“Stay.” It’s not a command. The word is soft. Almost hesitant. “Please,” he adds.
My knees almost give out. I would lick blood off his hands if he asked me like that.
My heart’s flailing like it’s late for work and forgot its pants.
Dario Marchetti just said please to me. Dario who is wearing jeans and a white t-shirt like a normal person, asking me to stay.
“I’ll make affogato,” he says, like that’s a normal follow-up to catching a woman mid-post-nut, dressed in his shirt. “You brought cookies. We should talk.”
Talk? Sir, my vagina is still pulsing. Use smaller words.
He wants to talk. While I’m wearing his shirt. In his bedroom. After breaking into his house for the second time and getting caught smelling his closet.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Normal Wednesday activities.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He nods and then he turns and heads downstairs.
I follow him.
Chapter Seventeen
STEVIE
His shirt clings to my thighs. My dignity is face down in his closet. We’re all making choices.
The kitchen smells like espresso.
Dario’s at the counter, moving with that precise, controlled grace I remember from the restaurant. Every motion economical. He handles the espresso machine like it’s an extension of his hands.
I hover in the doorway.
Extremely aware of the fact that I’m about to have a conversation with a man while wearing his clothes and he’s just... okay with that apparently.
“Sit,” he says without looking up.
I’m freshly fucked by my own hand in this man’s bed, sitting in his shirt, watching him make espresso like this isn’t the opening scene of a porno I would absolutely watch on loop. My thighs are still sticky. My brain is soup.
And he’s over there handling glassware like foreplay.
He finishes making two affogatos and sets one in front of me before taking the stool across from me with his own.
We’re separated by granite countertop and three feet of charged air.
I take a spoonful. Focus on the taste because if I focus on him, I’m going to combust.
Hot and cold. Bitter and sweet. Perfect.
“Thank you,” I manage.
“You brought amaretti.” He gestures to my container. “Those take time.”
“I wanted them to be good.”
“They will be.” He takes a bite of his own affogato. “Everything you make is good.”
“How would you know? You’ve only had.” I stop. Do math. “Okay, three batches of cookies and some candy. But still.”
