‘Why sorry?’ I ask, my cock ever-ready for action when she’s near. She smiles as she feels me jerk against her.
She shrugs. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘You were worn out.’ I grin.
She returns it and nods. ‘Yep. And now I’m starving.’
‘Starving,’ I say, lifting her slightly and positioning her on my length. Her eyes widen and she moans at the invasion. But she rolls her hips and I fill her, and it is as though this is just how we have to be. Together. Joined. Coexisting.
I’m not going to lie to you. I’ve had my fair share of unforgettable sex. When I started to make good money and a name for myself, it was all too easy to hook up with women.
But I generally lose interest pretty fast.
Not Olivia.
I cannot get enough.
‘For food,’ she says on a laugh, but she’s already coming. God, she’s so responsive. Is it always like this for her? Her muscles squeeze me and it takes all my willpower not to come with her. I’m not wearing a condom—another thing that is different for me. I’ve never not practised safe sex. Never.
I push into her and she cries out, her nails digging into my shoulders as she tilts her head back, her breasts pushed right in my face. I take one of her nipples in my mouth. It’s right there. It’d be criminal not to, right?
I’M LISTENING TO Professor Winterbourne’s Wednesday morning lecture and definitely not concentrating. How can I when my mind is filled with thoughts of Connor?
I’m also making cannelloni and my hands are covered in ricotta and garlic cream when my doorbell rings. And I know who it is the instant I hear the sound. I smile to myself, wiping my hands on my apron, and go through the kitchen and the lounge.
A cursory inspection through the safety glass shows Connor. Or Casual Connor, as I have taken to thinking of him in this guise. Wearing jeans and a collared shirt with sleeves pushed up his forearms to reveal tanned, leanly muscled flesh that makes my mouth go dry.
I slide the chain lock into place and open the door an inch, a mock-stern expression on my face. ‘Yes, sir?’
His grin undoes me. I bite down on my lower lip.
‘More studying?’ he teases, catching the strains of the lecture. I nod, smiling.
‘No rest for the wicked.’
He wiggles his brows. ‘And what are we cooking today, Miss Amorelli?’
‘We?’ I prompt, my heart skidding against my ribs.
‘Well, you. But I’ll watch. And help you lick the bowl.’ His wink is slow and so full of heat.
Still, I pretend not to be affected. I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m having a perfectly nice evening with Professor Winterbourne...’
‘He’s no threat to me.’
I laugh at his arrogance, but push the door shut so I can unchain it and open it fully.
As soon as I do, he sweeps in and wraps me in his arms, his kiss taking over my senses, his mouth dominating me in a way that steals my breath.
He lifts away, his bright green eyes held fast to mine for a moment, and then he grins, walking towards the kitchen as though this is his place, not mine.
‘Ah. Cannelloni.’ He sits down on one of the stools at the kitchen bench; I love the sight of him there. I pause the lecture, knowing I’ll need to get back to it later. ‘My favourite.’
‘Oh, really?’ I arch my brows, my heart still thumping hard and fast from his kiss. I peel myself away from the wall with effort and attempt to look casual as I head back into the kitchen. ‘You don’t know cannelloni till you’ve tried my cannelloni.’
His nod is sage. ‘You talk a good game, Amorelli, but can you back it up?’
‘I intend to.’ I lift my piping bag and reach for another pasta tube, pressing the nozzle into its centre and squeezing. It is an act I have performed a thousand times, first with my nonna and then with my mother. Now, I could do it in my sleep. I fill at least four before he speaks again.
‘Your boyfriend—’ he says the words quietly, and I’m jolted out of my cooking meditation by the discordant phrase ‘—what happened?’
He’s back to Pietro. I don’t know if I’m annoyed or gratified. I suppose the latter, because there’s something about his interest that is significant in some way.
I can’t really explain it properly, it’s just how I feel. ‘We got together when I came back from travelling,’ I say after a beat. ‘I mean, I’d known him for ages, through my cousin, and I knew he had a thing for me. And I thought he was cute.’ I shrug, a little self-conscious. ‘Then I went away. And he was waiting when I got back.’
‘And you felt obliged,’ Connor surmises—correctly.
I wince. ‘It’s not a particularly good reason to go out with someone.’
‘No.’
‘I did like him. We just weren’t a good fit.’
He nods thoughtfully and then, ‘Where’d you go?’ He switches topics but I know him now. I know that he is liquid in his approach to all things. That he eases and thrusts, relaxes and aggresses, as part of his strategy to tease information and gain surrender.
‘All over.’ I smile at him, my tummy flipping.
‘Starting with?’ he prompts, reaching across to my wine and sipping it before standing up and lifting the glass to my lips. I am hopelessly lost, my eyes locked onto his as I take a drink.
A dribble of liquid runs down my chin. He catches it with his fingertip before sitting down, and I return my focus to the pasta.
‘Mmm...’ I pause in my cannelloni stuffing to give him my full attention. ‘The south of France. Spain. Italy—all along the western coastline. Greece. Croatia. Then we sailed to Morocco—which was amazing. We took a flight to South Africa for a few months and then Bali beckoned.’ I wink. ‘We spent another six months island-hopping through Asia. Hospitalised twice...’ I lift two fingers and roll my eyes ‘...for stomach bugs.’
He grins. ‘Bali belly?’
‘And then some.’ I return to the pasta. ‘Then a year and a half in Australia. It was incredible.’
‘Who’d you travel with?’
‘A friend of mine. Clara. We worked together at a café when we were teenagers.’
He’s quiet and I don’t want to stop talking—sharing. I can’t say where the urge comes from, only that I find myself opening up to him in a way I never thought I would.
‘I think it’s why I was so interested in the Donovan case.’ My eyes meet his for a fraction of a second and then flick away. ‘We were practically the same age. I mean, I was eighteen when I left for my trip, right out of school. I can imagine how she felt. The excitement, the nerves. Her life was taken from her, and that’s awful. But the pleasure and excitement she was on the brink of enjoying...what a crime to rob someone of that.’
I stare at him, waiting to see his reaction, but it’s expertly concealed from me. There is barely a flicker of response in his face and, though that might seem cold, on some instinctive level I know it’s not. I believe it’s that he feels so deeply he can’t