He stills again and slowly pulls his lips from my neck until he’s looking right at me. The way his soft, blue eyes harden with an icy resolve sends chills down my spine.
“No.” His response is terse and his jaw tenses. I swallow, trying to avoid his intense gaze and let my eyes linger on the muscle ticking in his neck. “I told you that you don’t need to apologize.”
My hand traces the side of his broad ribcage. I notice a small tattoo there that I don’t remember, but I also don’t care about figuring out what it is right now either.
“I just… I—” He lets his hand drop from my waist and to my dismay, he grabs the spoon from the counter and gets another spoonful of the black raspberry ice cream. I quirk a brow at him. “I hardly think it’s the time for more?—”
He doesn’t let me finish that sentence. Instead, he puts the spoon right into my shocked, waiting mouth.
“Can you be quiet while I tell you two things, Shadow?”
I hum my approval and nod while the delicious berries and chocolate coat the inside of my mouth.
“Good. First, there’s never a wrong time for dessert. Got it?”
I nod again.
“OK. More importantly, if you’re going to apologize, let me be the one to tell you what you should be sorry for. Understood?”
I nod again and this time my lips part. He grabs the spoon from my mouth and sticks it into the coffee ice cream. He cups my cheeks in each of his hands and runs his worn palms down my neck, over my shoulders until his thumbs find the neckline of my dress. The tips of his thumbs graze my skin so delicately and make my nipples tighten.
In one swift, calculated motion his hands pull apart. I hear threads tear and gasp. He stares right into my eyes while the buttons scatter across the floor and the back of the bar. It only takes seconds, but it feels like an eternity.
Slowly, his eyes roam down my body and I see the moment when he realizes I’m not wearing a bra. My dress is ripped wide open and I’m laid bare to him in nothing but my lacy black thong. His nostrils flare and his chest heaves.
“Fuck, Shadow.” His eyes smolder as they rake over my body leaving scorched skin in their path. That look of appreciation for my body through his eyes reminds me of the way he looked at me the night we first met. “You’ve been in my restaurant all night likethis?”
“Technically, I was in Rich’s bar.” I smirk at him but his jaw tenses again.
“Now’s not the time to mention another man’s name.” He presses his lips to mine in a claiming kiss, his tongue finding the back of my throat and scraping over my teeth. Message received.
He traces a finger down my neck, between my breasts all the way to my panties.
“I want you to feel the torture I’ve felt watching you for the last two years. I told you that I love desserts, so let me have mine.”
He grins and slowly lowers his head. My hips swivel up on their own, desperate to feel his contact. Then he stops and I hear the freezer open.
He stands back up with one more pint in his other hand. Talk about torture. This is maddening.
“Again with the gelato?”
“What did I say about wanting my dessert, and that there’s never a wrong time?”
“Yes, Chef,” I squeak out before shutting my mouth.
He grabs the spoon stuck in the coffeegelato. After scooping out a spoonful, he licks it slowly. “I’ve spent the last two years obsessed with you—remembering your scent, remembering what you taste like. So now I’m going to savor every fucking second of it.”
He takes that spoonful and holds it just over the space above my right breast, and below my collarbone. Slowly, he turns his wrist and lets it fall onto my heated skin, just above my nipple.
My skin is so hot that it melts and I get goosebumps from the frozen dessert. My nipple gets harder, even when I didn’t think it could and all I want is for him to touch me.
“That’s your apology for never letting me hold the door for you when you’d make your deliveries.” He watches as it melts over the curve of my breast into the hollow of my sternum. The look in his eyes is so purely wanton and lustful that I squirm under his gaze.
He grabs one of the other open pints. Slowly, he spoons out a small ball of a light, golden ice cream with streaks of what look like honey or caramel in it. He repeats the motion, letting it fall over my left breast.
“This is your apology for all the times you wouldn’t let me carry a box of coffee for you.” His eyes trace the melting gelato again until it pools with the coffee one between my breasts.
This time, he drops his head to my breasts, kissing each one, flicking his tongue over my hardened buds before he licks at the melting ice cream. I arch my back into him and he grabs my hips, holding me still against the counter. The way his strong, calloused hands fit around my hips only builds my need for his touch, for friction.