I feel his presence in the room before I even see him, and my heart flutters in my chest at the sight of him sitting alone at the kitchen table. I’d like to say I have no idea why I enjoy his company so much, but I’d be lying to myself. Lorenzo Moretti is a complex and wonderful man, and he’s become a true friend to me the past three weeks. It’s been two days since he admitted that he missed me in the library. Two days since I felt the strange fluttering in my stomach—when he looked at me like that. When he made me believe, just for a second, that there might be another reason he missed me besides having grown used to my background noise.
But he’s just a friend. Nothing more. He’s clearly still grieving for his wife, and I’m still married.
I take a seat opposite him and pour myself a mug of coffee from the pot on the table. My eyes are drawn to the delicious-looking cheesecake he’s eating, and the scent of sweet caramel makes my stomach growl.
“I’m sorry. I took the last piece,” he says with an apologetic shrug.
“That’s okay. I had a snack earlier. Some carrots and cucumber sticks.”
His top lips curl with disgust. “You call that a snack?”
I smirk at him. “You don’t like vegetables?”
He tilts his head as though deep in thought. “I like them just fine, as an accompaniment to a meal. Except cucumber. That stuff’s the work of the devil.”
“Noted,” I say with a soft laugh. He’s funny even though he doesn’t mean to be. “Anyway, I don’t eat dessert.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “Why not?”
I blink at him. “What?”
“I asked you why not.”
I shift in my seat. “What kind of a question is that?”
A frown furrows his brow. “A straightforward one. Why don’t you eat dessert?”
Old memories and lingering shame cause heat to creep up my neck and cheeks. I don’t want to answer, but Lorenzo stares at me, patiently waiting for my reply. “Sugar and fat go straight to my ass. I’m always ten pounds heavier than I should be, and dessert does not look good on a body like mine.”
His jaw ticks. “Who told you that?”
“What?”
His frown deepens. “Are you having trouble hearing today? I asked who the hell told you that?”
I swallow a lump of emotion. Years of being belittled for my size and my tendency to put on a few pounds during the holidays, constant monitoring of what I ate and thinly veiled criticism if I ate even the slightest bit of anything sweet—all of that left a mark. “Brad told me—”
Lorenzo snarls.
“But it’s true. I am really susceptible to gaining weight if I don’t eat healthy.”
He snorts and looks down at the cheesecake in front of him.
I dip my head, so not wanting to have this conversation. A large bite of cheesecake appears in front of me. “What?” I look between him and the gooey dessert two inches from my face.
“Eat.”
I blink at him. Is he for real? “I-I can’t.”
“Yeah, you can.” He inches the fork closer to my lips, and despite my embarrassment, I find myself opening my mouth and allowing him to feed me. As soon as the flavor hits my tongue, the sweet taste floods my senses, making me moan softly in appreciation. My eyes flutter closed. Oh! This is so good. My tastebuds are overwhelmed by rich, tart cream cheese, velvety caramel, and the slightest hint of salt, and I’m reminded how much I love dessert. This cheesecake is divine.
Lorenzo pulls the fork from my mouth, and I lick my lips before swallowing. “Thank you,” I whisper.
“You’re welcome.” He takes a bite for himself, licking the fork—the one that was just in my mouth—clean before scooping up another chunk and holding it out to me.
Raising my hand, I shake my head. “No, you enjoy it.”
The corners of his mouth curl upward. “I’m gonna enjoy watching you enjoy it.”
Holy crap! I open my mouth again and he pushes the fork inside slowly, as though he’s savoring the moment. It feels so intimate. Too intimate. Heat coils deep in my core.
I suck the cheesecake from the tines, sweeping my tongue over every nook to savor the sweet, delicious substance. Lorenzo keeps his gaze fixed on mine, making no attempt to pull the fork from my mouth. I’m hyperaware of the fact that he licked it clean only seconds earlier, and a throbbing ache builds inside me.
Why does this moment feel so sensual? His fork is in my mouth, but it may as well be his tongue for the way my body reacts. Pulse thrumming against my pressure points. Skin flushed. Wet heat pooling between my thighs.
His eyes darken as he pulls the fork from my mouth. His attention remains locked on me while he takes another bite for himself, repeating the process again and again until he’s feeding me the last morsel. I keep my lips closed around the fork a little longer than necessary, wanting to prolong whatever this is. I don’t remember the last time a man looked at me with the kind of hunger I see in Lorenzo’s gaze.
When he pulls away a few seconds later, I almost groan with frustration. He was simply sharing his dessert with me. That’s all that was. He places the silverware on the plate and it clinks against the china.
“Was that good?” he asks, his voice smoother than the caramel we just shared.
Is he talking about the cheesecake or the way he fed it to me? “Yes,” I reply to both, my cheeks flaming brighter.
“It’s a pleasure to watch a beautiful woman enjoy her food.”
I blink at him. He thinks I’m beautiful? My heart flutters in my chest like a bird trapped in a cage.
His eyes narrow again as he searches my face. I wish I knew what he was looking for so I could give it to him. The sound of his throat clearing brings me out of my fantasy. “I should get back to work.”
I’m struck silent for the first time in my life. Say something, Mia!
“Of course, can’t keep all those mobsters waiting.” Oh, bananas. Anything but that. The puzzled look on his face makes me wince.
I stare at my hands, picking at a loose piece of skin near my thumbnail while he washes his plate. I steal a glance at him. His broad frame obscures my view of the sink. With every motion, his thick biceps strain the seams of his crisp white shirt. He places the wet dishes on the drainer to dry, and I’m struck by how comfortable he looks doing such a domestic chore. Sure, this is his house, but he has a bunch of servants and he still washes his own dishes. Brad didn’t wash a single thing the entire time we were together, not even at the beginning when he was sweeping me off my feet. That probably should’ve been a sign, huh?
When he spins around to face me, I realize I’m staring and avert my gaze. He walks past me, headed for the door, but he stops as he reaches me, and I inhale the familiar masculine scent of him. “For the record, I think your ass, and the rest of your body, is fucking perfect.”
My jaw nearly hits the table as I watch him walk out of the room. Perfect? Lorenzo Moretti thinks my body is fucking perfect? Holy goddamn bananas. I might have just fallen head over heels in lust.
