“Babe, you remember Marco?”
“Yesss,” she hissed playfully, keeping a cautious eye on him. “And do we get to eat cake before dinner?” she teased.
“Little lady’s eager, huh? I like this one, Rafe.”
Rafe ignored his brother’s jab and leaned into her, planting his mouth just below her ear. A path of goose bumps ricocheted across her skin as his hot breath danced over her flesh. “If you want an orgasm before dinner, I’d be happy to make that happen for you, gorgeous.”
An unfamiliar heat reached the surface of her cheeks and she glanced over her shoulder at Rafe. She was looking for the playfulness in his eyes, the teasing pull of his lips, or the sound of a chuckle—something. But his eyes were clouded, his lips slack and slightly parted, and the only sound coming from his mouth was the silenced pants from his quickened breath. His gaze seared her and the heat on her cheeks inflamed and scorched her entire body. The intimate way his eyes fixated on her lips had her going soft beneath his palm on her back.
She would’ve given in. She would’ve let him toss her over the back of the couch or slam her against the floor or whisk her away to some forbidden faraway land—
But she was jarred from the moment when a larger, older version of Rafe walked into the room.
“Dad,” Rafe said. “This is Fallon. Fallon, this is Sergio.”
She gaped at him. He was gorgeous. Tall and broad. His dark hair was speckled with gray, especially around his temples, and the dark, coarse hair of his trimmed beard was nearly completely taken over by gray. His eyes were blue, just like Marco’s, but whereas Marco was tall with lean, sculpted muscles, Sergio was bulkily defined, like Rafe.
Realizing she was staring, she shot her hand out in front of her and Sergio’s swallowed hers in his firm grip. “Nice to meet you, Sergio.”
“My son wasn’t lying when he said you were beautiful,” he complimented. “And call me Pop. Everyone does. No one calls me Sergio, ’less I did somethin’ wrong—which, come to think of it, happens too damn often.”
She smiled. She’d call him Pop because he asked, but it made her a bit uncomfortable. She hadn’t even used parental titles with her own parents when she was growing up. She’d always called them by their first names. It was impersonal—not to mention unusual—but she hadn’t known anything different.
“Marco Valente Murano! Get your butt in here and ice this cake. Preggo here is having a craving, seeing it cooling on the damn counter,” a very beautiful and very pregnant blonde said as she emerged from the swinging door that led to the kitchen.
“You got it, Till.” Marco laughed, shooting up from the couch and kissing her on the cheek before dashing into the kitchen.
She was laughing at him when her eyes met Fallon’s. Yep, in the 2.5 seconds she had seen this woman, Fallon had confirmed her suspicions that she had these men wrapped around her pinky finger. No pressure . . .
But any fear of impressing the sister-in-law was wiped from Fallon’s mind when Tilly’s smile widened. “Fallon,” she said warmly, quickly crossing the living room. Fallon, surprised, hesitated as Tilly pulled her into a hug; then she returned the squeezing embrace. “I’m so glad to meet you.”
The sincerity in her words tugged at Fallon’s unused heartstrings a little. “You too.”
Tilly slapped Sergio’s chest with the back of her hand. “Gosh, look at her.” She lifted her eyes to Rafe. “She’s gorgeous.” Then shifted to look at Fallon. “And those shoes! I’d break my neck if I tried to walk in those. Luca!”
Barging through the swinging kitchen door, a man came into the living room, beer in one hand and a sandwich in the other. “Yeah, babe?”
Fallon pushed back the snicker that erupted in her throat. He sounded just like Rafe.
“Get your handsome butt in here and meet Fallon.”
Handing Tilly his sandwich, he wiped his hand on his jeans, then stuck it out to her. “’Bout time my little brother brought home a woman. Nice to meet you.”
“You too.”
Tilly laughed, curling her small fingers around Fallon’s hand. “You’ve met the guys—now come on, let’s go confiscate Marco’s cake!”
She liked this woman already.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The Giants were down by one and the Packers were on the offensive thirty-yard line, first down with eighteen seconds left on the clock in the fourth quarter. Tilly was perched on the end of the couch cheering next to a sulking Luca. Apparently they’d made some stupid domestic bet and Luca was obviously on the losing side.