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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ROCCO AND NICO

R occo was hungry. But not for the feast laid out before him on the table. He was starved for what sat opposite him.

Nico.

What he’d done earlier should have sated him. It didn’t. In fact, it made him even more ravenous. His mind was racing, trying to come up with all the possible ways he might get her alone.

He stretched his long legs under the table and gripped both of her feet, sandwiching them between his own.

It caught her by surprise. He watched her lips part just before she swallowed what he felt certain she wanted to say, what he felt certain she would have said if it weren’t for the fact that his family was sitting at the table.

She glared at him. But that only made him grin. She tried to free herself. But that only made him hold on tighter.

I’m not letting go of you.

A flicker of light flashed in her eyes but then quickly disappeared, and she turned her head. He watched a soft blush bloom across her cheekbone as though it had been put there by the stroke of a paintbrush, and he suddenly wondered if she could read his thoughts just by gazing into his eyes.

He let go. She still kept her eyes averted, but she left her feet where they were between his.

What drove him to throw her off-balance like this? Like he had when he’d lifted her off the motorcycle and backed her up against that tree.

He’d liked when she’d grabbed hold of his arms. Liked that it had felt desperate and immediate—her body’s response to his own.

Is that what had driven him to let her go on thinking there was the most minute possibility that his papa and nonno might show up when he knew full well they wouldn’t? They were already headed home when he’d gone off the main road in search of her.

That thrill. That she would still give herself to him so long as he wanted her to because she wanted to that badly—so badly she would risk being exposed, naked, vulnerable. For him.

That surge. That surge of power when she’d held on to him. She must have known she could. She must have known she could trust him.

That surge that coursed through his breath and blood.

Was it possible it was greater than any he’d felt behind the wheel on a racetrack? He didn’t know. He only knew he’d never felt it before with a woman. And he wanted to feel it again.

Nico stared at the table—the big bowl of pasta, the basket of crusty bread, the colorful peppers, gleaming in olive oil, the decanter of red wine.

Focus on the table—the food, all of it, even the cutlery. Just don’t look up.

Every time she did and saw Rocco gazing back at her, she felt as though she might need a defibrillator.

If only she could send her brain to Brainerd and soak it clean of any thought of Rocco Vittori, at least while she sat around the dinner table with his family. Then again, she couldn’t be certain the rest of her would be clean.

She didn’t feel clean.

She felt dirty.

Really dirty.

Filthy. Filthy. Filthy.

Dirty.

“Rocco Vittori,” she heard his mother cry, “did you wash your hands?”

Nico looked up. He was grinning at her. She stared at his hands, thinking about where they had been. And the minute she had that thought, it was as though the thought had placed his hands there again. On her breasts, on her thighs, in between her thighs.

Yes, please, in between my thighs.

That grin made her want to mount him and kick him under the table at the same time.

When they were preparing to head back home and he was putting on her helmet, he had confessed that his father and grandfather had met up with him on the main road and told him they’d head for home while he went looking for her.

She’d figured as much. Rocco never would have done what he’d done otherwise.

Still, there had been the tiniest bit of fear in her.

And yet she couldn’t stop him. That had never happened before.

She’d never lost control like that. And she couldn’t even say she’d given that control to him.

She felt as though he’d had it from the start.

She flinched when Beatrice nudged her, handing her the basket of crusty bread.

She was grateful Sofia and Beatrice were sitting on either side of her because they kept demanding her attention. As long as she could focus on one of them, she felt as though she could manage to make it through dinner without self-combusting.

Hopefully without self-combusting.

Please don’t self-combust.

Charles told her phosphorus and coal could self-combust. He’d read it somewhere. One of the elements that made up the human body was phosphorus. Then too there was carbon. And coal was mostly carbon.

If she did self-combust, would she disintegrate into ash? Or would she set fire to anything and anyone nearby, she wondered, eyeing Sofia and Beatrice warily.

“Did you enjoy the ride, Nico?” Rocco’s father asked.

Her heart. That defibrillator.

“What?” she cried.

They were all staring at her.

Rocco grinned. “I think she did, Papa,” he said, rubbing his foot up her leg under the table.

“Yes,” she said, trying to kick his foot away. “It’s such beautiful country here.”

And there.

She swallowed.

Right. There. Across the table.

One annoying, arrogant, asshole—I bet even his asshole is beautiful.

“Have you ever had casonsei, Nico?” his mother asked.

She started, surprised to hear the sound of her name and having no idea how to respond because she had no idea what had been asked.

Yes and no covered a lot of territory. Have you been having lecherous thoughts about my son? Yes. Did you know said lecherous thoughts are like a match that can set all this carbon and phosphorus sitting around this table ablaze? No.

She stared at Rocco. His eyes flashing, an evil grin slithering up his cheeks as his foot, like that Chilean snake with the slow and fast twitching tongue, slithered up her leg.

Slow-twitch. Fast-twitch. Yes-twitch. No-twitch.

He licked his lips.

Yes.

“No,” she suddenly heard herself say.

Rocco’s mother smiled at her and held out a plate. “Ah, well you will love it.”

Nico sighed, relieved.

Smiling, she took the plate. “It looks and smells wonderful.”

“Casonsei is ravioli with a sauce of butter, sage, and bacon,” his grandmother said.

His grandfather leaned forward, looking past Beatrice. “You’ll never taste anything more delicious.”

“I don’t know,” Rocco said, catching her eye. “I think I might have tasted something more delicious.”

Her eyes ballooned as his foot slid up and down her leg.

She jumped.

“Are you all right, dear?” his mother asked.

“Yes.” Nico swallowed. “I’m, I’m fine.”

Fast-twitch. Slow-twitch. Yes-twitch. No-twitch.

“That’s sacrilegious,” his grandfather said. “You have not tasted anything better, Rocco.”

She glanced at him and saw on his face that he was enjoying this way too much.

It’s payback for that fairy tale.

She glared at him.

Wait until I get my hands on you.

Thinking about what she would do when she did got her thinking about what he had done. Up against that tree. And that got her thinking about the things he hadn’t done. The things she wanted him to do.

She wondered if there was enough phosphorus and carbon sitting around this table to self-combust, if her filthy thoughts could create enough heat so that everyone around them would disintegrate when she threw him on the table and they did those things.

He did those things. In the middle of the Casonsei, the green salad, and the vinaigrette, the roasted peppers, the crusty bread, and the olive oil.

Oh, the olive oil. Lots of olive oil. On his chest. On his thighs.

On his ass. In those dimples. Would she ever find out if he had those dimples?

Don’t rush things , Dr. Wily said, poking her so hard, she physically flinched.

Until she realized it was Sofia, handing her some roasted peppers.

And she thought, You were about to blast this girl and all of them, these warm-hearted, joyful, wonderful, welcoming people to smithereens just so you could have sex, rolling around in the roasted peppers, crusty bread, and olive oil .

If there is a hell, surely it was made for you. To burn for all of eternity.

The snake curled around her leg.

Fast-twitch. Slow-twitch. Yes-twitch. No-no-twitch.

She stared into those warm caramel eyes.

Burn for all of eternity.

It might. Be. Worth it.

“Nico has a pet rat named Templeton,” cried Beatrice.

“She found him like Uncle Rocco found Cat and Dog,” added Sofia. “Not in a dumpster though.”

His mother smiled. “Really?”

“Yes,” Nico said. “When I was a kid in the apartment we were living in. The mother got caught in a trap and died.”

“I didn’t know rats could live that long,” said his grandmother.

Nico swallowed. “The one I have now isn’t the same one I found as a kid.”

“But it has the same name?” asked Sofia, gazing up at her.

“Yes, actually, I’ve had a few pet rats, and they’ve all been named Templeton.”

All of them were looking at her, but it was his gaze that felt like hands on her body.

“I know,” she said, looking down at her plate. “It’s—it’s strange.”

“I don’t think it’s strange,” his grandmother said.

“I don’t either,” agreed his grandfather.

His father nodded. “Me neither.”

“It’s like Templeton never leaves you,” said his mother.

“That’s it,” said the grandfather.

That’s exactly it .

When dinner was over, Nico made a move to help clear the table, but Rocco’s grandfather put a hand on her arm and shook his head.

Rocco smiled as he collected a pile of plates before carrying them into the kitchen.

“Come on, Nico,” Rocco’s grandmother said, taking her arm and leading her outside. “We made the dinner, so the men clean up. When they make the dinner, we clean up.”

They sat on the terrace under a blanket of stars, drinking limoncello while Sofia and Beatrice were treated to hot chocolate before they ran off to play with Cat and Dog.

“Rocco’s a lucky man,” Nico said.