Page 65 of Wicked Roses
I’d given into him.
“Alright,” he says suddenly after a stretch of silence. He reaches for my mug and re-ups me on coffee. “We’ll give it a try, Phi. But if you try and sneak off again—”
“You’ll what, Jon?” I can’t stop myself from challenging him with a wider smirk.
Helaughs. He rubs his bearded jaw, a gleam in his gaze. I can almost see the thoughts unfolding in his head. I can hear them too—they’re not exactly PG.
“You don’t want to know. It’ll make last night look like a holy afternoon at church.” He abandons the kitchen counter and starts for the hallway. “We’ll talk more about this tonight over dinner.”
Before I can accept his invite, he’s gone. I’m left blinking after him. Salvatore just assumed we’ll be having dinner together as though we’re any other couple.
With a shake of my head, I bring my mug to my lips. “I guess I know what I’m doing tonight.”
* * *
We decide on pizza. Not my favorite, but neither of us feel like cooking after a long day. Mine was spent reworking the case we’re building against Frausto. Salvatore’s day remains a mystery as he returns to the loft, but he heads straight to the bathroom for a shower. I catch blood stains on his clothes.
When he emerges from the cloud of hot steam, fresh and clean in sweats and a Henley, we argue over what pizza to order. I contend that pineapple is a perfectly acceptable choice for a pizza topping while he accuses me of committing a crime.
“Says the man who came home with blood on his pants,” I snort.
“Better than defiling a pizza with pineapple.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
Salvatore’s deadpan, expressionless face tells me that he is. It earns another disbelieving laugh out of me. I skim over the collection of random pizza ads he had in his kitchen drawer and grab my phone.
“By the way, defiling is alittlebit dramatic, don’t you think?”
“Phi, don’t put pineapple on that pizza.”
I challenge him with an amused stare. “Or else what?”
“Do we really want to play that game?” He comes up from behind me and grips my hips. His hold is firm and possessive as he threatens to pull me against him.
I suck in a breath and lose any train of thought.
The number I’ve dialed picks up not even a second later. “Slice of Italia Pizzeria. Always tasty, never greasy. How may I help you?”
My brain is blank. For the first few seconds, I stammer on answering.
Fucking Salvatore.
He hasn’t let go of my hips. He’s pressed himself against me, his lips dangerously close to the spot on my neck that makes me come undone.
I swallow hard. “Err... I’d like a large pizza. Are you able to do half pepperoni, half pineapple—ahhh!”
A squeal leaves me as Salvatore smacks a hand to my ass. I can feel him grinning behind me. His grip on my hips only tightens. He draws my ass toward him until I’m perched on his groin—which is rapidly hardening.
I don’t know how I make it through the rest of the order. Between Salvatore kissing my neck and squeezing my hips and his dick going hard behind me, by the time we hang up, I’m hot and flustered. I spin around and shove at his chest.
“That was cruel and unusual!”
“The punishment fit the crime. I told you no pineapples.” He rasps out a laugh at my death glare and then gestures to Salt and Pepa, who have taken up camp on a shelf of his entertainment console. “What about these two? You didn’t even order them a mini pizza with anchovies.”
It could be a coincidence, but Salt chooses now to meow.
Traitor.