"You were making dinner. Go on and serve us," he said, finally letting her off his lap.
"I want to put on clothes first," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with nervousness. "Amore mio, sei bellissima."
His grip on her waist tightened like iron. "No," he said firmly.
"Have you lost your mind?" she hissed, glaring at him.
"Most definitely," he replied, his voice low and breathless. Their eyes locked, and they stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. "Tesoro, vieni qui" he pulled her back to him.
"It's too cold... please," she whispered eventually, and he relented, allowing her to slide off his lap. She sprinted upstairs to her room without looking back.
He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. He hadn't been able to resist her at all.
This morning, during an important meeting, all he could think about was Giulietta—soft, delicate, and maddeningly beautiful. The image of her lingered in his mind, haunting him.
His decision to drive to her school hadn't been planned, but he couldn't stop himself. He'd arrived just in time to see her collide with some young man. The sight had nearly driven him to violence. He'd wanted to shoot the bastard on the spot but refrained, knowing such an act would be as reckless as something Gemma would do.
Gemma—his ally's wild and troublesome sister—would undoubtedly cause Giulietta grief. The thought only fueled his possessiveness.
Giulietta was unlike anyone he'd ever met. Seeing her in her underwear earlier had undone him. She was breathtaking, her soft curves and shy vulnerability making him feel like a schoolboy experiencing desire for the first time.
When she reappeared in a long, flowing dress that covered her from neck to toes, her absurdly thick, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, she looked even more angelic. Her every movement radiated innocence, and it only made his hunger for her grow.
"Dinner will be ready in a few minutes," she said quietly, her voice soft and melodic.
He watched her as she moved about the kitchen with effortless grace, reaching for pots, plates, and pans. The scent of cooking soon filled the house, mingling with a different kind of hunger stirring within him.
He imagined pinning her to the kitchen counter, tasting her first, then the meal second.
His intense gaze must have unnerved her because she glanced at him, caught his stare, and quickly looked away. It took everything in him not to close the distance and kiss her.
Jesus, what was wrong with him?
Simple: he was horny.
He thought briefly of finding someone else to satisfy the unbearable need coursing through him, but the idea was futile. Giulietta was already under his skin, and the only way to get her out of his blood would be to have her completely.
As she bent down to set the table, her lush form arching in a way that made his throat tighten, he gritted his teeth.
No, one time wouldn't be enough. He'd need her again and again, all night, just to soothe this maddening infatuation.
He'd never stared at a woman this much in his life, but before he could stop himself, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, walked up to her, and gently wiped the sweat from her face.
She froze under his touch, her eyes wide. Up close, she smelled like every flower in a garden after a spring rain, fresh and intoxicating.
Her chest rose and fell beneath the modest dress she wore, and it took all his willpower not to trace the curve of her neck with his lips.
"I think I have to go," he whispered, his voice strained.
She blinked at him, her brow furrowing. "Won't you eat?"
He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing her ear as he inhaled her scent. "Non preoccuparti, tesoro, non è cibo ciò di cui ho fame."
("Trust me, darling. It's not food I hunger for,") he rasped, pinning her with his gaze before turning and walking away.