I sip my hot chamomile tea, eyeing Lorenzo as he stalks through the room toward the refrigerator. His brow is furrowed, dark eyes hooded and unreadable. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up to his elbows so that all the beautiful art on his forearms is on full display. He’s wearing his light gray suit pants today, the ones that hug his magnificent ass like he was poured into them. I mean, no man has any right to have an ass that looks that good. I stare at his perfect posterior while he rummages in the fridge.
“You looking for anything in particular?”
“Dinner,” he grunts.
Placing my mug onto the counter, I wander over to him. “Sophia made lasagna and I know she saved you some.” I sidle up beside him so that we’re both looking into the cavernous refrigerator.
“I can find it myself,” he huffs.
“And you’re doing such a good job,” I say with a smirk after he picks up the same tub of yogurt for the third time.
I reach into the back for the glass container with the green lid. My arm brushes against his, and my breath catches. Warmth spreads across my skin, despite the cool atmosphere. He pulls away like he’s been burned by a hot poker. Did he feel that too?
“Here it is.” I hand him the food, my voice barely a whisper.
“Thanks,” he replies gruffly, snatching the container from my hand. It’s only now that I notice his knuckles are bleeding. Again.
“You want me to fix you a little salad to go with that?”
He narrows his eyes at me.
“It’ll only take me a minute while you pop that in the microwave.” For reasons I can’t fully explain, I want to soothe away some of his pain, do something to make him feel cared for, even if it is just a salad. “You like all vegetables except cucumber, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, his face softening a little.
“Because it’s the work of the devil,” I tease.
The faintest flicker of a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. “Exactly.”
I grab the salad from the crisper drawer and place it on the kitchen counter. Then we stand side by side, me chopping vegetables and him staring at the microwave.
I glance sideways at him. “What did you do to your hand?”
“Work,” he says with a dismissive shrug.
“You should ask Kat to take a look at it.”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
We edge closer to each other. Heat radiates from him like a furnace. He smells so good—fresh air and cologne—and my mouth waters. I chew on my lip, aware of my breath growing increasingly heavier, my pulse thrumming against my skin.
While I’m chopping a tomato, a sudden memory of his tongue in my mouth makes me falter, and the knife slips, cutting my finger. “Ouch!”
“Are you okay?” He grabs my hand, sending rivulets of pleasure coursing through me. Caressing the tip of my finger, he inspects it for damage.
“It’s just a tiny scratch,” I insist, pulling my hand away. Goosebumps prickle along my skin.
His eyes darken to black orbs. “You should be more careful, sunshine.”
Sunshine? He’s never called me that before. My throat constricts. “I will,” I whisper hoarsely as the tension sizzles between us.
He nods, his gaze fixed on mine so intently that I worry he can read my thoughts. Thoughts of him and what it would feel like to have him kiss me again. His tongue darts out, running over his bottom lip, and I swear I feel it between my thighs.
I suck in a shaky breath.
His dark eyes narrow.
The damn microwave pings, and just like that, the spell is broken. He turns away to retrieve his lasagna, and I arrange his salad and place it on the countertop in front of him.
“Enjoy your dinner,” I say with a forced smile, but he doesn’t turn back to me. The closeness we shared has already vanished.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
I swallow down the knot of regret that sticks in my throat. Why is this so awkward?
I turn to leave the kitchen, but he grabs hold of my wrist and tugs me forward. Our bodies are barely an inch apart. My heart races. Blood rushes south. My mouth is so dry that I can’t even swallow. Then he dips his head, hot breath dusting over the skin of my neck and making me shiver.
“You seriously think we don’t have chemistry, Mia?” he asks with a low growl that travels directly between my thighs.
“M-maybe it was a poor choice of words.”
“Maybe?”
“Yes. Clearly, we have something, but …”
“But what?”
“Well, it should have been fireworks, but it was more like a fizzle.”
He glowers at me, jaw ticking. “A fizzle?”
I should stop talking. Right now. But I am Mia freaking Stone, and talking when I should shut the hell up is my lifelong curse. “It’s okay, not every guy can make every woman come.”
Holy crap, Mia. Why?
Lorenzo snarls, his muscles vibrating with pent-up rage. Towering over me, he picks up his plate, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turn white. I wince at my own stupidity. I basically accused the most dangerous man I’ve ever known of not being able to satisfy a woman. “I didn’t mean— I meant me. You couldn’t make me come,” I babble on, embarrassing myself further. What the hell is wrong with me?
His nostrils flare as he draws in a deep breath, probably trying to stop himself from throttling me. Then he storms out of the kitchen, muttering something in Italian and leaving me to stare after him.
