Page 21 of Once Upon a Curse for True Love (Paranormal Romance #2)

All the Way Bad

ANDROMEDA

Donatello’s house swung somewhere between single-guy chaos and a low-key bachelor aesthetic.

The space was clean but not clinical—lived in with the telltale signs of a man who kept things functional but didn’t care what anyone thought.

Books were stacked on end tables, a half-folded throw blanket draped over the arm of a nondescript gray couch, and a necromantic law textbook lay splayed open on the coffee table, the book pages marked with colorful sticky notes.

Andromeda raised an eyebrow at the contrast between the macabre subject matter and the cheerful neon tabs.

“You coming in? Or are you planning to judge my décor from the hallway all night?” Donatello hung his jacket and baseball cap on the hall rack, letting his lilac hair shine in all its pastel glory. Hex, that black sweater looked as snuggly as ever.

“Just making sure there aren’t any obvious red flags,” she replied, stepping into the house.

“Such as?”

“Collection of glass clowns. Excess taxidermy. A framed shirtless mirror selfie. You know, deal-breakers.”

“Damn. I was about to offer you the limited-edition calendar.”

Her gaze drifted to three identical black T-shirts draped over three separate radiators. “Love the wardrobe variety. Extra points for doing your own laundry.”

Donatello rolled his eyes. “If you’re done judging my space, the kitchen’s this way.”

He led her through the living room toward what turned out to be a surprisingly spacious kitchen. Granite countertops gleamed under pendant lights, and a professional-grade gas range took center stage along the counter.

Andromeda hopped onto a barstool on the far side of the kitchen island, watching as Donatello pulled ingredients from a well-stocked refrigerator. “This kitchen is spacious for a bachelor pad,” she observed.

“Guilty.” He grinned, setting down a block of Parmesan cheese. “I’m Italian. I love to cook.” He reached for a pot from an overhead rack, muscles flexing beneath his sweater. “And the kitchen’s not the only thing with… generous proportions.”

Her gaze flicked up. “You must mean your ego.”

“Obviously.” His dimple surfaced as he smirked, and Andromeda had to look away before she told him to skip dinner and move straight to dessert.

Her attention drifted to a pristine white apron hanging on a hook near the pantry door.

It looked conspicuously unused, like a prop purchased to complete the image of a home chef but never employed in the messy business of cooking.

“Do you wear that when you’re feeling extra domestic?” She nodded toward it.

“No, it’s for emergencies. Like when guests judge my T-shirt collection.” He filled the pot with water and set it on the stove to boil.

He moved through the kitchen—chopping garlic, tossing onions into the pan, cracking open cans of tomatoes—all annoying confidence and pan-flipping grace.

He measured herbs into his palm with the casual precision of someone who didn’t need recipes, just instinct.

The kitchen was getting warmer—or maybe it was just her face.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“The best spaghetti you ever had,” he promised, stirring the sauce with one hand while reaching for a bottle of red wine with the other. “Want some?”

At her nod, he poured her a glass, sliding it across the island toward her. If ever a moment called for liquid courage, this was it.

When he took out a box grater, unpacked the Parmesan, and rolled up his sleeves, she took a sip of wine to hide her growing appreciation for the view.

“Do you always grate cheese like you’re auditioning for a cooking show?”

Donatello paused, a knowing smile playing on his lips. “You don’t seem to mind my technique. In fact, you haven’t taken your eyes off my hands for the past two minutes.”

She looked away, determined not to give him the satisfaction of catching her staring again.

But as he turned back to the stove, he became fair game again.

His sweater stretched across his broad back, while his shoulder blades shifted beneath the fabric as he stirred the sauce.

His nape was flushed, a detail that shouldn’t have been interesting but derailed her entire train of thought.

She stood up, needing something else to focus on. “Where do you keep plates and cutlery? I’ll set the table.”

Donatello turned, his expression mock-scandalized. “You want into my cabinets already, Swan?”

“Should I worry you have all black plates too?” she countered.

He stepped closer, bumping his hip against hers. “Are you always this difficult?”

The brief contact sent a jolt through Andromeda’s body, momentarily short-circuiting her ability to form a clever response. All she could manage was a strangled, “Yes.”

Donatello noticed—of course he did—and his smirk widened. “Second cabinet on the left,” he conceded.

Andromeda busied herself setting the small dining table. The plates were, thankfully, not all black but simple white ceramic.

As she arranged the silverware, she couldn’t reconcile the man at the stove with the detective who’d burst into her life with handcuffs and accusations. Now he was all rolled-up sleeves and lilac hair, setting water to boil and grating cheese like it was performance art.

By the time she finished, Donatello was draining the pasta. He combined it with the sauce, tossing it with easy movements that bordered on indecent before transferring it to a serving bowl.

They settled across from each other, and Donatello served generous portions onto their plates. Andromeda twirled a forkful of spaghetti and took her first bite.

As the flavors hit her palate, she moaned—again—at the perfect balance of acidity and richness, the hint of heat from red pepper flakes. It was, annoyingly, the best pasta she’d ever tasted.

Donatello didn’t say a word. He gave her a satisfied, seductive smirk that made her want to both slap him and kiss him senseless.

“Okay, I hate how good this is,” she admitted grudgingly.

“Yeah, I heard.” His dark eyes glinted with amusement. “Good to know you have a taste for Italian, too, not just Chinese.”

She twirled another forkful of spaghetti. “Still talking about food, right?”

Donatello sipped his wine, all fake innocence. “Of course.”

“How Italian are we talking? Born and raised or just aggressively loyal to pasta?”

He grinned. “Third-generation American. Grandparents came over from Rimini. Settled in Illinois because they thought snow and cornfields were the dream.”

“Aren’t they?” she deadpanned. Then a pause. “Is that why you moved away from Chicago? Too much snow or too much corn?”

“I never said I was from Chicago. Been asking around about me, Swan?” He raised an eyebrow, but something in his expression shifted, growing more serious. “Anyway, that’s not why I left Chicago.”

Andromeda waited, remembering Sarah Michelle’s words about him losing his partner. Would he tell her? She didn’t want to pry, but she was also desperate to understand him better.

Donatello set down his fork and traced the stem of his wine glass with his fingers.

“My former partner—Luna. We worked Vice together for three years.” He took a breath.

“She was killed in the line of duty. Magical shootout with a black-market dealer. I wasn’t…

prepared for that. For the grief. The survivor’s guilt. ”

The sudden vulnerability unsettled her, all thoughts of teasing gone. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, his mouth twisting in a sad approximation of a smile. “You’d have liked her. She was cockier than me and meaner than you.”

Andromeda didn’t speak right away. She had trouble swallowing the last of her pasta over the lump in her throat. “Luna sounds like someone I would’ve fought with immediately,” she said eventually. “So, yes. I would’ve liked her.”

Donatello huffed a laugh through his nose. “She would’ve adored your attitude.”

A new silence settled between them, not heavy now—just full of understanding.

“Okay,” she said after a breath. “That was way too much depth for a dinner that started with cheese-related flirting.”

He lifted a brow, a genuine smile back on his too-handsome face. “Are you saying I peaked with the Parmesan grating?”

She smirked, pushing her plate back with the tiniest sigh of satisfaction. “Unless you plan to outdo yourself with the dishwashing.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I look good with a sponge in my hands.”

She snorted. “All right, then. Let’s see it in action. You wash, I’ll dry.”

Doing the dishes together proved to be another form of foreplay. Standing side by side at the sink, their arms occasionally brushed as he passed her wet plates to dry. Or when he flicked water at her, and she retaliated by snapping her dish towel at his ass.

“Assault and battery of an officer of the law,” he growled, but his eyes danced with amusement. “That’s a serious offense, Swan.”

“Add it to my rap sheet,” she replied, setting the last plate on the rack.

With the dishes done and put away, they stood facing each other in the kitchen, a new tension humming between them. Donatello glanced at his watch.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “I can drive you home like I promised.”

Andromeda forced a smile, but disappointment prickled at her chest. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to be kissed until she forgot her name.

“Is this you playing good cop?”

Donatello nodded, his Adam apple bobbing. “I’m being a gentleman.”

“What if I wanted you to play bad cop instead?” she challenged.

In an instant, he had her pinned against the kitchen counter, his body bracketing hers without touching. His eyes searched her face. “Are you sure about that, Swan?”

Heart hammering, Andromeda met his gaze. “If you don’t kiss me now, I’m going to turn you into a traffic cone for real.”

Donatello Malatesta was not a wizard who needed to be told twice.

His mouth claimed hers, hot and demanding, his hands sliding up to cradle her face with surprising gentleness.

His skin was still cold from doing the dishes, the contrast delicious over her heated cheeks—same as the damning contradiction that lived in his forceful kiss and tender touch.

Andromeda wound her arms around his neck, fingers threading through his ridiculous lilac hair as she pulled him closer. He tasted like wine and spices.

His hands moved to her waist, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter.

Her pencil skirt was too tight to allow much movement, but Donatello—his mouth never leaving hers—efficiently hiked it up her tights until she was free to wrap her legs around him, drawing him between her thighs as the kiss deepened, turning from exploration to something more urgent and primal.

As their lower bodies came in contact, she shamelessly moaned into his mouth. Donatello broke the kiss, smiling down at her in a way that was both sweet and somewhat feral. “You’re right, Swan. I can tell the difference now.”

He moved on to mercilessly kissing every exposed inch of her neck, sucking her earlobe, and forcing more incoherent moans out of her.

And then his mouth was on hers again, hard and insistent, as if he wanted to consume her completely.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as one of his hands reached behind her and pulled her hair loose while the other slipped beneath her sweater, trailing fire along her bare skin.

She arched into him, her body desperate for more contact, more of him.

His thumb grazed the edge of her bra, hot and unbearable, and her head fell back, hitting the cabinets as she gasped for air.

Donatello pressed his advantage. He kissed down the column of her throat before his lips found their way back to her mouth.

Andromeda’s thoughts scattered, leaving only the blinding sensation of his mouth moving against hers. Any flicker of self-control she had left was devoured by the sheer intensity of the kiss and his fingers hooking the back of her knees to draw her closer.

She whimpered as his tongue parted her mouth, dizzy from his taste, from the rush of it all. The sound goaded him on. His hands gripped her thighs, while she clutched his shoulders, desperate to keep herself grounded as wave after wave of raw desire crashed over her.

Her senses blurred. He was everywhere—under her skin, in her soul—with bruising kisses that made her blood boil in her veins. She was about to lose her mind when he took a small step back. Her eyes snapped open, meeting the wild look in his.

He stilled then, his entire body going rigid, vibrating with the effort of holding back. “How much bad cop do you want me to get, Swan?”

She held his gaze, biting her swollen lower lip. “All the way bad.”