Smut warning. Maybe don't read this chapter in public ;)

***

me in trouble at work today, you know," I confess as he walks towards me. I relax against his couch, sipping a cup of tea.

"How did I do that?" His voice is low and sends a shiver down my spine. He sits next to me, brushes my cheek gently with his thumb.

I catch his bright, sparkling gaze, and there's mischief and affection and laughter in them. And something much darker.

"All I could think about during our staff meeting," I say quietly, setting my mug onto the coffee table and leaning close enough to feel his warmth, "was you, inside of me."

I can tell I caught him by surprise. A small, rough sound escapes from the back of his throat. He raises a perfect eyebrow. He doesn't even know what to say. His lips part a little, and I feel mischievous.

I look at him innocently, slipping off the couch. Standing a few feet in front of him, I continue with my story. I play absently with the hem of my dress, pretend to be deep in thought. "I was sitting there, and I kept thinking about..." My eyes flutter shut. I can feel his gaze on me, can feel the heat rush across my skin. "Your hands, and your lips." I brush the hair away from my face, my mouth parted. "I couldn't stop remembering..." I let the images fill my head, and they help make my act so much more convincing. "How good it felt, when you touched me with your fingers, and your mouth." My voice is soft.

I feel the want pool low in my stomach, between my legs, and I hear his breathing grow heavy. I know he's looking at me, watching as I slowly inch my hand beneath the edge of my thin dress, up my thigh, the fabric rising provocatively.

"And I could still feel the ache between my legs from yesterday, and the day before, when you took me over and over..." The air on my exposed skin is cold and makes my flesh pucker. I picture us, tangled together, his muscles straining as his hips thrust into me, countless times. I remember his name leaving my mouth, my name sounding so hoarse in his heavy voice as we both tumbled over the edge. "Your fingers in my hair, across my skin." My hand brushes lightly against my stomach, the material of my dress bunched around it.

I know he can see my panties, now, and when I open my eyes, just a little, his are fixed on me, dazed, taking in every inch of my warm body. I have to press my thighs together a little, my gaze drifting to the hardness in his pants. Mm. I don't know how much longer I can keep this up without melting into a pile on the floor.

I let my hand travel higher, feel the dress slip over my hips, finger the lace of my bra, my thumb inching towards the hardened peak beneath it. There's something exhilarating about touching myself while he watches, but it's his hands I want all over me, not mine.

I hear a low growl escape him, let my eyes close and the pictures of him and me, wrapped around each other, fill the space behind my eyelids. Just as I'm sure he thinks I'm about to tug the dress off my shoulders, I let it fall back down, my bare chest and stomach and thighs now hidden from him.

I finally meet his eyes, and shit, there are flames that flicker in the rich brown darkness of his gaze, and a small sigh escapes my mouth. I bite my lip, feeling the slickness between my legs.

"Come here, dolcezza," he commands softly, his voice low and hoarse. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, eyes roaming over me from head to toe.

Most of me wants to give in to him, let him have his way with me. I know it would be so damn good, if I climbed onto his lap and lowered myself onto the hard bulge in his jeans, let his hands roam across my skin.

But I don't really feel like making it easy for him tonight.

I stay where I am, trying not to squirm from the heat of his gaze, the way that intense look on his perfect, handsome face dampens my underwear.

I shake my head slightly, a small, teasing smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

He raises a dry eyebrow, surprised that I just said no to him.

I remember two years ago, when he was still my oh so dangerous, mysterious neighbor who had threatened to spill my blood all over the hardwood. For some reason, that dark look on his face, now, makes me hot. There's a dangerous glint to his eye, challenging me to refuse him.

A part of me wants to be punished for it. Craves the rush of him pinning me against the wall roughly, frustration radiating from him. Maybe that makes me crazy.

I take a step backwards, then another. He watches me, curiosity and impatience and just a little amusement etched into the sharp lines of his jaw, in the small frown that has captured his forehead.

"I'm not a patient man, carina," he says quietly, eyes taking me in while I turn around and walk away from him. His voice almost sounds like a warning.

Part of me misses this, our banter and arguing and the sting of battle. As I walk towards the kitchen, I peer at him over my shoulder, give him an infuriating, angelic smile.

If he wants me, he can come and get me.

In the kitchen, I get busy. I float around his cupboards and drawers, pulling out a bowl, a spatula, measuring cups. Just as I swing the fridge open for the butter and milk and eggs, I sense his presence a few meters away, dark and brooding and intense, like he always used to be.

I pay him no attention. From the corner of my eye, I see him leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, watching me. He doesn't seem very impressed.

I sift flour, sugar. I've made this recipe a hundred times before. There's a flutter in my stomach, anticipation of what he's going to do as I pretend everything is normal, that nothing has happened, that he's not still hard and I haven't soaked through my panties and neither of us are busy imagining having wild, rough sex with the other.

Two minutes later, I hear a heavy sigh leave his mouth. "Rosalina," he breathes, "What the fuck are you doing?"

The frustration and confusion in his voice makes me laugh inside, but I try to keep a straight face. "I'm making cupcakes," I say innocently. "Do you want chocolate, red velvet, or vanilla?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he steps closer, and I feel him behind me. I try to focus on measuring out the oil, not on the warmth coming off of him as he stands so close without touching me.

This is harder than I thought it would be.

"Tell me, carina." His voice is low, quiet, and I can feel the steam of his breath at the back of my neck but he still doesn't touch me, and I won't give him the satisfaction of leaning into him like I want to. "When you were fantasizing about me today, was I gentle?"

My breathing is shallow. I forgot how he somehow, always, manages to read my mind like an open book. I crack a couple eggs, can feel my hands shaking ever so slightly.

"Or," he mumbles, the ghost of his mouth almost brushing my ear, "Was I fucking you so hard that you couldn't walk straight after?"

I feel the tips of my breasts tighten, and I let out a sharp breath. It's a dark promise, and it floods the pit of my stomach with a delicious, sugary desire. I don't bother responding. I don't even know if I can form words.

I start to wonder if this was such a good idea. Because now I'm going to pay for it, and I have a feeling he won't give me what I want until I beg him.

He always gets his way. But at least I'm determined to make him work for it.

As I start mixing the batter, I notice he's pressed me up against the counter, my belly grazing the edge of it, without even touching me. Behind me, his dark silhouette is silent, warm, but his nearness is making me more aroused by the second.

And, just as I think he's going to lean closer, touch my neck with his mouth, put his hands on me, I slip out from in front of him and walk towards the drawer where he keeps his trays. I bend over, and my dress is short enough that it flutters and gives him a view as I dig around for a muffin pan. I hear him exhale.

I imagine he doesn't have any cupcake liners, so I grease the pans with butter. As I'm washing my hands to get the oil off, he just watches me, still doesn't say anything.

Both of us are too stubborn for this. I start scooping batter into the tin. I shiver, surprised, when I suddenly feel his fingers, just the tips, slide lightly down my back, down to my ass. He squeezes, just a little, then trails his hand lower, to the edge of my dress, beneath the fabric so he palms my curves through my underwear. His hand stills.

I realize my breaths are coming out in short whisps. Not fair.

I pretend not to notice him, which is very, very difficult. Just as I drop another portion of perfect batter into the tin, the spoon falls with a clatter, because his hand has travelled to the center of my thighs, a long finger brushing against the wet spot in the middle of my underwear, his touch so light against the lace. I close my eyes.

I hear his heavy breathing, and he moves forward so he's pressing me into the counter, pinned by his chest, his muscles tensing against my back. A sigh escapes my mouth. A finger makes gentle circles against the soaked fabric, and I try not choke, not to whimper. I feel the edge of his lips touch my ear, and he whispers roughy, "Do you like it when I tease you, gioia?" The accusation does not go unnoticed.

I can't help when my head falls back against his shoulder, his nose brushing my cheek and my eyes fluttering shut. He slips a finger, then another, beneath the thin lace, into my wetness, stroking and swirling so skillfully that it takes all my strength not to moan his name.

I was on a mission, I think. Something about making this difficult for him. But his hardness presses into my behind, and when I push backwards into him, the friction is so good, his hand between my legs driving me to the edge of bliss. Just as I'm about to come all over his fingers, he pulls them away, and my dress falls back down and he leaves me panting against the counter, my orgasm dissipating into the air.

I guess I deserved that.

I groan quietly, hoping he doesn't notice my frustration.

From a few feet away, our eyes meet. I watch, appalled, as he dips the two fingers that were just between my legs into the batter, then brings them to his mouth. Now it's his turn to smirk.

"You should try some," he says, eyes sparkling. He knows it's so dirty but so fucking hot.

I raise an eyebrow. Neither of us is willing to call a truce.

So I huff, swallow the lump of need and irritation that has stuck in my throat. Picking up the spoon, I finish dishing out the rest of the batter (that now has my arousal mixed in with it) and slide the tray into the oven. Still so, annoyingly turned on.

"Dolcezza," he says softly, and when I finally turn to him, he steps close, leaning over me, lips an inch away from mine. "Let me take you to bed, carina." It's a peace offering. His lips tilt up in a sly grin. His voice is quiet, rough. "I was daydreaming about you today, too."

And just like that, my resolve melts. I bury my face against his chest, my arms twining around his neck. He puts his hands on my hips, tugs me towards him. "You miss it, don't you?" he says softly in my ear. "Fighting with me." His voice makes his chest rumble. I shake my head a little, but he continues. "You liked it when I was a dick. It turned you on." He runs a hand softly through my hair as I press my cheek against his shirt, feel his beating heart. "That's why you couldn't stay away, even when you tried. You liked the danger, Rosalina."

When he says it, I know how true it is, suddenly. I grip his shoulders, tilt my head up so our noses brush. "You never wanted me to stay away."

He sighs, using a hand to hold my face, leans my head back so his stormy eyes capture mine. "No, I never did." He brushes a thumb across my parted lips. "I liked it when you showed up outside my place." His lips an inch away from mine, and his gaze drifts down to my mouth. "I used to imagine pulling you inside and having you against my door."

A small sound escapes me. I recall the wild look in his eyes, all those nights I woke him up with a plate of something sweet, an excuse to see him again. I almost close the distance between our mouths. "I used to imagine you pulling me inside, and having me against your door."

And when our lips finally tangle together in a restless, wet, needy kiss, I know with certainty that all of this happened for a reason. His arms are where I am supposed to be.

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