Chapter 8
Gio
I shouldn’t have let her run.
Or maybe it was the right thing to do. I don’t fucking know.
I feel like I need to see a shrink, like fucking Tony Soprano or something.
Why is it with Marissa Milano things just get muddier and muddier? That’s not true. They get crystal clear and then they fall apart.
There were moments when she was at my place, when I felt like a new man. When I found the me who’s been buried under the mold of the Family man. The person I really am. The man I was meant to be.
There were glimmers of purpose and hope. Of possibilities I never believed possible. More like a feeling or energy than a real concrete vision of a future.
But the resonance of it was incredible.
It’s still sustaining me, even though the darkness creeps back in more and more every day.
She needed space. I could tell by the way she scampered out of here, refusing to let me drive her home. Refusing to accept any more favors from me.
So I stayed away for the last week. I haven’t been into Michelangelo’s or Milano’s while she’s been working. I haven’t texted or called.
But tonight’s her night to come and cook for me, and I’m really fucking looking forward to it.
Still, there’s a point when you gotta stop chasing. I’ve said before, I’m not the kinda guy who has to pay women. I don’t need to force or coerce. So if this one doesn’t want me, I’m not gonna press the issue.
That’s what I decided.
It’s reinforced when the doorman calls up to say she’s downstairs. She didn’t call me for a ride.
If she shows up in a skirt and heels, eager to please, then I’ll know where I stand.
I get up to unlock and crack the door, but then I go back to my computer at the dining room table.
She taps on the door and pushes it open.
Jeans and a fucking t-shirt.
Okay. That’s a clear message.
So I’ll leave her the fuck alone.
I just call my greeting from where I’m sitting. Like she’s the help. And I’m the boss.
Which is actually the case and how I need to leave things.
She gets busy making the food while I look through Michelangelo's financials. Except I don’t know what the fuck I’m looking for. I used a broker to buy the business. He established the value, and I doubled it to make my offer irresistible.
But I know jack about running a restaurant except how to eat in one. I forward the info off to Nico with the note:
Took your advice, brother. I’m now the proud owner of Michelangelo's. Would you mind taking a look at the financials and letting me know what you think?
Marissa comes in with a plate of beautiful food. Pork chop with some kind of dried currant and berry sauce and steamed asparagus that is exactly the right tenderness and buttery goodness.
I resist the urge to make her sit with me. Resist the urge to touch her.
When she comes to clear my plate, though, she stops and swallows. “You mad at me?”
Oh, sugar. Now I can’t stop myself. My hand reaches for her waist, slides to the back of her jeans where I squeeze her ass. “You trying to make me mad?”
She sucks in a breath her pupils dilating. “No. I mean, I wasn’t, but…”
“You need me to turn this ass red again?” I squeeze another handful because it feels so. Damn. Good.
She leans into me.
Fuck.
So much for keeping my hands off her.
I tug her onto my lap and firmly cup between her legs with one hand. With the other, I grab a fistful of her hair and tug her head back. “Babygirl, here’s the score. I’m tired of watching you scamper away like you think I’m gonna bite. So if you want my hands on you, you need to make it clear. Give me a fucking, yes, please. Otherwise I’m cutting you loose. Tell me now.”
Cristo. Sometimes I shock even myself with what comes out of my mouth with this girl. And the truths she pulls from me are even more surprising.
I definitely shocked her. Her blue eyes are wide, pupils huge. She’s squirming against my fingers, panting over the stress on her scalp.
“Yes, please,” she whispers.
My chuckle is dark and possessive.
My desire is black as night.
The things I want to do to this girl.
The things I’m going to do.
I tug her knees wide, throwing her legs over the outside of mine and slap her pussy with three sharp smacks. Then I grind the seam of her jeans over her clit.
She wriggles and moans.
“You gonna be my good girl?” My voice is gravel-dirty. Dangerously gruff.
“N-no.”
I slap her pussy again.
“Yes!” she yelps. “Yes?”
I bite her ear. “You aren’t sure?”
“Wh-what do you want?”
I laugh. “That’s right, angel. It is about what I want, isn’t it? Because you know I’m gonna make it good no matter what I do. Don’t you, baby?”