Page 33 of Tainted Princess
A sharp popping sound brought me back to the present, and I turned to see Enzo had the bottle of wine open. He set it on the table, then stalked toward me again. This time, when he leaned close, I was facing him, my back pressed against the edge of the counter, and I lifted my chin to his face and met his steely gray gaze. Keeping his eyes on mine, Enzo extended one arm above my head, opening the cabinet and reaching in without looking. I was trapped, both by his body pinning me to the granite and his eyes pinning me with his stare.
For a moment, neither of us moved, and the tension in the small apartment seemed to increase with each of my indrawn breaths. The longer he stood there, the more of him I breathed in, filling myself with his essence, the scent that was exclusively his.
I liked it, and I hated myself for that.
All too soon, Enzo stepped back, the loss of his body heat causing chills to run along my skin. I watched as he set the two wine glasses he had retrieved down on the table next to our plates, then unzipped his leather jacket and slung it on the back of the couch and sat down.
Taking my seat across from him, I watched as he poured some wine in my glass, then his own. Enzo stared at the plate in front of him for a second, then glanced up to me, his eyes hooded as he looked at me questioningly.
“You really make this?”
“Yes,” I answered, reaching for my fork.
“Smells good.”
“Thanks. I didn’t have time to make the pasta from scratch, though. And I would have liked some fresh bread as well, but I’ll try to plan better for the rest of the week.”
He stared a moment longer, his brows furrowing, then he took a huge scoop of the pasta and shoved it in his mouth. I watched in silent delight as his eyes widened in surprise as he tasted the meal I had made. He ate quickly, our lack of conversation leaving room for his moans as he finished his food in record time. I had barely put a dent in mine when Enzo slid his plate forward and ran his hand over his middle, patting it in satisfaction.
“That was fuckin’ great, Francesca.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you liked it.”
He met my eyes across the table, looking like he wanted to say something else, but as his mouth opened, his phone beeped, and he looked away from me to where his jacket was tossed on the couch. Once he had retrieved his phone, he sat again, scrolling through the message and then typing out a response.
“That was my lawyer,” he started, and I paused, my glass halfway to my mouth as I waited for him to elaborate. “Tomorrow, we’re going to meet to go over some things. I’d like it if you could come with me. I asked him to arrange some things for you.”
This surprised me, but I tried not to show it. “Alright.”
“And I, uh, I got you a key from the concierge downstairs.” Enzo reached into the pocket of his pants and then slid the item in question across the table toward me. “I’m sorry for not thinking of it sooner.”
I was stunned. An apology was the last thing I expected from him. I set my glass down after taking a hefty sip. “That’s okay. Although, we should probably exchange numbers, too.” I grinned ruefully, and he huffed out a laugh.
“Yeah, probably.”
Enzo waited while I finished my meal, and while it was quiet, it wasn’t as uncomfortable as our flight this morning had been. I gazed out the window, enjoying the view of the lights of Las Vegas. It really was a spectacular location.
When I stood with my plate, Enzo stopped me with a hand on my wrist. “You cooked,” he said quietly. “I’ll wash up.”
Was I dead? It felt like I was dying.
There was no time in all my years of serving food to Made Men that even a single one of them had offered to lift a finger with the dishes. I sat back heavily, my eyes wide, as I watched Enzo clear the table, rinse the dishes, and load them in the dishwasher. He even stored the leftovers in a nice container and tucked it in the fridge.
When he was finished, he turned, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms. His eyebrows were drawn down over his stormy gray eyes, and I waited, wondering what thoughts were going through his head.
“Listen,” he said, and I could have laughed at how incredibly awkward he looked. “I, uh, I can take the couch.”
“What?” Well, he was all about shocking me tonight, wasn’t he? “No, Enzo. That’s not necessary.”
“Francesca, it’s fine.”
“Seriously, Enzo. If anything, I should be on the couch. I’m the one intruding into your home.”
“You’re not sleeping on the fuckin’ couch,” he barked, and I blinked. It wasn’t late, but I was still on New York time, and suddenly, sleep seemed like the best idea ever.
“Alright. Well, then I guess that bed is plenty big enough for both of us.”
He frowned at that but didn’t contradict me. After a second, he nodded.
