Out of the Dark Read Online Free

small town in upstate New York . . . the Finger Lakes region?”
    “I’ve never been that far up. The Culinary Institute is in Hyde Park, and I never got to see much more of the state than that.” I think of my mother, my father, my old friends and feel a wave of nostalgia wash over me. They seem so far away. “I went back to Michigan to be with my family as often as I could.”
    “Don’t get me wrong, I love being here and working . . . enjoying the old country, but Ravine Creek will always be my home. My family is there, and they’re everything to me,” he says.
    We have something in common. When he speaks of his home and his family, there’s a fierceness and yet a vulnerability in his voice that I hadn’t heard before.
    I steal a glance at him. He seems far away, lost in his thoughts. His hand rests beside me, and without thinking, I reach for it, sorry that I ever let go.
    My touch seems to bring him back from wherever his mind had wandered to and he locks his fingers with mine. My face warms and my mouth turns up at the corners as he slides closer to me, the side of his body pressing against mine. The feelings I’m having for him are crazy, but my will to fight them is fading further away each minute.
    The sun begins to go down, the light shifting from yellow to orange and red.
    I’m so content here, with him, that I feel sad knowing that any moment Rocco or someone else will be driving me to my hotel. This can’t last forever, and reality pinches at my heart. I don’t want to leave.
    “Do you like music?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    He smiles. “Wait here.” He heads into the house through a different set of glass doors.
    A few minutes pass, and then Otis Redding’s sweet voice slips through the air. He’s one of my favorite singers, and I yearn for someone to share the melody with.
    Stefan emerges on the veranda but doesn’t walk toward me. He stands just out of reach and completely still.
    The wind blows my hair into tangles around my face, and I rise from the sofa, mimicking his stance. That look is in his eyes again, and all I want is to be next to him.
    The desire is palpable, and he must feel it, too, because whatever hesitation he had disintegrates, and he’s quickly at my side. “I’d like you to stay.”
    “What?”
    “Stay here. In my home. I want you . . . to stay. Stay the night. Have dinner with me. Afterward, I’ll have Bianca make up a room for you. I don’t want you to go.”
    Brave or reckless?
    “Carina, I don’t make this offer often. I want you to know that. And if you want to leave, I’ll hold no ill will.” He takes my shoulders in his gentle hands, but there’s urgency in his touch.
    I see my own feelings of sadness at the idea of saying goodbye reflected in his beautiful eyes as he stares back at me.
    “I want you to . . .”
    My lips move, speaking words from my heart, not my mind. “I’ll—I’ll stay.”
    And then I kiss him.
    I rise to my tiptoes and grasp his shirt, holding on as my lips move against his. The sensation I felt when he first touched me on the airplane is nothing compared to this.
    The tips of our tongues meet and withdraw as he cradles my face. His fingers are warm against my wind-kissed skin.
    Like every first kiss, we explore each other, finding a rhythm and succumbing to pleasure. But unlike other kisses I’ve shared, I feel my body almost melting into his, as though I’m not myself but a part of him. I’m aware of sounds around me—rustling leaves, music playing inside the house—distant and indistinct, but I no longer truly hear them over the pounding rush of my own heart.
    He returns the kiss but doesn’t escalate it. As a man and not an overeager boy, he takes his time, seeming to savor it with a pace that’s slow and sensual. It’s a stark contrast to my impulsive and passionate gesture. His hands on my face are gentle, but they possess an air of authority.
    I submerge myself in his sexy scent and heavenly taste, but when