Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  After a moment, Antonio says, “Oh.”

  I slide him a sideways look. There was more to that “oh” than simply “oh.”

  “What?”

  “Ha!” He cackles, slapping the arm of his chair. “Ha ha! I never thought I’d see the day!”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He jumps to his feet, points his finger at me, and shouts, “You’re in love!”

  As if an off switch has been thrown, everyone in the atelier stops what they’re doing and stares at me.

  I’m going to kill him.

  “Back to work!” I’m instantly obeyed, but looks are flying around the room like arrows. I have a terrible feeling this will be the subject of gossip for months to come.

  Antonio turns to the room and throws his arms wide. “He’s in love with his stepsister!”

  In unison, one hundred people swivel their heads and stare at me in unblinking silence, like an army of judgmental owls.

  “Ex!” I shout, red-faced. I want to kick something. Especially Antonio’s fat rear end. “Ex-stepsister! And I’m not in love with her! No one is in love with anyone!”

  No one dares to make a peep, except Antonio, who turns back to me with little red hearts in his eyes. Sighing, he clasps his hands together at his chest.

  “Ah, Matteo. You make a very handsome couple. The children—oh! They’ll be beautiful. I’ve worried so long about you being alone. All you do is work, never taking time to meet a nice woman and settle down. I’m sure if you write the pope a letter explaining the entire situation, he won’t let your souls burn in the eternal lake of fire.”

  I blow out a hard breath. “Jesus Christ.”

  Antonio nods. “Exactly.”

  I’m saved from the insanity of the conversation by my cell phone, which starts to ring. I yank it out of my pocket, hit “Answer,” and snap, “Pronto!”

  “Uh . . . pronto yourself. I guess.”

  There’s a strange sense of relief at hearing her voice that I don’t need to examine too closely. I already know what it means. “Kimber.”

  “Matteo. Now that we’ve confirmed we know each other’s names, are you ready to talk? Or do you need a few minutes to finish skinning the cat or whatever you’re doing that’s got you so worked up?”

  Through gritted teeth, I say, “I’m. Not. Worked. Up.”

  “Really? Hmm. ’Cause you sound kinda worked up.”

  I have to close my eyes and count to ten before I’m calm enough to answer. “Just dealing with some employee problems.” I open my eyes and send a lethal glare Antonio’s way.

  He blows me a kiss and lights another cigarette.

  “Okay. We’ll do this some other time.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up! I need to talk to you!”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Antonio’s smile. It’s so big it can probably be seen from outer space. I turn on my heel and stalk off the production room floor and into my office, slamming the door behind me.

  “What was that noise?” asks Kimber.

  “I closed a door.”

  “Closed? Sounded like you put some stank on it.”

  “I have no idea what that means. What have you decided about my offer?”

  When she hesitates, I feel like my chest might explode.

  “Well . . .” she drawls, torturing me. Then she relents. “I suppose I can survive two dozen kisses from you if it means getting my designs back.”

  I sink slowly into my desk chair. I loosen my tie another few inches, but still can’t breathe, so I rip it off and toss it on the desk.

  “I have some free time tomorrow. Say, from five o’clock to five-oh-one?”

  “No. Today. And I’ll need more than one minute.”

  “You never said anything about timing,” she starts, sounding hostile, but I cut her off.

  “A proper kiss takes more than one minute.”

  “That sounds ominous. I think we need to discuss the particulars before we go any further.”

  The particulars. My mind gifts me with a pornographic Technicolor show of each and every “particular” it wants. I open the top two buttons on my shirt, yanking aside the collar because it’s stifling. “So. Discuss.”

  She’s irritated by my curt response. I can tell because she says, “That tone is pissing me off, Count Egotistico.”

  I really hate it when she calls me that. I am a fucking marchese. “What doesn’t piss you off?”

  “The list is long. It includes all kinds of fun things, like rainbows, puppies, nonassholey men . . .”

  “Very funny. I’m not an asshole.”

  She mutters, “That’s what they all say.”

  I have to force myself to sound nonchalant and in control, though I’m anything but. “Let’s get back to the subject at hand.”

  “Sure. One minute and not a second longer. That’s my final offer.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “What? Who kisses for five minutes straight?”

  I growl, “I’d like to kiss you for five hours straight, but we have to start somewhere.”

  That shuts her up for a while. Then she groans. “This is so weird.”

  “Don’t forget you can tattle on me to my mother if I don’t hold up my end of the bargain.”

  “Yeah, there is that.”

  She’s imagining all the ways she’ll humiliate me to my mother, I can hear it in her voice. I take advantage of her distraction to press my case. “Four minutes.”

  “Ugh. I can’t even look at your face for four minutes at a time, let alone suck on it.”

  Remembering how she ogled me while I changed my shirt in my bedroom, I allow myself a smile. “Perhaps you’d rather look at my chest.”

  A sound like a snake’s hiss comes over the line. “You know, every time I think you’re not a complete dick, you do something to prove me wrong.”

  My smile grows larger. “And we’re back to my dick.”

  “I never said anything about your dick!”

  “You did. Just then.”

  “No, I did not!”

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am an asshole. Because winding this woman up is so much fun. “I distinctly heard you say the word—”

  “Two minutes,” she spits out. “That’s it. Final, final offer.”

  Two minutes. Twenty-four kisses. That means her beautiful strawberry mouth is all mine for a total of forty-eight minutes.

  It’s more than I hoped.

  If I were a supervillian, this is the part where I’d rub my hands together in glee and produce an evil laugh. “I accept your offer. I’ll see you at your shop at five o’clock sharp.”

  “Not today! Matteo—”

  I disconnect the call. Then I adjust my hard cock, grab my briefcase, and head out, the page I’d already removed from her sketch pad inside.

  The full-color copy is pinned to the wall in the workroom, along with all the others.

  Sometimes a man has to bend the truth in service of a greater cause.

  TWENTY-THREE

  KIMBER

  I stare at the phone in my hand with my mouth hanging open and my heart impersonating a bongo inside my chest.

  It’s three o’clock. Matteo will be at my door in two hours.

  Shit.

  “Miss Kimber?”

  Clara stands outside the doorway of my office. She’s one of the three seamstresses my father hired to help him, and she’s amazing. Since I met her two days ago, she’s brought me homemade stromboli, homemade lasagne, homemade gnocchi, and about four thousand different kinds of homemade Italian desserts, just because she’s a wonderful human being.

  She has six children, fourteen grandchildren, nine great-grandchildren, and is built like Castello di Moretti. She could be anywhere from sixty to one hundred years old, but I’m not asking. I get the feeling Clara distributes head slaps as often as she distributes food.

  “Come in.”

  I drop into my chair and wave her in, trying to put Matteo out o
f my mind. At least for a minute. I’m sure I’ll go back to obsessing over him as soon as Clara leaves the room because it’s all I’ve been doing for the past forty-eight hours.

  Clara wedges herself through the door and stands in front of my desk. She’s almost the same width. “The pleats are done.”

  “Already? Wow. You guys are fast.”

  She smiles. “We have to be.”

  She and the other two seamstresses—Amelia and Sofia, neither of whom speak English—have been working like lightning since I called them in to the shop on Monday to introduce myself and find out if they’d be able to help me finish the dresses in time for the show. As each dress requires somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred fifty hours of work to complete, I wasn’t sure if they’d be on board, much less capable of the task, but they surprised me by not only being enthusiastic about the idea, but far more skilled than anyone I’d worked with in the States.

  These women take sewing seriously. More than once I’ve seen one of them say a prayer before starting work.

  Hopefully the shop has enough cash to meet payroll at the end of all this, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.

  “Okay. Let’s take a look.”

  We go into the production room, which is the temperature of the sun. The old building doesn’t have central A/C, so the air back here is like soup. Several floor fans are whirring, but that only means the soup is being stirred. Somehow I’m the only one sweating, despite all three other women wearing wool dresses.

  Laid out on one of the large tables in back is a long piece of fabric, constructed of hand-dyed strips of grosgrain ribbon sewed together over a piece of tulle. It will eventually become the top layer of a voluminous skirt. Leaning over to pick up the edge, I inspect the stitching, which is flawless, the continuity of the pleats, also flawless, and the uniformity of color of the dyed grosgrain strips.

  “Perfect,” I murmur, awed. All by itself, this piece of fabric is a work of art.

  Clara doesn’t have to translate to Amelia and Sofia what I’ve said. They nod solemnly, as if perfection is simply the baseline standard, not the ultimate goal.

  I’d like to kiss you for five hours straight, but we have to start somewhere.

  Dammit. Matteo’s in my head again. I can’t seem to kick the fucker out. But God, his mouth! I want his mouth. I hate him for being such an incredible kisser. And for tasting and smelling so delicious, and for being so beautiful.

  I just all around hate him.

  “Miss Kimber, your face is a tomato,” says Clara, looking at me with concern. “The heat, it gets to you. Maybe you should sit.”

  They’re all gazing at me in grandmotherly concern, and now I’m embarrassed. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Can we finish the underpinning in the next few hours?”

  “Certo,” says Clara, waving a hand like it’s a silly question. “This is no big one.”

  I think she means no biggie, but I’m not about to correct her.

  For the next hour and a half, I manage not to think of Matteo once. When I glance up from the piece of faille I’m embroidering with sequins and seed pearls, I’m surprised to see the time. Lying to myself that I’d do it even if I didn’t have an appointment to kiss Matteo, I head to the bathroom and try to freshen up.

  It’s like trying to freshen a wilted piece of lettuce. I’m limp and unappealing, my hair frizzing, the rest of me misted with sweat. I run the water in the tap for what seems like forever until it finally comes out cold. I splash my face, hoping some of the color will subside in my cheeks by the time he arrives.

  Thank God it’s hot. I don’t want Count Egotistico thinking my body temperature has anything to do with him.

  Even though it has everything to do with him.

  I could be lying nude on an ice floe in the middle of the Arctic Ocean right now and I’d still be on fire. All from the thought of his mouth.

  I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

  I make it my mantra as I dry my face and smooth my hair. By the time I go into the front of the shop, cooler because all the windows are open and there’s a cross breeze, I think I’ve got myself sorted.

  Until he pulls up across the street in his sleek black sports car.

  The moment he opens the door and steps out, his eyes find me. It’s like they’re tracking beams, homing in on my exact location behind the counter. He’s spectacular in a dove-gray suit, but I barely notice that because his eyes have taken me hostage.

  All my cells scream He’s here! and start to party.

  I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

  He closes the door of the car without looking away from me. Staring into my eyes, he slowly unbuttons his jacket. I have to grip the edge of the counter for support because my knees are doing their wobbly Jell-O routine again.

  By the time he crosses the street and opens the shop door, my brain is scrambled eggs. The rest of me is one pulsing, incandescent beacon of lust.

  I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

  He steps into the shop, and the air does that thing it does when he enters a room. It leaves in a whoosh, taking my breath with it.

  “Kimber.”

  He says my name in a husky, possessive tone, as if he’s already inside me.

  Dear God, what is my uterus doing? I think it might be trying to escape from my body and fling itself across the room onto his face.

  “Hey,” I say with utter nonchalance. “What’s up?”

  He smiles. It’s a secret smile, and completely unnerving. In his hand he holds a briefcase, which is where I suppose one of my purloined sketches resides.

  “Did you bring it?”

  “Of course.”

  We eye fuck each other for a while, until I want to run screaming from the room. “Let’s see it.”

  He strolls across the space toward the counter as if he’s got all the time in the world, that little unnerving smile hovering around his lips. He sets the briefcase on the counter, flicks open the locks, removes a folded sheet of paper, and hands it to me.

  As soon as I have it between my fingers, I start to get emotional. I feel as if I’ve been reunited with my kidnapped child. Unfolding the paper, I press the sketch to my chest and blow out a shaky breath. “The red dress.”

  Matteo inclines his head. “It’s one of my favorites.”

  Then I’m angry because he folded it!

  He frowns at the look on my face. “What’s the matter?”

  I point accusingly at the crease in the page. “This. This is the matter.”

  I can tell he wants to roll his eyes, but he snaps the briefcase shut instead. Then he gets into this stance, the one he does when he’s being the Big Cheese. He folds his arms over his chest, spreads his legs shoulder width, and looks at me down his nose.

  He says, “Get over here, and give me my fucking kiss.”

  My heart stops. My mouth goes dry. In my hand, the sketch starts to tremble.

  The son of a bitch smiles again.

  “Not here. I have workers in the back.”

  His mouth takes on a ruthless slant. “You’re stalling.”

  “No, I’m not. I just don’t want everyone to see.”

  “If they’re in the back, how are they going to see?”

  “They could walk up front!”

  He inhales through his nose, then exhales even slower, as if he’s forcing himself to remain calm. “Kimber.”

  “Stop saying my name like that!”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Like what?”

  “Oh my God. You’re the most aggravating man on the planet, you know that?”

  He growls, “You have ten seconds to get your ass around this counter and give me my kiss before I consider our deal null and void and set fire to the rest of your sketches.”

  I gasp in horror. “You wouldn’t!”

  His smirk tells me in no uncertain terms that yes, he certainly would.

  Seething, I carefully place the sketch of the red dress on the counter. Then I straigh
ten my shoulders, lift my chin, and march around the counter, reminding myself how much I hate him, to the very bottom of my soul.

  As soon as I’m within arm’s reach, Matteo grabs me and pulls me against his chest. He stares down hotly into my eyes. “I know,” he says gruffly. “You hate me. Now give me that mouth. It’s all I’ve thought about for two days.”

  Are uterine transplants a thing? Because mine is totally out of control.

  “Fine. Here.” I rise up on my toes and smash my lips against his in a clinical, close-lipped, extremely unsexy kiss that even a grandpa might find offensive.

  Matteo and my uterus can both go to hell.

  He turns his head enough to dislodge my dried prune of a mouth from his. Then he sends me a dangerous look. “Do that again and I’ll bend you over this counter and make you regret it.”

  My feminist side is outraged. Ignoring all the other parts of me that are clamoring for a demonstration of exactly what he means, I sputter, “Don’t you dare threaten me! I’m not a child! I’m not your property to manhandle, you sexist, chauvinistic—”

  Then his mouth is on mine, and he dissolves my anger with his lips, which are clearly laced with crack cocaine.

  Because the high I’m getting must be drug induced. There’s no other rational explanation.

  He holds me up when I sag against him, dizzy and disoriented, intoxicated by his taste. Three seconds in and I’m addicted. I’m a helpless, filthy addict, and what’s worse is I don’t even care.

  I always laughed when I read in romance novels how the hero “ravaged” the heroine’s mouth. Now I know how accurate that description is. He kisses me senseless, wrecking not only my resistance but my ability for rational thought, taking what he wants without apology or hesitation.

  Plundering. Like a pirate. Like an invader.

  Like a boss.

  “That’s it, bella,” he murmurs when I shudder. “Feel it.”

  Holy shit, do I.

  He takes my mouth again, but just as quickly breaks away, leaving me panting and blinking in shock. Frowning, he looks at his watch. He presses a button on it, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sorry. Two minutes, you said.”

  “You started a timer?”

  “Don’t want to go over, do we?”

  I shout, “How are you so irritating?”