I don’t know how to tell him it’s pretty hard to improve what already feels perfect, without also addressing the secret I’m keeping.
As if on cue, a sharp pain cuts across my stomach, and I hiss against it, my body arching into Elia’s. He moans, crashing his lips into mine, and I swallow the sound, wishing I could keep it for myself. Play it on repeat any time I need him.
He pulls back after a few minutes of our tongues sparring, cupping my cheeks. “I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s dangerous,” I quip, my lips curling up.
He rolls his eyes, one hand slipping down to grip my throat. Leaning in, his tongue slides from my chin to my eyebrow, making my knees quiver. “You said you’d never given a hand-job before. Does that go for mouth stuff, too?”
“Yep.”
His gray eyes flash, fire dancing in their depths, and he drags my face to his again, kissing me harder than before. It feels like being branded—bruising and swelling in the most delicious way possible, and I swear I feel it in my soul.
“The food’s gonna burn,” I murmur against him.
Teeth latching onto my bottom lip, he gives a wicked grin. “Let the whole goddamn world burn, baby.”
And we do.
He takes me to his room, and soon we’re a panting, quaking mass of limbs and muscle, sweaty and grunting our pleasure until I’m sure he’s fucked my brains out. My head hangs off the side of the mattress as he comes deep inside me, a low warmth filling my stomach.
The smoke detectors sound not long after, and I move to get up and go to the kitchen; he pulls me back, positioning us beneath the covers and pressing his lips into my hairline. He wraps one arm around my shoulders and curls the other over my waist, tugging me into his body, and I settle into it, accepting everything—my feelings, our situation. Mysecret.
