Page 21 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
Marco turns his head, his smirk softening. "Let’s eat first. We can work out the details later."
My mind refuses to process much more, but right then, the doorbell rings. A merciful reprieve appears in the form of hot, spicy, soul-warming food.
We get dressed quickly, and then Marco goes to the door. A quick thanks later, he’s back inside, holding two packed bags in his hand.
The scent of hot oil, spice, and soy sauce fills the air, curling around us like something intimate, something familiar. Marco drops the bag of takeout onto the coffee table and sinks onto the couch beside me, his body warm, solid.
The heat between us hasn’t fully faded, but now it’s mixed with something that’s wistfully easy.
I pull out a container of dumplings and pry the lid open, steam rising into the air. My stomach growls, and Marco chuckles, shaking his head as he passes me a pair of chopsticks.
"Hungry, are we?" he teases, popping open a beer.
I roll my eyes but don’t bother denying it. I stab a dumpling with my chopsticks—because who has time for grace right now?—and take a bite. The wrapper is delicate, the filling juicy, perfectly seasoned, glazed with chili oil.
A moan escapes me before I can stop it.
Marco pauses mid-sip, watching me with dark amusement. "That good, huh?"
I swallow and give him a look. "If you don’t eat one of these right now, you’re an idiot."
He grins, reaching into the bag for his own container, flipping the lid open. His long fingers pluck a dumpling from the tray, and instead of using his chopsticks, he pops it straight into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.
A low groan rumbles in his chest. "Okay. Fine. That’s obscene."
"Told you."
We eat in silence for a while, the sounds of the city humming outside, the occasional scrape of chopsticks against plastic, the clink of bottles. It’s weirdly…nice. Comfortable.
Which is exactly why I can’t let myself get used to it.
"I don’t want this to end," I say between spoonfuls of soup. The hunger easing has apparently given me more strength. "But I also don’t want it to be athing."
Marco nudges the container of Szechuan beef toward me, and I stab a piece, taking a bite. The heat hits me instantly—deep, smoky spice that spreads across my tongue, followed by an addictive numbness from the Sichuan peppercorns. I let out a slow breath, shaking my head.
"This is so good."
He watches me, chewing his own bite, then reaches over, swiping his thumb across the corner of my mouth. Before I can react, he pops it into his mouth, sucking the sauce from his skin like it’s nothing.
Like he didn’t just set my body on fire again.
"Amanti senza catene?"
"Hm?"
His lips curl into a delicious little smile. "You’re saying we could be lovers without chains?"
My stomach flips. "Yeah." I swallow, hard. "Something like that, I guess. No promises. Just…this."
And that look is back in his eyes—the one that tells me he could have me spread across this couch in under thirty seconds if he wanted to.
And I’d let him.
I shake my head, forcing myself to focus on my food, because this can’t go on forever.
Can it?
I glance at Marco out of the corner of my eye, watching the way he leans back, relaxed, as if we haven’t completely ruined each other tonight. He smirks to himself like he already knows what I’m thinking.
