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“What? All through dinner?”
“Dinner. Dessert. After dessert drinks. In fact, if you can just be topless from this point on, that’d be perfect.”
“Really? At work too? I imagine the tips might increase,” I teased, making a little chuckle move through him.
“Let me clarify,” he said, coming closer, all the way until his body pressed into my legs until they parted around him again. “I want you topless. For my eyes, and my eyes only,” he told me, tipping up my chin with his forefinger. “How’s that work for you?”
“I think I can get behind that,” I agreed. “I mean, you are cooking me dinner,” I added.
“Shit, yeah,” he said, and his look was a little guilty. “Kind of forgot about that, huh?”
“Maybe. But now my appetite is even bigger than before, so hop to it,” I demanded, giving his ass a little slap for emphasis.
“Well, then, I better get to it,” he said, giving my lips one hard kiss, then turning to get back to his dough.
“Can I help with anything?” I asked, watching as he finished cutting the dough, then grabbed the cheese mix, and started to place little dollops on the squares he’d created.
“You being here is plenty for me. Relax. Have another cup of coffee.”
So that was what I did.
I watched him cook.
I drank coffee.
I sang along to the record player.
All the while topless.
It wasn’t until the ravioli was in the water, and the garlic bread in the oven that Nino finally came back to me, grabbing my legs, wrapping them around his waist, then lifting me up. I clung to him as he turned and walked toward the table, dropping down onto a seat with me on his lap.
And then he kissed me.
Long and hard.
Until my lips were tingling.
Until my heart felt like it was full to bursting.
Finally, he lifted up, dropping me into a seat, then going to drain the ravioli, plating it, then bringing it and the garlic bread to the table before going to grab the wine.
“This smells amazing,” I told him, staring down at my plate.
“Hopefully, it’s edible,” he said, shooting me a bashful smile. “I was a little distracted,” he added, his gaze dipping to my chest.
“Well, next time you cook for me, I guess I’ll have to cover up.”
“Like hell,” he said, reaching for his wine, and taking a long sip.
As I expected, the ravioli was probably the best I’d ever had. And I don’t think I was saying that because this amazing man had made it for me.
“I am doing the dishes,” I insisted when the food was eaten and the wine had been drunk. “And don’t even try to object,” I added when I saw his mouth open to do just that.
“Okay,” he agreed.
I noticed a glint in his eye as I turned to go to the sink, but I didn’t truly understand it.
Not until I was already scrubbing his dishes.
