Forbidden Love: Marco (Forbidden #3; Bellanti Brothers #6) by Stella Gray

Author:Stella Gray [Gray, Stella]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781957647166
Amazon: 1957647167
Publisher: Paige Press
Published: 2022-06-16T23:00:00+00:00

17

KARINA

Lunch is at a local, cash-only place off Highway 1, where we get poke bowls loaded with fresh ahi, avocado, green onions, and sticky rice. It’s the perfect energy boost after the zip-line tour. Afterward, we drive back to the hotel and share a mojito by the pool, lounging under the shade of the huge fan palms, and then Marco sends me off to the spa so he can take a nap. We’re both pretty exhausted already, and he says we need to be raring to go again by dinnertime.

I’m floating on a cloud after my massage, mani-pedi, and something called a glow treatment that involved a lot of scrubbing and scented oils. I normally wouldn’t indulge myself so ridiculously, especially at the prices listed on the menu, but Marco had insisted. And hey, it’s only my birthday once a year.

I find Marco dressed to the nines when I get to our room, still wrapped in my spa robe.

“So handsome,” I purr appreciatively, smoothing my hands over his chest and giving him a slow kiss. Then I pull back. “Where’s your sling?”

“I’m good without it,” he says.

Giving him a look, I shake my head. “Nope. You’re wearing it.”

“The doctor said two to six weeks—”

“Which means we’re still in the sling zone!” I insist. “Besides, I think it’s sexy.”

That gets a smile out of him. “Do you, now.”

“Mm-hmm. And if you put it on right away, I might have time to give you a little reward before we leave…”

Marco puts on the sling, and then we put the “quick” in quickie. I actually count off the seconds in my head—and set a record for myself when I orgasm in just over a minute and a half. He takes slightly longer to finish, but we both know we’ll have plenty of time later to go slow.

Once I freshen up my makeup and slip into a little black dress and heels, we head to a fancy Italian restaurant downtown. The host greets us warmly and shows us to a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. It’s small—intimate, really—with elegant, pale blue walls, a single table lit with candles, and a sparkling chandelier hanging overhead. It almost has a Parisian feel, though the place is Italian, of course.

“What should we order?” I ask, overwhelmed by the menu. “Everything looks delicious.” And expensive.

“It’s your birthday,” Marco says. “Let’s just order it all.”

“No!” I gasp, scandalized. “We can’t waste that much food!”

“Shh. I’ll take care of everything,” he tells me, getting up and slipping out the doorway.

What the chef ends up personally bringing out to our table is a broad sampling of all the very best items on the menu—just a few bites of each. I’m blown away, practically moaning with every taste. For starters we’re given oven-fresh rustic bread with olive oil and herbs for dipping; stuffed squash blossoms; and a radicchio, fennel, and olive salad with champagne vinaigrette. Then the mains come out in small ramekin dishes, and I applaud with delight as they’re lined up before us.

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