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y mother was Spanish and Italian.”
“Which makes you a mutt,” I joked. He didn’t like my joke.
Shit.
“Sorry,” I offered.
“What is a mutt?” I froze, unable to form words. It sounded much worse in explanation than it did in jest. I stalled.
“I grew in both countries—Egypt and Italy—so I do not understand all of your American slang. What is a mutt?” Fiery eyes confronted me as I dug my fingers into the seat and crossed my legs.
“It’s a dog of mixed breed,” I muttered, trying to hide the fear in my voice. “It’s perfectly acceptable to say in jest, um, when you are joking…It wasn’t meant—”
Before I could get the words out, I was snatched by my arms and pulled forward. I landed on Daniello, who was ready for me as he pushed me beneath him on the seat he was just sitting in and cupped my face roughly.
“Shut the fuck up, Taylor,” he growled before his lips slammed into mine. I moaned loudly as his kiss disintegrated thought, disintegrated space and time, and lured me into a desperate state for more. I was lost as I clutched him to me as tightly as I could and pressed my angry, hard nipples against his chest as he stroked me with his tongue, tasting, sucking, and fucking my entire world up. I was completely wrapped in him, my body begging for more as his hand slid up my dress and stroked over my lavender lace panties. Lightly, I pushed my hips up, needing more.
“Yes,” he whispered, licking his lips and eyeing me as he pulled me up to sit next to him.
The car stopped, and I gave Daniello a curious stare. How long had we been kissing?
Daniello adjusted his ready cock, and no amount of it could cover his arousal. Rocco opened the door, and I took his hand and stepped out. We were at The Boathouse, a restaurant I wasn’t familiar with but had heard of for good dining. I looked to Rocco who was whispering Arabic at Daniello, drawing the conclusion Rocco was Egyptian or part mutt as well.
I walked away, into the restaurant, leaving the two to argue, realizing that Rocco was the same man that Daniello had been arguing with at the club a few weeks back.
Why didn’t he just fire him? Maybe they were family. Still, the relationship seemed strained. I shook off those questions, deeming them intrusive, and held up my finger to the bartender. I was looking over the marsh as the sun began to set. Orange and pink hues wafted throughout the restaurant as diners ignored the obscene beauty that surrounded them in lieu of conversation. I had no issue with my own company as I watched the show unveil in front of me. Snow white heron birds with majestic wings patterned around the water, dipping their feather tips on the cool surface before flying into the mix of grassy marsh and then further to clear water. I hadn’t traveled much in my life, never straying further west than Tennessee before making a beeline for New York after Boston. And there was something to be said for the beauty of the Smoky Mountains, but unfortunately for me, I never got to enjoy those.
But Charleston couldn’t be summed into words. Charleston was a feeling. The city had more breathtaking sunsets and more settings to paint those sunsets than any place I’d ever been.
“It is beautiful,” Daniello whispered as he joined me. I made a small hmph sound as he pulled me from the bar where I had yet to be served and guided me behind the hostess to our table where we got a front row view of the last of the show.
“I’m sure it’s nothing compared to Italy,” I noted, saying a small thank you to our hostess.
“You have not been?” He seemed surprised.
“I skipped the backpacking through Europe trip in college,” I said absently.
The server greeted us, asking for our drink order.
“I’ll have a white wine, your choice.” Smiling, I addressed the waiter.
“She will have a vodka,” Daniello corrected.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter walked away, and I looked at Daniello, confused.
“You twist your nose every fucking time you take a sip of any wine. You do not like it.”
“What?” I asked, wildly confused.
“Just be truthful, you do not like wine,” he said crossly.
“I order it everywhere,” I said confidently, knowing with him I was transparent.
“And yet there is not a bottle in your house. Not one.” He sat back in his chair defiantly.
“I’m not much of a drinker.” I shrugged.
“Because you hate wine,” he insisted.
