Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
I walk into the kitchen, and there she is.
Standing at the stove in one of her simple sundresses, which I’ve come to love, and an apron tied around her waist. Her hair is pulled back loosely, and a few strands fall around her face. She’s stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. She looks so fucking beautiful it stops me for a second.
She glances up, sees me, and her whole face changes. Her eyes brighten, lips curving into a big, open smile that hits me right in the gut.
“You’re home early,” she says, surprised and happy.
A great warmth steals across my chest. I cross the space between us, pull her by the waist against me, and kiss her. She melts into me instantly, one hand still holding the spoon, the other coming up to rest on my chest. When I pull back, she’s flushed, eyes soft, and I feel that familiar ache settle deeper.
“Why are you back so early?” she asks, voice a little breathless. “Salvatore was almost never around this time of night. He always operated late, and I assumed you would as well, since you were practically running everything for him anyway.”
I lean against the counter beside her, watching the way the light plays across her cheek. There’s no point in lying. Not to her. I want to open myself up fully, give her everything I’ve never given anyone.
“The truth?” I say quietly. “I wanted to come home to you. I wanted to hear how your day went. I wanted to see the pieces you pulled from the kiln.”
She freezes for a second. The surprise on her face is clear, like she can’t quite believe what I just said. She laughs softly, a little disbelieving sound, turns away, and goes back to stirring her pot. I know she doesn’t want me to see her expression.
“You wanted to see if I was skilled enough to invest in a studio?” she teases, but there is a strange tremor in her voice.
“Yeah. I guess I did.”
She sets the spoon down, wipes her hands on the apron, then goes into the pantry and brings out the fired pieces she brought home — two lidded pots, each one unique, the glazes catching the light in subtle, shifting colors. I turn them slowly in my hands. I’m no artist, but these pots are special. She explains the little imperfections about them that she loves. I listen to her words as I run my thumb over the smooth surfaces, imagining her hands shaping them.
I love them. Both of them.
I set them down carefully and look at her. “They are beautiful.”
“Really?”
I nod. “Yes. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
She smiles, soft and pleased. “Which one do you like most?”
I consider them seriously and pick up the one I think is the most beautiful. It has just the tiniest hint of pink running through it like a secret. It feels perfect in my hand.
“This one,” I say, turning it in the light.
She laughs again, the sound bright and easy. “Look under the lid.”
I take off the lid and examine it carefully. To my surprise, my initials are engraved on the side. RS. I look up at her.
“Ricci Santori,” she whispers.
The way she says my name — soft, intimate, like it belongs to her now — does something crazy to me. I put the lid down on the counter carefully and reach for her, pulling her to me by the waist, and kiss her again. But this time it’s completely different. It’s urgent. It’s hungry. It’s devouring. It’s primitive. It’s pure madness.
I’m going fucking crazy!
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, and for a moment we both forget everything else. Her soft body presses into mine. I back her against the counter, my hands sliding down to grip her hips. I can feel her breath hitch against my mouth. The kiss goes on and on. My cock is hard and ready.
Suddenly, the pot behind her starts to sizzle, the smell shifting from ‘I’m delicious, eat me’ to ‘fuck I’m really burning here’.
She pulls away with a shocked gasp, eyes wide. “Oh shit. The food!”
She is laughing as she grabs the pan and moves it off the heat. I stand there, watching her, heart still racing, my cock throbbing, a slow grin tugging at my mouth.
This. This is exactly where I want to be.
Forever.
Chapter Fifty-Six
VIOLA
It’s the night of the gala. I stand in front of the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
The dress is blood-red, floor-length, and off-the-shoulder, the silk falling like liquid over my body. It clings in all the right places and drapes beautifully everywhere else, the color so deep and rich it looks almost dangerous under the soft bedroom lights. I spent almost an hour wrestling my hair into an updo, but it’s already rebelling. Loose tendrils have already escaped from around my face and neck, curling softly against my skin. I try to tuck one back, but it slips free again. I give up. It’s just going to have to be like this.