Page 51 of Wounded King

She shakes her head. "I had no idea."

"He did. When nobody believed in me, he was the one to help me get my dream going." Thomaso's eyes fill with tears, the sentimental bastard.Luckybastard.Can't hit a guy when he gets all sobby.

I wave my hand, "You really didn't leave me a choice. It was either that or never eat your pasta diabolo again."

Violet looks at me as if I rescued a baby from a burning building. A look that, to my surprise, I kind of enjoy. It feels good to be seen as a hero instead of the villain for once.

"I knew you were a good man," she praises me. And fuck me, I like that even more.

"Don't let him fool you. He's the devil," Thomaso warns her, "but he does have a heart of gold."

"Yours will be filled with lead if you don't go back to cooking our dinner," I threaten, and Thomaso makes a hasty retreat.

"He seems nice." Violet's eyes follow his massive form as he waddles back into the kitchen.

"He knows how to cook," I agree.

Her eyes turn to me. "You like him."

I shift in my seat. Being accused oflikingsomeone isn't exactly good for business. It complicates things. Makes people talk. But thankfully, I'm spared from answering when the servers glide in like ghosts, laying out a spread of appetizers that makes Violet's eyes widen in disbelief.

"What did you order?" Violet stares at the six plates put in front of us and two smaller, empty ones to eat from.

"You said you had a hard time deciding," I smirk, leaning back in my chair like I do every night. I love the way she looks at me when I surprise her.

"So you ordered every appetizer on the menu?"

"And every main course and dessert, so you better pace yourself." With her sinful mouth parted in surprise, she looks even sexier. My dick swells at the thought of being surrounded by those full lips. She would look spectacular.

"We'll never eat all this."

"That's the good thing about Thomaso; his food is still good heated up the next day." I wave her off, even though I'm talking out of my ass here. I have no idea. I've not taken leftovers home since my first year in Sicily. But she strikes me as the kind of girl who would.

She lightly tips her fork against a marinated artichoke heart. "What is this?"

I spear one and bring it to her mouth. "Close your eyes."

She hesitates—but she does it. Her lashes lower, and fuck me, the sight of her—relaxed, trusting, lips parted—is a goddamn religious experience.

"Now open your mouth." I have to clear my throat halfway through. My cock's already straining in my pants, and her obedience is making it worse. She opens slowly. Her tongue peeks out. My grip on the fork tightens, and a sound escapes me. Something low and primal.

I feed the piece of artichoke to her, watch her lips close around the fork like she wasmadefor it, hear a soft moan escape her, and I seered. I drain my wineglass before I say something I can't take back. Before I climb across the table and fuck her in front of all these people.

"Hmm," she moans again as she carefully chews the artichoke.

"Good?" I empty the wineglass a second time to get my vocal cords working correctly again.

"Delicious." She agrees.

"Try this," I spear a beef-stuffed grape leaf and feed it to her. This time, she keeps her eyes open and on me, and if possible, the torture is even worse.

"Which one is your favorite?" she asks.

"I like them all, but if I have to choose, it's this." I take a small piece of bruschetta and hand it to her. Gently, her fingers push my hand toward me.

"Your turn," she murmurs. Her voice is as hoarse as mine now.Fuck me.

I grab another bruschetta, holding it up for her at the same time I take the one she offered. It's clumsy, intimate, and almost absurdly sensual. She bites down. "So good," she says, her tone half praise and halfinvitation.