Damon
I found myself captivated by the stunning woman in front of me, unable to tear my gaze away. She exuded femininity, her curves accentuated by the snug apron that clung to her figure, creating an almost sinful allure.
A smirk crept onto my face as I noticed her hand tremble slightly while preparing the coffee. Yet, despite those long fingers quivering, she managed not to spill a drop, and I had to admire her for that.
Before I could think twice, the words slipped out. "Do you own this shop, piccola farfalla?" The term of endearment rolled off my tongue before I could catch myself.
She momentarily diverted her attention from the coffee machine, her large brown eyes meeting mine, reminiscent of a doe's gaze.
"Um... yes, yes I do," she stammered, quickly looking away. I nodded in response, but instead of falling silent, I craved to hear more of her voice, which was soft and breathy, laced with a sensuality that drew me in.
It was so unlike me to feel such a strong urge to speak to a woman except when I needed to fuck them and even at that, my words are limited, yet I found myself scrambling for words, desperate to keep the conversation going.
Just as I was about to speak, she asked, "Do you like cream in your coffee?" This time, she didn't meet my eyes, and I couldn't help but wish for that doe-like gaze to return.
Get a grip, Damon.
"Yes, but not too much," I replied, and she nodded, a small smile gracing her full lips. My eyes were drawn to that smile, and my imagination took a wild turn, picturing those lips wrapped around my...
What the hell is wrong with you?
"Here you go, sir. Are you sure you don't want anything else? We have some delightful pastries that you really shouldn't miss," she said, her gaze flitting between my eyes and her fingers.
But pastries weren't what I came for; I just needed a coffee after the chaotic day I'd endured. I was on my way to the airport when the craving for coffee hit me.
I realized I should probably decline her offer and walk away, but for some inexplicable reason, I found myself responding as she placed my coffee in front of me.
"What do you have?" I inquired, even though I could easily see the selection before me; I wanted to hear it from her.
Her smile brightened at my question. "Well, we have croissants, muffins, éclairs, and danishes. Oh, and our chocolate lava cakes are quite the hit. People rave that they're the best in town," she said, a hint of pride in her voice as she finally met my gaze, if only for a moment.
It was clear she had a passion for this place and her work. Her tone softened as she added, "We also have fresh cinnamon rolls right out of the oven, and if you're feeling adventurous, you simply must try our almond tarts."
She nervously fiddled with the edge of her apron, a charming little quirk that only drew me in further. I leaned in slightly, unable to resist a playful jab.
"And what would you suggest, piccola farfalla?"
Her eyes widened in surprise at my question. A rosy hue crept onto her caramel-toned cheeks as she bit her full lips, contemplating.
I inwardly groaned; the way she nibbled on her lips stirred thoughts I had to suppress.
"Um... well, the almond tarts," she replied softly, her voice almost timid. "It's my favorite."
A smirk crept onto my face. "Then I'll take one of those. If it's your favorite, it must be delicious."
She paused for a moment, her hands fidgeting on the counter. "Great choice! I'll wrap that up for you; just give me a few minutes," she said before turning away.
I stood there, captivated by her movements, the elegant curve of her neck, the fluidity of her body. It was enchanting. I had encountered many beautiful women, some even more stunning than her, but none had ever held my attention quite like this.
As I pondered my situation, it became abundantly clear that I was in dire need of some intimate company, but that would have to wait until I returned to Italy.
"Did you create all of this on your own?" I inquired, watching as she momentarily lifted her gaze from the almonds she was working with to meet my eyes.
"Yes, I did, although I do have some assistance from my staff. The recipes are all mine, with the exception of the almond tart recipe, which was passed down from my grandmother," she replied, and I nodded in appreciation of her craftsmanship.
"Before she left us, she entrusted it to me," she continued, a hint of sadness creeping into her voice, which she quickly masked with a bright smile.
"I'm sorry if I brought up any painful memories," I said, sensing the shift in her mood. She looked at me, surprise flickering in her eyes, and shook her head vigorously.
"Oh no, it's perfectly fine. She passed away peacefully; it's all good," she reassured me, and I nodded in understanding. Just then, I noticed she had finished wrapping the tarts.
"Here you go, sir," she said, extending the beautifully wrapped tart towards me. But before I could take it, Alessandra, who had been lurking behind me, swiftly reached out and snatched the tarts from her hands, causing her to jump slightly. I clenched my jaw, casting a sharp glance at him, and he quickly returned the tart to her.
"What's going on?" she asked, hesitantly accepting the tarts back, her eyes darting between me and Alessandra. A surge of irritation coursed through me; I didn't like the way she was looking at him. I wanted her full attention on me.
"I'd like to take it from you myself, piccola farfalla," I said, and as she turned her gaze away from Alessandra, her lips formed a small 'o' before she shyly smiled again and handed me the tarts. Our fingers brushed against each other, igniting a spark of electricity that lingered between us for a few moments before she withdrew her hand, her eyes flitting around the room, avoiding my gaze.
"I hope you find them delightful, sir…"
"Damon, please call me Damon. When you say 'sir,' it makes me feel ancient," I remarked, and she nodded in understanding.
"Thank you for coming... Damon," she replied, and the way she said my name stirred something deep within me, a desire to pull her close and confirm that she was real, but I restrained myself, my fingers tightening around the wrapping paper.
Just then, Alessandra leaned in to whisper something in my ear, breaking my trance.
"What's your name?".
"Aaliyah," she answered with a gentle smile.
"Thank you, Aaliyah," I said, turning away, fighting the impulse to ask for her number or, even more dangerously, to take her by the hand and lead her to my car, wanting to keep her all to myself.
Instead, I chose to step out of the bakery.