Page 35 of Knot Made to Break: Part Two

“You want to...” he stated roughly.

“Make you feel as good as you made me feel,” I finished, summoning courage I didn’t know I had. “While you try to keep this beautiful car on the road.”

For a moment, Marco looked stunned—like I’d short-circuited his brain. Then he moved with a speed that startled a laugh out of me. He was out of the car in seconds, rounding the hood so quickly I half-expected to see skid marks.

“Move over, sweetheart,” he said, yanking open the door. “I suddenly feel like risking my life,” he teased.

I laughed even as I obeyed. “So, that’s a yes?”

Asking was superfluous. The long, hard outline of his cock was visible through his jeans, but I wanted to hear him say it, anyway.

“That’s afuck yes,Angel.” He slid behind the wheel, brought the car roaring to life, and pulled back onto the road like it belonged to him—the same as I did.

As we peeled out, I licked my lips and trailed my hand over his length, eager to have the taste of him on my tongue. Pulling down his zipper, I bent over his lap and put his concentration to the test.

With a curse, Marco tipped his head into the headrest, his fists tight around the wheel, his eyes laser focused on the road while I did my best to work him into a frenzy.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he growled, voice hoarse already. “And I’m gonna savor every goddamn second.”

fourteen

KITANIA

I ranmy fingers across the various countertop samples, imagining laying out cooling pastries or kneading dough on the beautiful, polished surfaces. Deciding whether I wanted more of a speckled granite, a glittering quartz, or the stunning white veined marble felt impossible.

Three months ago, I wouldn’t have dared to dream about having a kitchen of my own, let alone renovating one to my exact specifications. But here I was, comparing options because my opinion mattered to my mates, because I had a future worth planning for.

The kitchen designer, a thoroughly vetted Beta, stood respectfully at my side, careful to maintain enough distance that Gio wouldn’t growl at him, but close enough to answer my endless questions.

“This one has excellent heat resistance,” he said, tapping a sample with white quartz with a silvery-blue shimmer. “Perfect for someone who bakes as much as Mr. Cristenello says you do.”

I bit my lip to hide my smile. Gio had been bragging about my baking again. The thought warmed me from the inside out.

“The veining in this marble is beautiful,” I murmured, tracing the delicate gray lines across one sample with my fingertip. “But I worry about staining.”

“Wise concern,” the designer nodded. “Though as long as you seal it regularly, you shouldn’t have a problem. The quartz, however, may be more practical for heavy use. It’s also virtually maintenance free since quartz is non-porous.”

From a few feet away, I could feel Giovanni watching me. He leaned against the railing, arms crossed over his broad chest, content to let me take the lead. When I glanced over, his hazel eyes were warm with something that still made my heart skip.

“What do you think?” I called to him, torn between practicality and the option that truly called to me.

He pushed off from the wall and sauntered over, his movements fluid and confident, a fighter through and through. “I think you should pick whatever makes you happy, Dolcezza.” His deep voice sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. “This is your domain.”

My domain.The words echoed in my head as I turned back to the samples. My fingers hovered over a particularly stunning piece of white and gold marble that would catch the morning light streaming through the eastern windows. It would bring warmth and brightness to the dark teal cabinets I wanted to go with, and would match the gold hardware perfectly, tying all the design elements together.

“I think the natural light will hit this one beautifully,” I tapped my favorite sample. In my mind, I could see it already—fruit tarts with glistening glazes cooling on that counter. Complex laminated pastries being rolled out, the butter creating thin, delicate layers that would puff up in the oven. Rows and rows of cooling cookies in every variety. My mother’s breadrecipe I hadn’t made since I was fourteen, the dough rising in the corner where the morning sun lingered longest.

The memories of baking with my mom came rushing back—one of the few bright spots in my childhood before loss and foster care swallowed me whole. The way she’d let me punch down the dough, laughing at my serious concentration. How she’d dust flour on my nose and call me her little helper. Those memories had been locked away for so long, too painful to revisit. But now, with the promise of a kitchen of my own, they didn’t hurt as much. Now, using her recipes felt like carrying on a legacy.

The designer cleared his throat, bringing me back to the present. “Should we discuss appliances next? I have the catalogs here.”

I nodded, reluctantly pulling myself away from the countertop samples. He handed over the catalogue for my favorite brand, and I immediately flipped to the ovens, mentally calculating what would be reasonable. The mid-range models looked perfectly adequate—dual fuel, decent capacity, reliable.

Giovanni stepped closer, placing a warm hand on the small of my back. “Don’t even think about compromising on the oven,” he ordered firmly, leaving no room for argument.

I flushed slightly, caught in my mental calculations of how to keep costs reasonable. “I wasn’t going to—” I began, but Giovanni’s knowing look stopped me mid-sentence.

“Sweetness, I saw you eyeing the mid-range model. That’s not happening.” His thumb rubbed small circles against my spine, sending tingles up my back.

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