Page 21 of Until You Break
"Lascia la bottiglia," I told her. She bowed out. Our weather stayed inside.
I stood. Crossed the stone. Set my palm to the table and leaned until my thigh pressed the gap between his knees. He froze. He did not scrape back. Wood on stone would have sounded like panic. Heat rolled off him.
I plucked an oiled, gleaming olive.
"Open."
He shook his head, lashes low. "Please don't."
"Open." Quieter. Glass under silk.
His lips parted just enough. I pressed the olive past them with two fingers. Juice slipped and streaked down his chin. He startled. A flush hit his face.
"Tsk." My thumb wiped the oil from his skin. I raised it to my mouth and sucked it clean. He flinched, gaze faltering, confused and hot.
His throat lifted and dropped. His lips wobbled around the shape of obedience. Wide eyes burned like embers caught in smoke.
"There." A record, not praise.
I smeared oil across his lips, slow and obscene. He shivered; a sound escaped and died in his chest.
"Again."
He obeyed. Lips parting, swallowing. Ember eyes flicked up then away. Confusion flashed. Shame and heat tangled. His face tightened. The edges of anger softened into something else. My favorite look. The answering pull in his posture and the hitch in his breath when he obeyed.
Oil shined on my thumb. I smeared it across his lips, slow and obscene. He might have licked it clean but he pressed his mouth shut.
"You take what I give you."
"Stop." A whisper that begged.
"No."
Silence dragged. Candlelight loved him even trembling. His throat gleamed with a sheen of oil and fear that made him look more expensive than anything on the table.
"How does it feel, Emilio, to be back in Italy? Did you miss your Papà?" I asked, voice easy.
His eyes snapped to mine, bright with fury and something tangled behind it. His hand curled under the table, nails marking his palm. "Don't talk about him."
"Then talk about me."
His lips parted, flicking against the oil I'd left there. His chest tightened and his stomach flipped. Confusion flickered across his face.
"I won't," he said.
"You already are. Every swallow. Every flick of your tongue."
His blush climbed.
A lie for a lie. I plucked an olive. "I gave you mine when I said fiancé. Now give me yours."
"I'm not yours."
"Lie." I let it curl, low. "Pretty one. Keep it. I'll hang it with the rest."
I reached for the bread. Tore a small heel, still warm. Dipped two fingers into the shallow bowl, oil pooling gold, lemon zest floating like a secret, and pressed bread to oil, then to salt.
"Mangia." I lifted his chin with the crook of my knuckle.
