A Taste of You by Irene Preston Page A

made, the way his lips closed around his fork, the movement of his throat as he took a sip of wine. He wondered if Carlo felt it, the delicious tension that added weight to the silence and significance to every glance.
    He wanted the silence to mean that Carlo was as speechless with desire as he was, but he couldn’t be sure. Their eyes met again, and Carlo, normally so smooth and controlled, fumbled and dropped his fork.
    Garrett got up and took his own plate and utensils to the sink. When he turned back around, Carlo was staring at him with a raw intensity. Then he dropped his gaze back down to his plate. His empty plate.
    Careful , Garrett warned himself. Carlo wasn’t just some hook-up. Garrett would need to go slowly, or his friend would bolt. For a minute he almost lost his nerve. Sex had always been easy, an itch easily satisfied before both partners went their own ways. But this was Carlo, who wanted family, permanence, and surely a little romance even in a temporary partner. He deserved respect, a seduction rather than a quick fuck against the counter.
    Carlo, he realized, might not want to fuck at all. He might want to make love. And how the hell was Garrett supposed to accomplish that? What did that mean, anyway?
    Then he remembered the boyfriend, The Little Shit, who wanted space, who didn’t value Carlo as he deserved to be valued. He could at least do better than that.
    Garrett used their bottle of wine as an excuse to move close behind Carlo. As he topped off Carlo’s glass, he rested on hand on Carlo’s shoulder. He heard Carlo’s breath catch as he stroked his thumb along the nape of his neck right along the base of his skull. Garrett set the wine bottle on the counter and let his fingers tangle in Carlo’s silky, black hair. He tugged gently at the strands, so much softer than he had ever imagined, then slid his fingers back down to Carlo’s shoulder. He lowered his head and carefully touched his lips to the spot his thumb had caressed.
    And, god, it was hard to pull back from that kiss. He licked his lips, tantalized by the hint of Italian that lingered on them.
    “Garrett?” Carlo had gone still, barely breathing.
    Garrett gave in to temptation and leaned in close to his ear, let his teeth scrape the lobe, before whispering, “Carlo?”
    “What are we doing?”
    “I’m seducing you.”
    “Why?”
    “I want to know how you taste.”
    There was a long pause. Garrett waited, a breath away from Carlo. Don’t push.
    “I don’t—”
    “Don’t what?”
    “We can’t.” It was almost a whisper.
    “We can.” Garrett’s tongue traced the curve of Carlo’s ear. “He wants space, Carlo. I want you .”
    Carlo shuddered, and Garrett thought he had won. But then Carlo shoved back from the counter, almost knocking Garrett over as he got up. They wound up toe to toe, Carlo’s back to the counter, Garrett in front of him, refusing to move away but afraid to touch him.
    Carlo stared straight ahead at a spot over Garrett’s shoulder.
    “Will you make me one of your men, then?”
    Is that what he thought? Garrett reached up and put his hands on either side of Carlo’s face. He exerted pressure until Carlo moved a bit to meet his eyes.
    “Never,” he hissed fiercely. “You will never be like anyone else. You will always be my Carlo.”
    He leaned forward. He intended a kiss, a gentle meeting of the lips. Just a taste. Instead Carlo’s lips crashed into his, taking the kiss from sweet to searing between one heartbeat and the next. Garrett opened his mouth, their tongues met, and, god , he crowded closer, practically climbing on top of Carlo to get more.
    Sensations crashed over him in waves, the furnace of Carlo’s skin burning through the thin cotton of his shirt, the urgent tangle of tongues. And the taste. The indescribable taste of Carlo laced with sweet pork, basil, and red wine. No words could ever do it justice. He could never create a flavor as complex, although he thought he might