CHAPTER TWELVE
Chris
Somehow everything’s spiraled out of control. I don’t know how the fuck this happened, it was supposed to be ten days of hedonism, ten days locked up in my house where I’d explore Lindy’s body thoroughly, take her v-card and then send her packing once it was done, wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
Except that everything has gone off course. Instead of staying locked up inside just the two of us, I’ve actually been taking Lindy out. And not to hidey holes where no one would find us, I mean like real places, right here in my neighborhood where we might run into friends, acquaintances, hell, even her parents.
“Um, Mr. Jones,” the brunette said, biting her lip. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she said as we walked towards Osteria La Bistra, my favorite Italian joint. “I mean, people might see us and start talking.”
I grinned at her.
“No worries baby, let them talk,” I said casually. “Doesn’t bother me.”
She shot me a glance then.
“Chris,” she said seriously, coming to a halt, pinning me with those warm caramel eyes. “I’m not joking. You know people who live here, I know people who live here, it’s not a good idea.”
But I just smiled at her, putting an arm around her waist and guiding her to the back door. And oh god, but it felt amazing with my arm around her. Not just because she was beautiful but because there was a sense of belonging, like the girl was mine and my arm belonged there, with absolute right of possession. So ignoring her protests, I swung open the door, feeling possessive and masculine.
“Don’t worry honey,” I whispered in her ear, pushing close so that she was forced to brush her breasts across my chest as she swept past. “I got us a private room in back and no one’s seen us so far, so we’re all good,” I growled.
The brunette just shook her head, sighing. I could see why Lindy was exasperated and on edge. We were playing with fire coming out into the open, but it felt so good to have her with me, I wanted to parade her around, show her off in front of everyone, consequences be damned.
But once the private door closed, Lindy relaxed a little, settling back in her plush leather seat and shooting me a sweet smile.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” she murmured softly, playing with her napkin. “I didn’t expect this.”
And another wave of … what, I’m not sure, rushed over me. All I knew was that I wanted to be there with a hundred percent of my being, I wanted to spend every available second with this beautiful brunette.
“It’s no problem honey,” I growled. “You deserve the best and Osteria La Bistra has the best Italian for miles around.”
She giggled.
“Better than your Spaghetti Bolognese?” she teased. She was referring to the time I’d cooked her my special, treated her to a three-course meal that had ended up with noodles on the floor and her ass perched on the table as I drilled her over and over. So, no, not quite like that but the memory made me hungry.
“If Chef does anything like that, even looks at you the wrong way, I’m fucking killing him,” I ground out.
And Lindy just laughed again, her hand covering mine.
“Oh Mr. Jones, nobody has ever looked at me the way you do,” she said with a sweet smile. “Trust me, nobody.”
And that’s what blew me away. Because what male wouldn’t want a piece of Lindy? The brunette was sweet, sharp and so smart, it was hard to believe she was only nineteen. Our conversation was easy, rolling along like we’d known each other for years, two adults spending time with each other, enjoying each other’s company, relaxing in each other’s presence.
“So what do you think about this food?” I asked casually as the brunette nibbled at another mouthful of pasta. I looked on approvingly, Osteria did it right here, the sauce was made from scratch by the owner’s grandmother who simmered tomatoes until they dissolved entirely, becoming a delectable, mouthwatering stew.
“It’s good,” the brunette nodded, delicately patting her mouth with a napkin. “I’d say tangy and fine, but also with a hint of robustness. All it needs is a kick more of garlic.”
I nodded approvingly, I couldn’t have said it better myself.
“True, true,” I rumbled. “And what about the bread?” I asked curiously. Lindy always surprised me with her knowledge, her sensitive palate.
Here, the brunette was a little more critical.
“I like it,” she answered truthfully, candidly. “It’s airy, rustic, almost continental in its flavor. But,” she said, lowering her voice and looking around, “The accompaniment could have been done better. The butter’s just … blah, you know? It’s supposed to be whipped with sea salt, but look,” she said, pointing at the bowl they’d given us, “the ingredients are already separating, the buttermilk’s re-liquefied and the sea salt wasn’t mixed in well, there are clumps here and there. You have to be careful with this stuff,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “Sea salt’s not like table salt, the granules are a lot bigger so it doesn’t mix as easily, takes twice as long to blend.”