Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 39756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 39756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 199(@200wpm)___ 159(@250wpm)___ 133(@300wpm)
“Will do. See you later, boss,” Lorenzo responds.
“Later.” I hit the end button just as two arms wrap around my middle from behind. I heard Journey’s light footsteps when she walked out of her room, so I wrapped up that conversation as fast as I could. It’s not that I don’t trust her. The less she knows the better, especially in the eyes of the law. Unless you’re married, you essentially have no immunity when it comes to them subpoenaing you as a witness. Believe me, we’ve seen it happen more times than I’d care to admit in my years.
“It’s a shame you put your clothes on. I’ll just be taking them off again,” I tell her, tossing my phone to the loveseat. One of my hands captures hers as she places a kiss on my spine.
“That’s okay. I enjoy the way you strip me bare. You don’t have to leave?” she asks, used to my fucked-up schedule.
“Nope, you have me until the afternoon.” She slides around, face tipped up towards mine, asking for my lips without saying the words. I give her what she wants. My hands move to her waist, and I pick her up until her legs wrap around my waist, using the glass door and my thighs to hold her. My lips graze hers lightly at first until she’s squirming against me, naked core against my boxer brief-covered cock. I guess I was wrong when I assumed she’d re-dressed; she’s only wearing the oversized sweatshirt, and it’s fucking perfect because as I take her mouth deeper, swallowing her moans, I feel her wetness against me and know that if my night is going to go to shit, at least my day is going to start with being deep inside Journey.
“Nico.” The softness of my name coming from her has me taking control and making her come again.
THREE
Journey
“Feeling any better?” We’re standing in my kitchen. I’m munching on a bowl of cereal, more of the crunchy goodness than milk because milk is just ick. Milk is my least favorite thing unless it’s in my ice cream or cereal of choice. Other than that, it’s dead to me. Nico is eating something else entirely. Making himself at home in my kitchen as well as the rest of my condo is his usual, but while I was making my bowl of the fake fruity concoction, he made a bagel, eggs, and sausage. How he can wake up ready for a full meal, I have no idea. He offered to make me the exact same thing, but it wasn’t calling to me, especially after last night. I need comfort food in the form of sugary goodness.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Nico worked my body once in the middle of the night, giving me two orgasms and himself one before we fell back asleep with me on my side, back to his front, the palm of his hand cupping me between my legs, holding it there until we moved in the morning sometime. There’s a slight curl to his lip as he’s attempting not to smile while he’s standing there, spatula in one hand, the handle of the frying pan in the other, frozen in place looking devilishly handsome in only his boxer briefs, which don’t hide the bulge I’ve taken advantage of this morning. Nico has what most would identify as a control fetish. We don’t classify anything. He’s not into putting a label on it, and neither am I. What he does in the bedroom, though, it lights up my world, giving myself over to the pleasure that he doles out to me, getting me off numerous times to his once or twice. It’s not a bad deal. I would have woken him up with my mouth, but his phone ringing ruined those plans. Damn it, maybe next time. My eyes take in his form, the dark close-cropped style of his hair. He never uses any product or does anything fancy with it. Must be nice. Some men have it so easy. His dark chocolate eyes are perfectly framed by eyelashes I’d give my left arm for. Thank you, Grandma Hayes, for my fair skin, auburn hair, and non-existent eyelashes unless they’re coated thickly with mascara. Nico’s lips are full, his upper lip and jawline covered in a stubble he likes to keep after he’s shaved; it’s more than a five-o’clock shadow yet still less than a full beard.
“La vita mia.” The name Nico uses for me, sweet and flowery, is something he doesn’t use all that often unless he’s trying to get his point across. Nico gains my attention when I’m still busy staring at him, at his chest this time, the scripted words talking about family, the heart designed with flowers inside it, the angel on his upper arm trailing down, creating a full sleeve. His mom gives him hell, says a prayer every time he doesn’t wear a suit, which isn’t near enough for my eyes. He’s got a muscular chest but isn’t overly so in the ab department. It works for him, though. God, it all works for him, and each time I get him like this, not the mafia boss to the Donotello Famiglia, I soak it up. My phone is off. Work is the last thing on my mind. I want to cherish the time we have like this knowing one day, this won’t be enough. I’ll want more. Nico won’t be able to give that to me because of things I’d rather not think about, and I’ll have to let him go.