Page 22 of Kidnapped By the Mafia Boss
“It’s not good to eat lots on a date,” I protest weakly.
He snorts and scatters more cheese onto my spaghetti.
“Yes, but…”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and this time he doesn’t sprinkle the cheese. He dumps it on, daring me to object.
“That’s plenty,” I say quickly.
He tips on more. My meal is covered in white.
“Really…”
He takes a large spoonful, but instead of tipping the spoon, he goes to tip the whole bowl of cheese and I put out my hand, grasping his wrist to stop him.
“Zayka,” he says seriously, and I wonder what that name means. But I also need to save my dinner.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
And that’s the magic word. He straightens the pot and places it back on the table.
“No holding back. Understand?”
“Yes.” Maybe he’s right about the cheese. But the chase? All those things I wantin theory, but have never been brave or bold enough to do.
I’m not so sure.
I finish my food without thinking, despite far more cheese than was necessary. Delicious. The whole thing is too easy, and our plates are empty from the main course for a long time as we talk about everything and nothing.
“Dessert,” he says eventually, and chastises me when I try to stand to help clear away.“The magic has to remain magic,” he says, and reappears with a layered cake. “Medovik.”
“Did you make it?” I ask as he serves me a generous slice.
“No.” He gives me a rueful smile. “It takes a long time. My chef, Agata, made it for us.”
I examine the cake from several angles while Voronov tucks into his with greedy mouthfuls. It looks rather fussy, pale, and unremarkable.
But when I try some, bring a small bit to my lips, it’s perfection. Ridiculously sweet with so many ingredients I struggle to name them all. Sponge and honey and crushed nuts and, I think it’s cream? Or condensed milk. Delicious.
“It’s good?” Voronov asks, smiling at me with the knowing expression of a man who was correct and knew he would be.
Arrogant. His gaze flicks down to my lips and a wicked thought occurs to me. I put down my fork, and before I can think better of it, plunge my fingers into the sponge. It’s soft and sticky and creamy and cool.
I lift my fingers to my lips and suck the sweetness from them.
“Really?” he groans. “You’re going to do that?”
“Yep.”
I push my fingers in again, deeper, and his eyes go black. One by one, being as lewd as I can be, I lick my fingers. I cram them into my mouth. I’m obvious. I’m obscene. Between my legs is as soft and slick as that honey cake.
Voronov watches, his fork discarded, his hands on the table, nails digging into the cloth as though he’s holding himself back.
His nostrils flair.
“Zayka…” He makes a sound like a wounded animal.
That name again.
