sip of the wine. “It was my parents’ place. They opened it when Tony and I were little.”
“And your Italian father agreed to the name of the joint?”
She giggles. “My parents were hopeless romantics. They were the kind of couple people write love stories about.”
“Maybe we’re those kinds of people too,” I say, my body aching to pull her close for another kiss. Wishing we weren’t sitting here for dinner, and instead wrapped up in one another’s arms.
“Maybe,” Mirabella says softly. “You know, my parents believed in love at first sight. They always talked about the first time they met, in a high school English class. How they just knew. I grew up with that story, and then, after fighting for my life, beating cancer, I guess… what I’m trying to say is… I believe in that sort of love too, and I also believe that life is precious. That there are no guarantees. My parents died in a car crash. They were gone in the blink of an eye. But they had found love, and they didn’t let it pass them by.”
“You’re gonna make me cry, girl,” I tell her, feeling a deep surge of love for this woman I’ve just met. “You know who you are, what you believe—”
She cuts me off, pushing back from the table and standing up. “I also know what I want.”
Mirabella
I am not the sort of person who asks for what they want in life. I’ve spent a lot of years letting Tony keep me under his wing. But I know — knew, really — the moment I locked eyes with Matteo, that I was growing. Changing. Ready for more. Ready for this.
And now, I take a leap of faith.
Matteo pushes his chair back from the table and stands, taking me by the waist and leading me to the plush velvet loveseat in the corner of the curtained room. It’s sensual, this darkened space, and when he sits down, pulling me into his lap, I let my shoulders fall and my body revel in his gentle touch.
He runs his fingers over my bare skin, the heat between us growing as we inhale, savoring this moment for what it is — the beginning of our love story. We feel it — know it — and won’t let it pass us by.
“God, Bella, you make me feel alive.”
I close my eyes, our noses brush, our lips meet. I whimper as he kisses me, and I run my hands over his chiseled jaw.
He pulls me closer, and I feel his thickness, feel the way my pussy drips with excitement. I feel so ready for what comes next. I’ve been waiting for this moment my entire life.
He runs his hands under my dress, and he groans as he takes hold of my ass, his fingers under my panties, my entrance welcoming and wet. I lick my lips, nodding my need.
“Please,” I whisper. “Touch me.”
He kisses me deeply as his fingers push my panties aside, and he strokes me the way I crave. Slowly, deliberately, making me delirious. He eases me back onto the sofa, then moves to the floor, on his knees. I bite hard on my bottom lip as his head dips under my dress, and he teases down my panties, past my knees, my ankles, then he spreads me open. Ready for dinner.
“I want to make you come, baby,” he tells me.
I close my eyes, his tongue running over my slit, making me moan softly, not expecting it to feel so good. So much better than whenever I touch myself.
His fingers massage the outside of my pussy, warming me up and helping the tension mount. I move my skirt aside so I can touch his shoulders, his head, feel him as he licks me. His tongue swirls around my clit expertly, making my knees tense from the growing pleasure.
“That feels so good,” I tell him as he adds a finger to my hole, teasing me open in a brand-new way. My pussy is tight, and when his fingers fill me, a new sense of want washes over me.
“You’re so wet, Bella,” he tells me, kissing my inner thighs, my mound — not at all rushing this. His fingers dip deep inside me, and he looks me in the eyes as I pant, the pressure mounting in the most delicious way.
“I’m gonna come,” I whimper. “You going to make me come…”
And then the pleasure reaches its peak, the glorious rush of emotions flood my body as