Page 53 of Wounded King
Lips I can't take my eyes off of. No man should have such sensual lips. It should be illegal.
"I might have another proposition about that dream of yours later." He picks up our earlier conversation.
"Intriguing," I reply, hating how my voice grates, and I cough to disguise how deep it's getting, before taking another sip of the wine. Which, by the way, is the best wine I've ever had. I don't think I'll ever be able to call what I buy at the grocery storewineagain.
As the plates are cleaned away, I stare at all the uneaten food. I didn't even get to sample all of them, and I'm stuffed to the gills.
"Ready for dessert?" He smirks.
I groan. "I don't think I can eat another bite."
"I have just the right cure for that." He waves the waiter over. "Due Sambuca," he orders.
"Really, I can't eat another bite."
He reaches over and takes my hands in his. The gesture is so intimate, a flare shoots through me, heating my blood to levels that border on boiling, probably dissolving all my bones in the process. I feel so weak, I can barely keep my head up. I hope my trembles are internal, but my skin where our flesh meets creates little waves moving up higher on my arms of so much pleasure I can barely breathe.
I've never felt this supercharged in my life.
"Trust me?" he whispers.
God help me. I nod.
Moments later, the waiter returns with a tray holding two short glasses. On the bottom of each lies a single coffee bean, and it takes me a second to realize that the liquid inside is actually on fire.
"Oh," I giggle, and Marcello lets go of my hand to take the first glass and blow out the flames before handing it to me. Then he does the same with his, holding it up for us to clink together.
"Saluti," he says.
"Saluti," I echo and take a sip. "Hmm." It smells and tastes like licorice, yet it doesn't. It's strange. It warms my throat and insides, and at the same time, I can feel a buzz going to my head.
"It's strong," he warns as he takes another long sip.
"I can hold my liquor," I boast.
He raises an eyebrow in challenge and empties his glass. I follow his example, grinning at him. It's true. I can hold my liquor. I don't drink often, and I get drunk even less; it literally takes a gallon to make me even tipsy. It's like I'm either a seasoned alcoholic or immune.
Marcello raises his hand to summon the waiter. "Bring the bottle."
His grin dares me.
Challenge accepted.
We drink two more glasses, and he watches me carefully as I rise from my chair. I laugh. I imagine a straight line on the red-gold carpet and walk it, while alternatingly putting my hands up to my nose.
"You weren't kidding," he laughs.
"Impressed?"
"Either that or scared. The jury is still out on that one." He counters.
It's my turn to laugh. So, admittedly, I might be abittipsy. Just a smidgeon.
"It was a pleasure having you here, signorina, please come back any time." Thomaso appears.
"Thank you, Thomaso. Your food was… " I turn to Marcello, "How do you say delicious?"
"Delizioso," He says.
