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If Sin knows, Smoke will know. And if Dory knows, my entire family will find out, which is just perfect.
And by perfect, I mean inconvenient as fuck. Especially if I actually have to hand her back to Uncle Andre.
Her smile widens so big, it squeezes my heart in the strangest way. Fuck, I better not be having a heart attack.
I clutch my chest as Kennedy goes on. “Plus, Dory practically fell in love with Truffles. She insisted on feeding him, bathing him, and taking him for an extra-long walk. Even begged to keep him overnight.”
Finally. The crazy old woman is good for something.
“Oh my gosh,” Kennedy continues, laughing lightly. “The stories they have about you when you were a kid...”
“Lies,” I insist. “Everyone knows I was never a kid. Now, before I have to strangle the life from my brother for not releasing your hand, it’s time he left.”
“He could stay for dinner,” Bella offers, all coy and begging to be punished.
“I’m not hungry,” I lie. I’m fucking famished. I haven’t eaten since before we left for Italy. It’s a good thing Dory kept Truffles. I swear the damned dog is sounding more like a crudités by the minute.
“He never eats dinner,” Dante whispers loudly to Bella. “Haven’t you heard? Vampires only feast on the blood of their victims.”
When I shoot him a death glare, Dante quickly takes the hint, kisses Bella on both cheeks just to spite me, and moves at a snail’s pace to the door. “I’ll have the chef deliver dinner. Pleasure to meet you, Kennedy. Arrivederci, bro.”
Within fifteen minutes, dinner is served promptly on the terrace of the cliffside house overlooking the sea, where flecks of amber and gold dance across the water in the early evening light.
The chef presents a rustic Italian feast: bruschetta topped with ripe tomatoes and fresh basil, tender lamb chops grilled to perfection, and handmade pasta served fresh in a wheel of Pecorino Romano.
Kennedy’s eyes light up as the chef prepares cacio e pepe. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she says as she watches in awe.
I explain. “The hot pasta is tossed in a creamy sauce made with cheese and freshly ground black pepper, which allows the cheese to melt and coat the pasta in a way to create a rich and indulgent dish straight from the wheel of Pecorino Romano.” The chef twirls a serving onto her plate, and I take a bit with my fork and feed it to her.
“You’ve become the sexiest man alive,” she says, opening her mouth.
“As if there was any doubt, Bella.”
Her bite of the pasta is accompanied by a moan so erotic, the bulge in my pants was instant. I took several deep breaths as I watched her eat, steadying my pulse against the rhythmic pounding in my chest and throbbing of my painfully stiff cock.
I’ve never been so turned on by a woman in my life, let alone one that was just eating. Her lips were pink and full. Eyes deliciously satisfied. And somehow, watching her swallow became the highlight of my night.
With a quick, “Questo è tutto,” I excuse the chef.
He nods with a knowing glance. Maybe too knowing. “Molto bene, signore.”
Very good sir.
Then bids us both a good evening with, “Buona serata a voi,” and makes himself scarce.
Kennedy manages to squeak out a “Grazie mille,” thanking the chef profusely before ravenously shoving another forkful into her gorgeous mouth. I stare in awe as her next moan is damn near orgasmic. “Mmm.”
At this point, I have to blow out a breath. Fuck. This woman will be the death of me.
With an unsettled furrow in her brow, she murmurs, “You’re barely touching your food.” She twirls a forkful of creamy, cheesy pasta and gently offers it to my lips. “Here.”
I lean closer without thinking, allowing her to feed me. It’s a gesture laden with unexpected intimacy, a vulnerability I rarely show. This closeness, this ease with her—it’s unsettling, and there’s a strange comfort in it.
It’s not my style to let anyone get this close, damn sure not close enough to fucking feed me.
Yet here I am, unexpectedly docile and oddly at ease. It’s comfortable. Too comfortable. Like the deceptive grip of a noose moments before it tightens and snaps my neck.
“Home, lad. Yer home.”
