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I should’ve waited for him to call out ‘come in’ or something, because the sight that greets me is atrociously obscene. I’ll need a gallon-sized bottle of eye bleach to even have a hope of erasing it from my memory.
Valentina is bent over Sergio’s desk, looking bored as she chants, “Oh, yeah, baby. So good,” in a dull voice. I swear she’s checking her manicure.
Sergio is behind her, grunting and railing into Valentina with everything he’s got judging by the red tint of his cheeks and the sweat at his brow.
“Sorry!” I exclaim, moving to shut the door.
“Lorenzo! My boy!” Sergio calls out. Though my eyes are on the floor, I can hear him pull out of his wife and zip up. “Come in, come in. Is that alfredo for me?”
“Uh, yeah,” I say hesitatingly. Risking a glance up, I see that Valentina hasn’t moved but the boredom in her eyes has been replaced by sharp hunger. She wants me to see her this way, is getting off on being half-naked and folded over the nearest piece of furniture. Not for her husband but for me in some sordid pretend fantasy in her mind.
Sergio has come around his desk, his shirt messily untucked in the front and his belt undone, but at least I can’t see his dick. His extends his hand to shake mine. My lip curls. “No offense, Sergio, but I know where your hands have been.”
Valentina lets out of squeak of anger as she stands upright. “What’s that supposed to mean?" Her skirt won’t fall over her hips, it’s too tight for that, but she shimmies and wiggles it down into place.
Sergio’s eyes narrow at me.
“I’m on the line,” I remind him, as if I’m going to walk directly back into the kitchen and start touching food and don’t want his sex juices—gag!—to contaminate anything. No worries about that, though, because I’ll definitely be washing my hands and doing a look around to see if I really can get ahold of some eye bleach.
“Oh, of course!” Sergio says congenially. “So good to have you back. Roberta, she tries, but her alfredo is just not the same as yours.” He looks at the plate in my hands eagerly, his fingers twitching as he holds himself back from grabbing it out of my hands.
“Here.” I shove the plate his way. “Excuse me.”
My escape is short-lived because as Sergio sits down to chow on his special plate of fettuccine, Valentina is coming down the hall in quick strides. Click-click-click, her heels sound out on the floor.
“Lorenzo!” she calls out.
I’m almost free and clear, just two more steps and I’ll be through the door into the kitchen, but she catches me. Her nails dig into my arm to stop me in place. Gritting my teeth, I hiss, “What?”
She actually looks wounded. “I . . . I missed you.”
I blink. “You don’t even know me.”
Ignoring my assertion, she pouts, “Didn’t you miss me too, baby?” She reaches up to cup my face and I jerk out of her range.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl. “And I’m not your ‘baby’. As I’ve told you before, Valentina . . . not just no, but hell no. Go to your husband.”
Her lips purse haughtily, a gleam in her eye. “Did you like seeing me like that? Bent over, getting fucked from behind?” She takes a step closer, and though I want to run from her, I refuse to give up ground to a woman like her. Lowering her voice, she confides, “I only let him fuck me from behind so I can pretend it’s you, Lorenzo. Always you in my mind, but I know the real thing would be so much better. We could be so good together.”
“Never gonna happen,” I snarl, shaking my head with my eyes fixed on hers, imploring her to hear me for once.
She purrs, “Come on, baby. Just once . . . for me? Or I could tell my husband that you’ve been pursuing me.” Her hand reaches for my cock, and I gently grab her wrist to stop her, not wanting her touch. “Ouch, you’re hurting me,” she exclaims softly, all fearful drama with tears threatening at the corners of her eyes.
“I’m not hurting you. Don’t touch me.”
Her face morphs again as she muses, “But who will they believe? The dutiful wife of a loving dimwit of a husband, or the tattooed bad boy who blows in and out of town on his motorcycle, leaving women in his wake after taking what he wants from them?”
“I don’t . . .”
I freeze. Is that what I do? Not with Valentina, never with a barracuda like her, but I have had relationships in the various towns I’ve lived in. Some casual, some more serious, but never enough to warrant my staying beyond the short time I found something interesting there. Once my cravings for food adventures were satisfied, I was happy to move on . . . from the food and the women.
