Page 7 of Blood Orange Christmas
I have men who tell me hard truths because they’re paid well to do it and they like breathing. I don’t have many people who look me in the face and take my measure without flinching. She plates the polenta like it’s an answer to a question I didn’t ask right. I take a bite and understand she’s not bluffing.
Some nights, I bring paperwork to the corner of the kitchen and pretend the stove is a fireplace. It’s a stupid habit and I don’t care. Her voice carries low when she talks to herself. She counts under her breath. She tells the pasta water to behave. She curses once, in a whisper, when the oven runs hot. I like her better when she forgets I’m here.
I try not to look like a man who is waiting for the end of service. I fail. When the last plate goes out, I stand before I mean to. She catches me doing it, and the look we trade has more in it than it should.
“You should go,” she says one night, not unkindly.
“Why?”
“I’ve got work.”
“I’ll watch.”
“That’s the problem,” she says, but there’s no heat in it.
I don’t move. She shakes her head, fails at hiding a smile, and goes back to zesting a lemon like she’s not staking out territory.
On a night when the house is quieter than usual and the street outside the wall runs empty, she pulls a pan of calamari again. The oil is right this time. She lays the pieces down and they take the heat without complaint. I come up beside her because I want to see the moment she flips them. She doesn’t look at me. She shifts the pan, slides a spatula under the edge, and turns one piece like she’s done it a thousand times.
“There,” she says, like she’s showing me a trick.
“I see it,” I say, and I’m closer than I should be.
“Don’t breathe on it,” she says, but she’s smiling.
We stand like that a beat too long. The air between us feels like a wire pulled tight. I’m not nineteen. I know what this is. I’m also not careful enough to pretend I don’t want it. “Serena,” I say, and she stills.
“Yes?”
“Put the pan down.”
She does. She sets the spatula on the rest, wipes her hand on a towel, and turns toward me like this is a choice she made last week and saved for now. I reach for her hand. Her fingers are warm, flour-dusted at the tips. I lift them and kiss each fingertip, slow, tasting salt and lemon and something that’s just her. She makes a sound that’s small but not unsure. I step in, set my mouth at the hollow below her ear, take a breath, and kiss her throat. She tilts her head without asking what comes next.
I slide my hands to her hips and lift her onto the marble counter. The kitchen has become entirely quiet. I stop just long enough to make sure her eyes are on mine and that I’m not making any presumptions. “Don’t leave,” she says, hardly above a whisper.
“I wasn’t planning to,” I answer, and then I stop planning anything at all.
4
SERENA
His mouth is at my throat when I whisper, “If you keep breathing me in like that, I’ll burn the fish.”
“The fish can wait,” Dante murmurs, lips brushing the place just under my jaw. His hand is steady at my hip, thumb dragging over the seam of my jeans like he’s already mapping where to open me.
I kill the flame and set the pan aside. The counter is cool beneath me, marble against the heat rising in my skin. I grip the edge just to remember where I am, but he catches my wrist, presses it flat, and kisses down my palm.
“You smell like lemon and fire,” he says, low.
“You smell like trouble,” I shoot back, and my voice shakes in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
His gaze drops to the cutting board beside us, where I left a plate of blood oranges waiting for garnish. He picks one slice up between thumb and forefinger, holds it to my mouth. “Open.”
The word isn’t loud, but it’s command enough. My lips part. The citrus hits my tongue, sharp and sweet, and before I can swallow, his mouth is on mine, chasing the juice. His tongue tangles with mine, slick and urgent, stealing the taste straight from me.
“Fuck,” I breathe into him.
“You like that?” His voice is rougher now, not as careful.
