“Red?”
“Sure.”
“How about a Chianti Classico? It’ll go well with dinner.” I pull a bottle from my ornate wrought-iron rack.
She nods and removes her blazer. “What’s for dinner?”
“Penne arrabiata and veal Marsala. You like Italian?” I open the bottle, pour two glasses, and hand one to Skye.
She takes a sip. “Yes. Love it.”
“Good.”
She smiles hesitantly, and I get the feeling she’s trying to draw one out of me.
As much as I want to smile in Skye’s presence, some inner instinct tells me not to give in.
So I keep my lips together.
“Marilyn set out some antipasti for us. Follow me.”
I lead her to the kitchen. She widens her eyes at the marble and hardwood as I show her to the island surrounded by barstools. The antipasti—olives, melon, salami, prosciutto, and small blocks of white cheese—rests on a silver platter. A cruet of extra-virgin olive oil and another plate holding short wooden skewers sit adjacent.
“Please.” I wave my hand over the platter. “After you.”
“No, go ahead,” she says. “I’d like to enjoy the wine for a few minutes.”
“Of course.” I take a skewer, load it up with the antipasti, and then drizzle olive oil over it. I hold a napkin to catch the drips and
pull the green olive off with my teeth.
And I imagine those teeth around her nipple.
My groin tightens further. The peppery and slightly bitter flavor of the olive oil always tantalizes my tongue. Why is Italian food so sexy? All I want to do at this moment is tear all her clothes off and drizzle olive oil over her naked body, lick it off in its peppery glory.
Damn.
She stands frozen, watching me intently, not making any move toward the food.
“Please,” I say again after swallowing.
She nods, grabs a skewer, and pushes a piece of cheese onto it. Then an olive, a piece of folded prosciutto, and cantaloupe. She moves it toward her mouth.
“You forgot the best part, Skye.”
She lifts her brows.
“The olive oil.” Even I notice the rasp in my voice. Olive oil. Dripping over Skye. Glistening. Our bodies sliding together like—
“I’m watching my fat intake,” she says.
I eye her body. No problem with fat intake. None at all.
“It’s only a bit. Here.” I take the skewer from her and drizzle the light-green liquid onto the food. “Try it.”
She pulls the chunk of cantaloupe off with her teeth.
I inhale sharply.