Page 74 of King of Omen

His feet were bare.

He had this way of stroking his fingers over his lower lip when he focused, peering at the sauce simmering or checking the pasta as it rolled in hot water.

It was sensual yet adorable at the same time.

He must have sensed my gaze because he glanced up and locked eyes with me, fingers on his mouth, a slow smile on his lips.

It hit me to the core, jolting at how much my body tingled from my hardened nipples to my toes.

I pulled away from our shared stare, hoping the heat in my cheeks was not showing.

‘Cara, please set the table,’ he rasped.

My eyes jerked away from his, face heating up.

‘OK,’ I said, rising to my feet and heading away from his mesmerising, sexy self towards the glass shelves packed with exquisite plates and cutlery.

I placed plates as Lorenzo put down two massive bowls of mouthwatering deliciousness, warm garlic bread and a tossed green salad.

Mauri groaned with impatience as he served up, and Lorenzo served him with a side eye. ‘Leave some for the rest of us, fratello,’ he growled with affection as the burly man heaped his plate.

‘The pasta is delectable,’ I said, forking more of the basil, tomato and Parmesan goodness into my mouth.

‘It’s simple, but it always works,’ Lorenzo rumbled. ‘My mother taught me this recipe. She claimed the secret ingredient was always love.’

His eyes flickered with a hint of nostalgia before he masked it with a smile.

His voice had softened as he spoke of his mother, a fleeting glimpse of vulnerability crossing his stoic features.

Moments like these reminded me there was more to Lorenzo than met the eye, layers beneath the hardened exterior he presented to the world.

Mauri raised his glass in a silent toast. The clinking of crystal filled the air, a sound so delicate yet laced with a shared understanding.

It appeared Lorenzo had discovered the right recipe to melt away the tension from earlier today.

After dinner, Mauri excused himself and limped to his apartment above the garage.

The man was sated, weary and half asleep when he prowled away.

Lorenzo and I stayed behind as a quiet hush fell over us.

We cleared up, and I washed dishes with methodical precision. The warm water soothed me as I stared into the night and raindrops sliding down the kitchen window.

I sensed Lorenzo’s heated gaze on me.

He was seated at the dining table, smoking another of his herb cigarettes.

In the reflection of the glass, he leaned back in his seat, eyes still on me.

Heat, lust, and need spiked up in me.

We’d been sharing quick, scorching glances at each other all day.

Now, I dried my hands on a towel and turned to face him.

Our eyes locked, aqua meeting lilac in a silent conversation that spoke volumes without words.

The charged atmosphere crackled, dense with unspoken desires dancing beneath the surface. Intense and unwavering, his eyes bore into mine, a muted challenge passing between us.

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