Page 74 of Falling for Mr. October

Yup. Definitely keeping the sweatpants on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BIANCA

I have an almost primal awareness of Giovanni. I want to touch him, to skate my fingers across his chest. I want to kiss him and taste him and⁠—

“You shouldn’t have waited this long to have sex,” I tell myself in my bathroom mirror. “It’s made you a real pervert.”

I leave the bathroom and head downstairs.

Giovanni’s waiting for me downstairs, his “Smut Slut” hat on, and he’s still wearing those sweatpants. God, those sweatpants.

The scent of autumn hangs in the air—sweet and slightly crisp, with undertones of cinnamon.

“I need to try those graham crackers,” I say abruptly, the air between us seeming to crack with the statement.

“They’ll definitely be hard enough now,” he replies with a crooked grin, telling me he’s very much in on the joke.

“So, let’s do it.”

I lead the way into the kitchen, completely aware of him behind me—the tread of his feet, the warmth of his body. The heft of such a big, fit man.

Once I’m in the kitchen, I come to a stop next to the crackers cooling on racks and turn toward him. “You should do the honors first. They’re your creation.”

He shakes his head, his lips pulling upward. “I made them for you.”

His words seem to reverberate through me, the wave of sound caught within my body. My lips part as he breaks off a small piece of graham cracker and lifts it toward my mouth.

His fingers glance off my bottom lip as I lean forward, eyes holding his, and bite off half of it. He pulls his hand away, his finger grazing my lip again, and pops the rest into his mouth.

We taste the graham cracker at the same time, the flavors of apple, cinnamon, brown sugar, and vanilla exploding through my mouth—as if autumn is infused into each molecule. A moan escapes me, and a look of raw need fills Giovanni’s eyes.

“You like it,” he says, his voice low and throaty. “It’s good for you?”

“Jesus Christ. That hat is doing something to you.”

He shakes his head and takes it off, then sets it on the counter beside the cooling racks. His dark hair is mussed, and I let myself run my hand through it, luxuriating in it, so thick and smooth between my fingers.

“No, cara, it is you who are doing something to me.”

I think of all of the nights I’ve had to take out my vibrator since he’s arrived—it was an unusual occasion before. Now, it’s a necessity. I trail my hand from his hair down to his strong, stubbled chin. His scruff abrades my hand in a delicious way that awakens the slumbering nerve endings.

“You’re doing something to me too,” I admit, feeling almost resentful about it.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this way about him. I wasn’t going to. He’s too good-looking, too slick, and I was supposed to stay angry about the fact that Miles sent him here instead of coming himself. I am angry about it, but I’m grateful too. Grateful that he came, and even more so that he stayed.

A part of me knows that he didn’t do it for Miles, or at least not just for Miles. He also did it for me.

He crowds a little closer, his hands finding the counter on either side of me. I feel engulfed by him. His spicy scent, now suffused with sweetness from baking. His intense, dark gaze totally focused on me.

“How’d you like the graham crackers?” he asks. “They were hard enough for you?”

I can’t help but throw a challenge his way. Grinning, I say, “I’d give them a seven out of ten.”

“Dio mio, how does a man get a better rating from you?” He leans in a little, but it’s not close enough, not yet.

I trace my hand up his shirt, then grab the neckband and pull him in until our lips are a whisper apart. “If I gave you a ten, you’d stop trying.”