Page 1 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

LORENA

“ G oddamn.” Sarina hums out loud, licking her lips with a Cheshire grin on her face as she plops onto the couch next to me.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing right now?

Look at the size of that thing!” She points the remote in her hand up towards the TV screen to emphasize her point, as if the thing in question needs any more attention drawn to it.

“I mean, if that’s what it looks like when it’s flaccid and covered, can you imagine what it must look like when it bursts free from its cage? ”

Yes. Yes, I can.

Much like my best friend Sarina, who is currently salivating at the thought of what those gray sweatpants are doing an absolute crap job of concealing, I have imagined too many times what it looks like.

As much as it embarrasses me to admit, I’ve gone as far as allowing that curiosity to take over my fantasies when I touch myself, pretending my toy of choice belongs to the owner of the slutty sweatpants that we both can’t stop staring at.

Though judging from the outline of the cock in question, that is most definitely not erect yet is still protruding from his pants, I don’t think my favorite – or largest – wand, dildo, or any toy I own is any match for what the man on the screen is packing.

An overly dramatic shiver runs down her spine before she grabs my arm, shaking it and leaning into me. “Fuck me sideways. I never thought watching someone plate ravioli could be so hot. Seriously, I’m getting wet,” Sarina jokes, but all I can offer in response is a ‘mhm’ with a forced grin.

There’s no denying what she is saying is true. But the more I’m forced to look at the chef on the television, the more I wish it wasn’t.

For most people, when they think of Santino Amato, the man gracing the screen in front of us, they associate his name with being one of New York City’s hottest — both literally and figuratively — up-and-coming chefs and restaurateurs.

But for me, and those close to him, we know him as Tino from the Bronx — Elgar Place in Co-op City, to be exact — where we grew up.

But whether you know him from TV or from back when he was working in pizza shops in our old neighborhood, there’s no denying that he’s a charismatic and naturally talented chef. Not to mention beyond easy on the eyes.

Sarina lets go of my arm, snapping her fingers for my attention. I peel my gaze from the TV to Sarina, trying to ignore the limited view I have of Tino’s veiny hands on the screen.

“You have to tell me what it was like growing up with him. Was he always this hot or good with his hands?” Sarina’s above the shoulder bob glides back and forth as she leans her body forward, clapping in anticipation of my response.

Before I can answer, my neck cranks towards the TV, and my eyes lock on Tino once again, and suddenly, I’m no longer on Sarina’s couch.

Physically, I am. But mentally, I’m transported back to six months ago in Miami.

To the last time we saw each other. Back to when he humiliated me by not only ruining a potential job opportunity I had lined up, but by making it abundantly clear where we stand with one another.

I can feel the resentment I thought I’ve moved on from begin to slowly rise back to the surface. Needing to look the hell away from him, I turn my head. “Fine, I guess,” I say with a shrug.

Seeming amused and unsatisfied with my response, Sarina playfully tilts her head towards the screen, and my gaze follows suit.

Tino glances up from plating the dish he made for the host to try, and my heart sinks.

The bright studio lights hang over him, highlighting the already natural radiance of his hazel eyes.

For a split second, I swear it’s like he’s staring right through me.

“ No ,” she corrects me, once again pointing at the TV. “ He’s fine. As hell, might I add. And I know you think so too.”

“I don’t,” I lie.

“Bullshit, you’re practically drooling.” Sarina laughs as she points to me.

Panicked, I touch my chin. Nope, not drooling.

But I am clammy, which happens when I feel nervous or unsettled about something.

Or in the case of Santino, when I’m aggravated beyond belief.

And it seems that not even the distance between us, both in time we’ve seen or spoken to each other has been able to erase that.

“Plus, he’s got practically everything checked off that impossibly picky list of yours.”

Yep. I’m well aware.

With Santino’s athletic build, and the fact that he towers over my five-foot-three stature — on a good day — with his six-foot-five self, not to mention his light olive complexion covered in ink, he is the physical embodiment of my type.

And as if that isn’t alluring enough, along with those hazel eyes of his that pop against the dark fade of his hair and the matching scruff along his jaw line, he has the sexiest dimples that appear every time he flashes his pearly white smile.

But it doesn’t stop there. Nope. To top all of that annoying deliciousness off he has his tongue pierced…

fuck . My imagination runs wild, wondering what else he has pierced that I can’t see, like, for example, the topic of the hour, his clearly well-endowed package that his choice of sweatpants has highlighted for us and all viewers to see.

I roll my eyes. As a publicist whose specialty is maintaining a pristine public perception of those I work with, I would have advised against wearing said pants for a damn televised cooking segment.

But he’s not my client, so therefore, his choice of clothing isn’t my problem…

even if it contours to his lower region a little too well.

“I’ll take your silence as you agreeing with me.”

“I mean, yeah, he’s hot.” To say the least . “But it’d be weird. He’s my brother’s friend. His best friend , at that. Besides, he’s always seen me as an annoying little sister, same as Tomás does.”

Another bold-faced lie.

Tino always made sure to include me in whatever him and Tomás were doing.

He’s always looked out for me. Not in a brotherly way, but in a ‘you’re mine, so I’m going to protect you’ sort of way.

Which made his behavior six months ago when he brushed off my physical advance as confusing as it was hurtful.

The memory makes my heart sink to my damn ass each time I recall it.

Though looking back, I think the reason I was convinced that he saw me as more than his best friend’s sister, is due to the culmination of fantasies I’ve had to suppress concerning him.

That’s all it is. A fantasy. Relationships scare me.

But sex is something that has always allowed me to feel that closeness without the commitment that comes with being in a relationship.

I just wanted to feel close to him. I didn’t want him.

I don’t want him. He’s hot and I was horny.

That’s all it was, and thankfully, for both our sakes, it didn’t turn into anything more.

“Right,” Sarina drags, sounding unconvinced.

“Because fucking a famous chef who looks like that , who you so happen to know in real life, is so weird.” Now Sarina is the one rolling her eyes.

“Respectfully, fuck your brother. I know I haven’t met him yet, since in the almost decade we’ve been friends you’ve failed to introduce us, but my statement remains, fuck him.

I’m sure he’ll get over it. So if you want some fine, tall as fuck, tatted up piece of culinary perfection, you go get you some.

Brother’s best friend or not. Who cares.

I support you and all your wrongs. Though something tells me that nothing is wrong with that fine ass man. ”

The only thing Sarina is correct about is how she’s never met my brother.

Shortly after us graduating NYU she moved back home to Colorado, and any time she was in the city to visit, Tomás was off being the focused bookworm he is, studying for law school and then for the bar.

The timing was never there. That aside, she has no idea how Tomás gets. He would never get over it.

And as for Tino, as talented a chef, and as sweet as I know he can be, the tabloids aren’t wrong when they describe him as a ticking time bomb.

Whether it’s getting into scuffles with industry rivals, going out and partying too much, or allowing his short fuse to go off at the smallest things, he has gained himself a reputation of being a hothead.

I even saw an online news article that labeled him the ‘bad boy of the culinary world’ due to his intensity in and out of the kitchen, and outbursts like he had in Miami when I saw him last. It’s for the best that nothing happened between us.

I don’t need him or his drama in my life.

Much to my surprise and relief, Sarina doesn’t press the subject of Tino anymore as we continue to keep our attention on his segment.

Minutes pass, and the cooking demonstration ends.

We watch as Tino strolls past the set kitchen over to the couch for the interview portion.

And of fucking course, this man just can’t behave himself.

Not only did he choose to wear those slutty gray sweatpants — my personal kryptonite — but he is now seated and manspreading for everyone to see.

Even sitting here in Sarina’s apartment, the effect he has on me through the damn television is so strong, it’s as if he’s sitting here with me.

Tino has a way of commanding everyone’s attention in a room so effortlessly.

Not only is he beyond handsome and charismatic, even though he can be a total grump at times, but there’s this level of passion that fills his aura when he’s in his element.

It’s magnetic. Contagious. Whether he’s talking about food or cooking it, he makes it all sound so interesting and captivating, which is saying something coming from someone who can barely flip an egg like me.