I killed the engine then grabbed my stuff, and when I looked out my side window again, I saw that she was at the top of the steps, standing there in her little pajama shorts and a white strappy sports bra that showed lots of cleavage.
I grinned, seeing her standing there waiting for me. “Ooh, she’s definitely into me.” I opened the door and pulled the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “Hey, baby.” I shut the door and started to walk up the stairs, like a husband just coming home to his wife after a long day.
“Hey, babe.” She had a slight smile on her lips as she watched me walk toward her, her tanned skin having a hint of an olive tone, a waterfall of dark hair around her shoulders, her eyes smart and playful. She had the sexiest body, muscles in her thighs and defined in her stomach, but she was also curvy, having a woman’s hips and tits. She was fucking gorgeous from head to toe. Sometimes my mind wandered to her during the day, and I found myself with a hard dick at the worst times.
My arm hooked across her lower back, and I pulled her into me as I kissed her. I wrapped my other arm around her and squeezed her a little bit before my hand went to her ass in her little shorts, and I squeezed it hard. Gave her tongue right there on the porch, felt her tits against the top of my stomach, smelled the jasmine in her hair.
I pulled away and looked into her face, cupping her cheek and directing her chin up so her eyes were on me. I gently stroked her cheek as I looked into her face, the single most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on.
Her little fingers wrapped around my wrist as she looked at me, her eyes soft but guarded at the same time. “Thisis what I mean.” Her voice came out as a whisper, like she didn’t want to actually say the words out loud. “Fast.”
“I think it’s moving exactly the way it’s supposed to.” I let her go and stepped into the house, the fireplace in her living room burning because it was a cool evening. It had been sweltering last week, but the temperature had dropped. It was supposed to rain tomorrow.
I set my bag on the couch to carry up the stairs later.
“Are you hungry?”
I hadn’t eaten dinner. I’d been too busy preparing for tomorrow. “I’m six-five and two hundred and forty pounds. I’m always hungry.”
She smiled. “Well, I made a lasagna. Would you like some?”
“Fuck yes, I would,” I said with a smirk.
She headed into the kitchen and pulled out the casserole dish from the refrigerator then prepared my dinner.
I grabbed my laptop out of my bag and set it on the table before I took a seat. My eyes flicked up every couple of seconds to look at her work, the way she brushed her hair from her face from time to time because there was so much of it. I’d been to the strip club more times than I could count, but watching Francesca move around in thekitchen turned me on way more than the naked ladies dancing on poles.
A couple minutes later, she returned with a plate of hot food. She also brought a basket of bread and an extra plate with a bottle of Mancini olive oil.
“Thank you.” She was the only woman to cook for me, besides my live-in maid back in Palermo. I hadn’t been home much lately, so she probably had a lot more free time than usual. I sliced my fork through the layers and took a bite. “Damn, that’s good.”
She sat in the chair to my right and rolled her eyes a little bit.
“I’m serious.” I continued to eat, noticing how fresh the pasta sauce was, like she’d made it that day, sauteed with onion and garlic from her own garden and crushed the tomatoes by hand. “You cook better than my maid.”
“You have a maid?”
“In Palermo. I’ll move her over here when I find a place.” I continued to eat the large slice of lasagna she’d put on my plate. It was actually probably two pieces put together, but I was a big man with a big appetite. “How was your day?”
“Worked in the office then came home around five.”
“Any lacerations to stitch up today?”
“Nope,” she said. “You weren’t there, so…”
I smirked before I took another bite. “Good one, baby.”
Her eyes dropped to my arm, where my gunshot wound was hidden under the sleeve of my shirt. “How’s your arm?”
“I told you I’m fine.”
“Well, you got shot, so I’m not sure I believe you.”
“I meant what I said—I don’t feel pain.”
“Not possible.”
“Everyone has a different tolerance for pain. Mine is exceptionally higher than everyone else’s.”
