21. Damiano
After eating takeout the last few nights, Paige insisted on cooking for us tonight. I didn’t take her for much of a chef based on all the processed food in her apartment, but of course I told her to make whatever she wanted. As long as she cooked naked.
She was afraid something hot might splash on her, so we compromised on her wearing one of my shirts, but no bra or panties. So here she is, in a crisp white button-down, collar popped, sleeves rolled up, hair in some type of floppy bun on top of her head, and legs for days.
The shirt’s long enough that it’s covering her sweet little pussy, but the tease of knowing it’s bare and just out of sight is almost even better.
After I picked Paige’s outfit, she picked mine—gray sweatpants, no shirt, and a Cubs baseball cap, on backward. I keep having to look away from her because these sweatpants don’t hide my hard-on and won’t hide a wet spot if my dick starts leaking in anticipation, which he threatens to do every time Paige reaches high for something on a shelf or bends over to pick up something she’s dropped.
Each time she glances over at me, she looks down at my junk like she can’t help it. So much so that I stepped away and did a hundred crossover sit-ups to make sure my abs are on fire. Paige stopped dead in the middle of whatever she was telling me when I came back in, then couldn’t remember whatever she was saying.
I could get used to this. I could get used to everything about this. Not the part where she’s cooking an all-carb dinner, but all the rest.
“This is going to be so good.” Paige stirs the pan on the stove.
I’m into these random boosts of confidence Paige gets. The kitchen is a fucking mess and she definitely burning the garlic, but she’s absolutely sure she’s got this.
I squeeze in behind her at the stove and look over her shoulder. Whatever’s in the pan does not look right. “You willing to bet on that?”
“I didn’t picture you as a gambler.”
“No?”
“You’re too much of a control freak to leave things to chance.”
“I can’t control everything. I can’t control you.” I move to lean against the counter, still close to her but out of her way.
She looks at me suspiciously as she adds salt to the pan, paying zero attention to how much. She looks down at the pan, then up at me, biting her fat bottom lip. “What kind of bet do you have in mind?”
Whatever she’s making looks awful. She added a jar of store-bought sauce to uncooked pasta, not bothering to boil it first. But she looks really happy cooking for me, swaying her hips to the music she’s playing.
I plan to eat every bite of whatever she puts on my plate, no matter how awful it is. I’m that whipped by this girl. “ I bet this is going to taste fan-fucking-tastic.”
“And I bet—wait, you’re betting that I get this right ?” She stops stirring and looks up at me.
“Of course, angel. You can do anything.” Probably not cooking, though. And definitely not giving stitches. Or actual sponge baths.
“Uh. . . okay.” She smiles and looks away bashfully, returns to stirring her dish. “And if you win?”
“ When I win. . . you ride my face for an hour.”
She looks up at me for a long minute. “And if you lose?” Her voice cracks. She doesn’t want me to lose.
I step close behind her. Press up against her. “This.” I slide my hands under the tail of her shirt, cupping her bare ass. “This right here.”
She stops stirring. “Damiano.”
“I’ll make it so good for you. I promise, baby.” I kiss her shoulder then take a few steps away before the urge to slide right into her takes over. “And anyway, dinner’s going to be amazing. I can tell.”
She surveys the mess she’s made, her lips twisted, her eyebrows tense. “I think it will be good. I’m following a recipe. The parts of it I remember. I saw a TikTok of someone making this. It looked easy enough.” She looks up at me, unsure of herself.
“It smells good.” It smells like something is burning. I look around and see one of the potholders is too close to the flame and is smoldering. I move it away without her noticing.
She lifts a spoon to her mouth, takes a taste. Scrunches her nose a little.
“Take the bet, Paige.”
“I mean, it’s sort of win-win. Right?”
Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah, it is. Heads, she sits on my face. Tails, I get her ass. That is abso-fucking-lutely win-win, and her thinking that too has my dick instantly at full attention.
“Oh my god, Dom, you have to stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like we’re not going to make it to dinner. Can you go set the table or something? I need to focus on the last few steps. I can’t focus with you here.”
I grab plates, silverware, and glasses and head to the table. I’m not sure an actual meal has ever been served at this table before. It’s great for laying out weapons and ammo before a job and cleaning them after, but a meal?
I could put us at opposite ends of the rectangle like we’re royalty, or across the short side like normal. But I don’t like Paige being that far away from me, so I set two spots side-by-side at the table big enough for ten.
She walks over with a bowl of pasta burnt to the point of being charred and black in some spots. “Bon appetit.”
I shake my head. “ Bu on appeti to .”
“Buon appetito.” She smiles.
“Sit here,” I pat my lap.
“But I don’t have panties on.”
I pull her down onto me. “Oh, is that right?” I can feel her heat through my pants. Does she really think I forgot that part? That part’s branded into my brain. I slide one hand around, high up on her thigh. “Thank you for making me dinner.”
“I hope you like it.”
I look down at the portion she scooped onto my plate. It doesn’t look right. The pasta is all clumped together and burnt. I take a mouthful, expecting the worst.
But holy shit. “This è deliziosa.”
“Are you just saying that because of the bet?”
“No.” I stuff another overloaded forkful in my mouth. The bet we made makes me want to lie and say this is awful so I ‘lose.’ But I won’t do that to her. Not when she was so excited to cook for me. “Told you you can do anything, angel.”
“Maybe I should get a job in a restaurant?”
I look up from my bowl to see if she’s joking. “Really?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Yeah. I mean, I’m going to need to find something at some point.”
“I told you I’ll talk to your manager. She’ll beg you to come back after. With a raise. Guaranteed.”
After listening to the voicemail Paige got from her boss, I was two seconds away from having a special chat with her boss anyway. Only reason I didn’t was that Paige wasn’t upset about getting fired and I like not having to share her with her co-workers. But if she wants to go back, I’ll make it happen.
“Please don’t. I wasn’t quite ready to quit, but I’m glad I don’t have to go back. It’s a relief, actually. I’ll find something else.”
I take another forkful of this spicey, chewy, almost bitter but in an insanely delicious way, pasta. “You don’t have to get a job at all.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to my landlord.”
“I told you, I’ll pay your rent.” I’ve gone to her place twice now to check it and to get some of her things. I was tempted to pack up all her shit and bring it here, but that wasn’t an option on my bike. Didn’t look like anyone had been in there and her neighbor from the down the hall said she hadn’t seen anything unusual.
But even though Joey’s guys don’t seem interested in ransacking her place, I still want her here with me. “And anyway, you’re not going back there anytime soon.”