He catches my hand and bends it behind my back and deals several more slaps. “I told you I don’t share, baby girl.”
I’m dripping wet and squirming, the pain level warring with pleasure. As the pain level nudges up, I start to think I was absolutely nuts to suggest maintenance. “Okay!” I gasp. “I’m sorry, Joey!”
He stops and rubs my ass then pulls me up to stand between his legs again. I flush, feeling vulnerable. Embarrassed. Turned on.
Joey wraps his arms around me and pulls me in for a hug. I straddle his lap, looping my arms around his neck.
“Are you okay, baby?” he whispers in my ear, holding me against his chest.
I nod against his neck. “Yeah,” I say softly.
“Was that too hard?”
“No. Almost, but no.”
“Was that maintenance?”
“Yeah, minus you getting mad at the end.”
He chuckles into my hair. “I wasn’t mad.”
“Yes, you were.”
“Believe me, baby, when I’m mad, I’m a total cocksucker, and you won’t want to be anywhere near me.”
I pull away to look at him. He’s so kind to me, so gentlemanly, I sometimes forget just how dangerous he must be.
As if he guesses my thoughts, he brushed his lips over mine and said, “Don’t worry. I would never touch you if I were mad. Never. Ever. You’re precious to me.”
The timer on the oven buzzes, and I jump off his lap and pull on pants and panties. “Ready for dinner?”
“Yes, please.” His appreciative rumble makes me feel warm. Held. Like I’m in the right place with the right person. Like I’m right where I belong.
He feels like home.
And that’s a feeling I haven’t had in a very long time.
Certainly not since my dad died.
I made manicotti the way my Nana taught me, as well as lightly sautéed vegetables. Joey opens the bottle of wine without being asked. There was something so decidedlyrightabout having a man like him in the house. Like he knows his role and doesn’t need to be told how to fill it. But it’s the same thing that makes me on edge with him. He’s too cocky, too sure of himself. He never takes no for an answer, and he has the worst possible job. And really, that’s the sticking point. Because even if I ever do get used to his bullish ways, I would never, ever be able to live with a mobster. Not again.
After dinner, Joey helps me with the dishes, and my phone rings.
My mother. Crap. If I don’t answer, the woman will keep calling every thirty minutes.
“Hi there.” I answer the call.
“Hi, honey, how’s it going?”
“It’s going well, and you?”
“Where do these go?” Joey murmurs behind me, holding up the salad plates.
“Up there,” I mouth, pointing to a cupboard.
“Who’s that?” my mother demands.
“Oh, no one.”