Page 39 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)

LORENA

“ Y ou’re late.”

Tino holds up a reusable grocery bag packed to the brim, excitement running rampant on his face through an ear-to-ear grin that has his dimples on display.

“What are you talking about?” He glances at the clock on Tomás’ oven to double check, pointing to the digital display triumphantly. “See, not late. The livestream doesn’t start until six o’clock, we have plenty of time.”

My stomach does a flip hearing him say ‘we’. It’s been a week since we got caught fooling around in the office of Cielo + Cibo by Dante, and although not much else has happened between us since — which I’m hoping we can change tonight — I enjoy hearing how we sound together. More than I should .

“What has you smiling?” Tino asks. My hand shoots up to my cheek, it’s hot to the touch, and I realize I’m smiling. Apparently, I was too lost in my thoughts to process.

Awkward as I can be, I shift my weight to my tiptoes, focusing on the assortment of ingredients he’s taking out of the grocery bag.

“Nothing,” I respond, but the smile deepens. “I’m just hungry.”

Tino shakes his head. “You’re lying,” he singsongs as he organizes the ingredients on the kitchen island.

His broad back faces me as he makes his way to the fridge, sifting around the messy shelves for whatever he’s looking for.

“How do you figure?” I call after him.

“Because I know how you get when you’re hungry.”

“Oh, yeah?” I cross my arms as he turns around from the fridge with a fresh ball of burrata in hand.

“Yep. Hangry is what I think they call it.”

I’m about to ask him how he figures that to be true, but all I can think about is how I did, in fact, get hangry in front of him years ago when our families celebrated Christmas together.

My mom had Tomás in charge of picking up the pork shoulder from the market to make pernil, and he didn’t realize it was frozen, so dinner was hours late, and my mom refused to put out appetizers, because she didn’t want us to spoil our appetites.

“Valid,” I say, impressed at how there doesn’t seem to be a detail that Tino forgets or misses.

He grabs mason jars before walking to where I’m sitting at one of the stools by the island. Slowly, he leans over me from behind and places the two glass jars in front of me. One has butter in it and the other, fresh cannabis flower.

The earthy scent of weed permeates my senses, but it’s nothing compared to his cologne.

Cedarwood with a hint of spice and citrus.

His scent mixed with his proximity to me has me forgetting that we have ten minutes before we are supposed to go live, and instead thinking about what we agreed to do. Wishing we could do that instead.

He straightens his posture and remains standing at my back. My periphery is consumed by strong, veiny hands creeping their way closer to me until both hands make contact with my shoulder. The simple act feels incredibly intimate, electrifying.

Sucking in a breath he moves his hand from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, caressing it softly before he drags it down my spine, setting it on fire as he continues downward, settling his touch on the small of my back.

This time, both hands come out to play, holstering onto my hips, he pulls me softly into him.

Lips lowered to my ear, he lets out a shallow breath, expelling such a minimal amount of air, but it’s enough that it causes goosebumps to sprout on my skin in the process.

“Let me ask you again, are you smiling because you’re hungry for the feast I’m about to make you, or are you smiling because you’re wondering what I’m going to do to you after?”

My neck falls back into him, finding solace on his broad frame.

“Is both an acceptable answer?” My question is muffled with his head now hanging low.

Here he was talking about hunger, and that’s the only way I can describe the raw groan coming from him.

“I asked you a question, Chef Amato.” The allure of his title isn’t lost on either of us.

Another growl rumbles his throat. “Fuck, you can’t call me that.”

“Why not?” I bite my lip. “Isn’t that who you are?”

“Yes, but it’s how you’re saying it. It’s doing things to me.”

“Keep going.”

“I mean, I can, but I thought you wanted me to behave,” he says as cocky as can be.

I swallow, speechless, because right now, I couldn’t care less about either of us behaving.

“Mhm. Exactly, mi cielo.”

I turn to face him, and like the good boy he is, even though I can tell it pains him to lose the close proximity, he follows my lead, complying.

“Why do you call me mi cielo?”

Tension spreads on his jawline.

“You still like grilled cheese?” he asks, completely changing the subject, but I can’t even be mad. Not with his low, naturally raspy voice echoing through my center.

“Umm” is all I can muster up.

“Hmm?” He lowers his lips to my ear, humming into it so primal sounding that it throws me off further.

“Yes, I do.”

“Great.” His voice perks up. No longer with the same deep tone but still effortlessly sensual.

“Wasn’t sure if your taste buds have changed over the years.

” He winks. They haven’t, hence why I’m entertaining this train wreck in the making.

All because my tastes haven’t changed. They are still uncontrollably wanting him.

“I thought it would be fun to make one of your favorites, with one of mine tonight. A symbolic gesture of sorts.”

I stare at the random assortment in front of me. There’s a loaf of ciabatta bread, some guava paste, mozzarella and burrata cheese, peanut butter, chocolate chips, and powdered sugar.

I’ll admit my cooking skills begin and end at pouring cereal and making dinner reservations, but I’m genuinely confused how he’s going to put all these random ingredients together into a coherent meal.

“You’re making peanut butter cups?” I ask, taking a guess.

He clicks his tongue in excitement as he points to the mason jar he grabbed before. “That’s right, but we’re infusing them. The grilled cheeses also.”

I look at the jar, confused. “With butter?”

“Not just any butter.” Fuck me, and the sultry tone is back. “ Weed infused butter.”

I’m intrigued, and just as his hand captures my chin, we both perk up at the sound of the keys rustling in the door.

Immediately I grow annoyed.

Tomás is never home this early. It’s partly why I made the livestream at the time I did, not to have him around, butting in.

“Shit,” Tino says, practically hopping over to the other side of the kitchen island just in time for the door to swing open.

Tomás is preoccupied on his phone pinched between his cheek and shoulder.

He uses his foot to kick the door closed, and looks at us apologetically, telling whoever he is talking to hold on a second.

Pressing the mute button, he looks at both Tino and I, then the cluttered countertop.

“Sorry, hope I didn’t interrupt anything.

” My stomach drops from just that simple sentence, and I can tell the same is true for Tino, as his back stiffens standing at attention.

The result of both our guilty consciences at work.

Though I can tell as Tomás continues to talk that it’s just that, our combined guilt, making us act on edge because he clearly doesn’t know anything.

“I had a hell of a day at the office. We keep losing paralegals left and right.”

“Gee, I wonder why,” I say in jest, as my way to cue the nauseating feeling in my stomach to subside.

Tino latches onto my rhetorical question and dives on in. “Couldn’t be that someone we know lets his Type A flag fly at the office, could it?”

Tomás waves his hand. “Oh please, be quiet, the both of you. I’ll let you two get back to whatever you’re doing. I was going to go down to the gym anyway, and then maybe we can order in some food and watch a movie, the three of us, like old times.”

Old times.

If only Tomás knew how gone the old times are. Also, wonderful, there goes the chance for me and Tino to spend time together — alone — after this livestream. Not that it would’ve been easy to sneak into Tino’s room or have him sneak in to mine, even if Tomás hadn’t asked us to hang out.

Little does he know that his innocent gesture can never be just that since what Tino and I have established.

“Sounds good to me, right, Lo?” Tino nudges his head in my direction.

“Sure.” I force a smile. Though watching a movie with my brother and Tino, is quite literally the last thing on my mind.

Tomás drops off his things before heading to the gym in the building, leaving us alone once more.

“That was close,” I mutter under my breath.

“You’re telling me.” He looks at me, appraising my body from head to toe. Drinking me in like he’s parched. Desperate to be satiated, and unable to come up for air, as his gaze relentlessly consumes me. “We should thank him.”

“Why’s that?” I peer at the clock and rise from the barstool to grab the tripod, so we can record.

We have less than a minute until I press the live record button, but I could care less about that right now. The impatience I have — the need — for a response, is mounting.

My lips part, but he lifts up a finger stopping me from asking. He lowers his elbows onto the counter, looking at me through the phone’s camera, where I stare back at him.

“Because I don’t think we’d be able to make this livestream.”

My heart begins to race.

We have twenty seconds before I have to press record.

Twenty seconds that somehow feel like an eternity and fleeting all at once as I hang in the balance, needing to hear more from him.

“Why?”

“Because I was so close to laying you down and spreading you wide on this kitchen island so I can show you cooking isn’t all I can do well.”

A blush surfaces on my cheeks. “I know that. You can eat really well too.”

“Yep, and I can fuck even better than that.”

And just like that, those twenty seconds fade to five. I swallow down what he just said, pressing record as he turns the charm — and me — on.

I love when I’m right.