Page 56 of Paparazzi

“What do you want to eat?” I ask, looking at the menu, whetting my appetite.

“They have an excellent Sicilian pasta with eggplant and mozzarella,” he says. “What sounds good to you?”

“I think I’m going to have the Gnocchi Sorrento,” I smile, thinking about when he made me the pesto gnocchi that day he brought me groceries.

Thomas looks up and smiles at me triumphantly. “Then I impressed you with that dish!” He puffs his chest out in a way I’ve come to recognize.

I smile and nod, giving him this well-deserved victory. “A man who cooks always impresses. If he cooks a fantastic dish, he gets even more points.”

When he looks at the menu again, I steal a glance at him. He’s comfortable being in a public place with me, at the risk of people thinking we’re a couple. Suddenly, I realize how important this moment is, for me, for him, for what we are together. He could have chosen anywhere far from the prying eyes of strangers: my apartment, his, even the record company offices. But he decided I’m important enough to show me to the world, and the fact that he came back, after he knew I had lied, gives me confirmation that Thomas has no intention of pretending that our relationship is only about the sex. The warmth that invades my chest, the irrepressible joy that overwhelms me, makes me smile and, when he looks up at me again, I see in his eyes the feeling is mutual.

*

Yesterday’s scenario seems to be repeating today: he’s in front of my door, calling on me like a true gentleman and kissing me on the cheek. I smile shyly, though I must have a puzzled look on my face because he stands there staring at me with one eyebrow raised.

“Did I do something?” His question is hesitant, like he doesn’t know what to expect for an answer.

“No, absolutely not. In fact, you’re a perfect knight,” I reply candidly.

“But?” he presses me, and I feel my cheeks burning. I didn’t want the conversation to veer off into this topic.

“No buts, I swear...it’s just...I don’t know... Usually, the guys I go out with don’t even give me time to shut the door before they’ve already jumped on me. But you kiss me on the cheek and wait for me to make the next move... I’m not used to this.” I’m stuttering in embarrassment. He’ll think I’m a teenager with zero experience. He’s probably used to confident women who don’t have a problem jumpinghimwhile I’m here waiting for a kiss on the cheek.

The frown on his face almost worries me. “Rule number one: never talk about the guys you went out with the one that takes you back to the door. Our egos are very fragile...I don’t want to have to go and smash someone’s face in.”

“Are you jealous?” I want to make a joke, but he seems to be taking it very seriously.

For a few endless seconds with his forehead crinkled, Thomas observes me, then bursts into amused laughter. When he looks at me again, I see an infinite number of emotions I can’t decipher. I don’t have the time anyway, because his lips are immediately on mine in a frantic, sensual kiss full of affection that I didn’t think he could feel. His hands wrap my face as his body gently pushes me into the apartment, closing the door with a slight kick.

“This is the first time in my life that I’ve gone out with a woman, taken her home after a date, and not even thought about sex. I don’t know how to behave. I feel like an idiot sometimes,” he whispers to my lips as he pushes me toward the bed, lifting my hips to meet his.

I smile when I feel his hands under my skirt, stroking the skin of my thighs between the stockings and panties; his lips trace the skin of my neck as he gently strips me. Alone in this apartment, our sighs and groans blend together and fill the air as our bodies merge in perfect harmony. Making love to Thomas is a mixture of sensuality and sweetness that inebriates me to the point of near madness. His rock-star confidence disappears in an unceasing pursuit of our pleasure. When he sinks between my legs, we’re pushed to the brink of an ecstasy that consumes us until we whisper each other’s names. He has me lie on the bed while with his hands, he grabs my legs and rests them on his shoulders, taking the liberty of sinking more into me, making me reach that pleasure peak that makes me tremble.

“Thomas,” his name slips from my lips a moment before I steal a kiss that leaves him breathless.

I feel him sinking into his own pleasure while making sure not to crush my body underneath him. This is Thomas: protective and vulnerable at the same time.

“I don’t know how to woo a woman, take her out, entertain her, but I swear I’m working on it...” he whispers breathlessly as he lays beside me.

I put a finger on his lips before he can say anything else. “You’re perfect just how you are.” I kiss him as he grabs a blanket and wraps us in a warm cocoon that feels like home.

I wake up with something tapping on my face. It takes me a minute to open my eyes and understand that Dexter is sitting on my chest, pressing his paw on my face. I stretch my arm out looking for Iris’s perfect body, but I can’t find her. My heart sinks a little, wondering if maybe I was too honest yesterday and she got scared.

I sink my fingers into Dexter’s fur and stroke him so he will stop torturing me with his paw and he immediately begins to purr.

“I’m glad to see that he doesn’t just wakemeup.” Iris’s voice makes me raise my head just enough to see her sitting at the kitchen table, her laptop in front of her and a smile plastered on her face.

I get lost gazing at her beauty, studying how perfect her face is even in the morning when she’s just woken up—even more than usual. There’s something about this time of day that makes her particularly radiant.

I sit up despite Dexter’s protests—he’d spend the whole morning on my chest—and I feel her eyes on me. I slip on my boxers and look for my shirt, but I can’t find it anywhere, even in this small apartment.

“I think you’re looking for this…” Her words make me look up, and I realize what happened to the t-shirt. It’s so sexy on her that I struggle to hide an erection.

“Keep it. It looks better on you than me.” I smile as I approach her and grab her by the waist, lean against her back, and kiss her on the neck.

“Would you like to have breakfast? I haven’t cooked anything yet,” she asks hesitantly.

Does she really think I’d leave without looking for an excuse to spend as much time with her as possible? The thought almost frightens me. Since when have I been so attached to a woman that I’m looking for an excuse to stay? Usually, it’s the opposite: I make up the most absurd stories to be out of their bed as soon as I’m done.

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