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Chapter Seventeen
Preston
After the hostess shows us to the private room I booked at Luciano’s, Bex slides into the massive booth next to me. Her bare legs brush against mine, and I can’t help but touch her. Tiny bumps dot her legs, so responsive, as always. I slide my other arm across her shoulders, and she rests her head on my chest for a second.
She scans the large room. There’s a long oak bar on one wall, more tables and booths on the other side. Our table is lit by candlelight and the dim chandelier hanging above us. My parents love this restaurant. It’s their spot. And I thought, with Bex, that maybe it could be ours, too. I find myself wanting to have things with her, things we share together. She makes it so easy to be with her, yet still so difficult with her dad not knowing about us.
“I can’t believe you did all this for our first date,” she beams.
“It’s a special occasion.” I press my lips to hers, leaving her with a soft kiss that causes her to moan when our lips separate. “Plus, I wanted some privacy.”
“We definitely have that.”
I squeeze her knee, my fingers traveling up her inner thigh. “We could have sex in this room, and no one would even know. No one would care even if they caught us.”
She smiles. “Maybe we should eat dinner first before we christen this room.”
I run my hand through her hair and kiss her lips. “Or I could make you the meal instead.”
She chuckles. “You’re such a bad boy.” She cups her hand over my growing erection. “And so are you,” she tells my dick. “Both of you need to settle down.”
I laugh at her comments.
Our waitress enters the room through the French doors, breaking up our conversation. Familiar with the menu, I order for both of us. Bex doesn’t protest. Everything in the restaurant is served family style, which makes it easier to order.
“Good choice,” Bex says after the waitress leaves us. “I’ve never had someone order for me before. It takes all the thinking out of the equation.”
“My parents get the chicken parmigiana with penne pasta and salad every time we come here. I guess I’m a creature of habit.”
“Or you just don’t like change,” she counters.
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But if that were true, we wouldn’t be here right now. I never kept a girl around for more than a few days before I met you, and with some, even that was too long.”
“I wish I could say I’m surprised.”
“I was a walking stereotype before we met, huh?”
She nods. “You bet your ass you were. When I ran into you, I thought you were such a pig.”
“I still am,” I quip, slipping my hand into her panties.
“You know what I mean,” she whispers. Her face twists into a painful expression when I shove my fingers inside her.
“Always so wet for me.” I dip my head down to kiss her neck, as I fuck her with my fingers.
“Preston,” she moans.
“That’s it, baby.”
She tightens her grip on my fingers, holding them in a vise as she comes all over them. I raise them to my mouth to suck her juices. And in record time. Because the second I lick my fingers clean, the waitress strolls into the room with our salads. The air stinks of sex and Italian food.
She sets our salads in front of us, refills our wine glasses, and then disappears once more.
“That was a close call,” Bex says. “How awkward would that have been if I was in the middle of coming when she opened the door?”
“I guess it would have given her something to think about later.” I wink. “Because I wouldn’t have stopped trying to make you come.”
“You have no problem doing that.” Bex lifts her fork and digs into her salad, speaking between bites. “What time do your parents want my dad and me to come over for Thanksgiving?”
“Whenever. Everyone usually comes over for the kickoff of the first game. So around noon or so.”
She nods. “Who’s playing this year?”
“Bears and Lions, Redskins and Cowboys—”
“Ugh, I hate the Cowboys,” she interrupts.
“As any self-respecting Philadelphian should,” I say.
She laughs. “You sound like my dad.”
“Falcons and Saints are the late-night game,” I add. “I don’t know if you guys will want to stick around for that, but it’s kind of a house rule. No one leaves until the games are over.”
“I have to spend twelve hours at your parents’ house?” She stuffs her mouth with lettuce. “That’s a long ass time. Turkey dinner with my dad usually consists of one of those take-out meals you can order from the supermarket, followed by football and pumpkin pie. The night usually ends with him passed out on the couch, snoring.”
“Has it always been just the two of you?”
