Chapter 16 Vin
Vin
Iwake up to the smell of something that makes my dick hard and my stomach growl, and I can’t tell which is more urgent.
Eggs. Something sweet baking. The scent winds through Sophie’s tiny apartment, dragging me out of her bed and into her kitchen.
Two nights. I’ve fucked Sophie two nights in a row, slept in her bed, woken up with my cock in her mouth like it fucking belongs there.
This isn’t me. I don’t even sleep over, much less do second nights. One and done. No feelings, no repeats, no fucking complications. And yet here I am, wearing yesterday’s jeans in her kitchen while she hums something Italian, cooking for me. Again.
What the fuck is happening to me?
I should bail, find somewhere else to crash. I need to put distance between me and whatever this is before it blows up in my face.
But I stay put, drawn to her cooking and, fuck, the memory of how she took me in her mouth last night, sleepy and soft, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
La mia regina.
The words come into my head unbidden. I called her that while she slept, my cock buried in her mouth. My queen. Jesus Christ, what the fuck was I thinking?
She didn’t hear me. Probably doesn’t remember me fucking her face in the dark, the way she moaned around my cock, still dreaming. Not sure if that makes it better or worse.
Her card table, that flimsy piece of shit I’m amazed hasn’t collapsed yet, is set like something out of a magazine. Not fancy. Sophie doesn’t do fancy. But there’s a plate with a cloth napkin folded beside it, coffee steaming next to a moka pot, cream and sugar on the side.
And Sophie, barefoot in sleep shorts and a tank top, her hair piled on her head, is pulling something out of the oven that is making my mouth water.
She catches me staring. That smile blooms across her face, the one that makes her eyes sparkle like I just handed her the fucking moon. “Good morning.”
I grunt. Can’t trust myself to speak yet. My brain is waging civil war: Leave now versus stay for breakfast versus bend her over that counter and fuck her until she can’t walk.
“What’s this?” I gesture at the table.
She sets down a pie plate packed with a fluffy yellow egg dish exploding with peppers, onions, spinach, mushrooms.
“That’s an egg frittata, kind of like an Italian omelette—”
“I know what a frittata is, princess.” I can’t help the smirk that pulls at my mouth. “But is yours any good, is the question?”
She bends to put a piece of frittata on the plate and I can see straight down her shirt.
“Sit. Find out.”
Between her tits and the food, I’m fucked. The God damn decision of whether to leave or stay isn’t mine to make. I drop into the chair.
“There’s also some panettone French toast.” She sets down another plate, golden-brown slices dusted with powdered sugar, butter melting into the ridges.
I freeze, fork halfway to the frittata. “You baked panettone this morning?”
She laughs. “No, but I had some leftover, and it’s a good way to use it up.”
I serve myself, stabbing into the frittata first. The fork sinks through like butter. I shove it in my mouth and— “Oh my God.”
The moan rips out of me before I can stop it. Creamy eggs, perfectly seasoned, vegetables that still have crisp, some kind of cheese that’s sharp and salty and melts on my tongue. It’s…. FUCK. It’s…. “Amazing.”
I’m already loading my fork again, shoveling it in like I haven’t eaten in days. “You need to teach my cook how to make this. Don’t get me wrong: Lucia makes amazing stuff but this is—”
I don’t even finish the sentence, too busy groaning around another mouthful.
“Your paid girl who cooks for you not bringing it the way you’d like?” Sophie’s voice has a teasing edge I haven’t heard before. When I glance up, she’s watching me over the rim of her coffee cup, one eyebrow arched, a small smile playing at her lips.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Are you lobbying to get wifed up again, princess?”
“Just asking a question.” She looks away, but her smile deepens.
I should get up. Should walk out right fucking now before this gets any more domestic. But I’m hungry—starving, actually—and this food is un-fucking-believable.
I make a deal with myself: focus on the food only. Don’t look at her. Don’t think about how she made all this for me. Don’t think about how her ass looked bouncing on my cock last night or how she whispered my name when I spanked her.
Just. Eat.
I stuff my face, groaning with every bite, my eyes closing involuntarily. The panettone French toast is somehow even better than the frittata. It’s custardy in the middle, crispy on the edges, with a hint of citrus and vanilla that makes me want to settle in and never leave.
She blushes watching me eat as she sips her coffee. Just watching me eat makes this woman happy. What the fuck?
My phone buzzes. Matti’s name lights up the screen. I glance between the phone and my plate. Once. Twice. Fuck it.
I put the phone down and inhale the rest of my food like a man possessed, barely chewing, just shoveling it in and groaning like Sophie’s giving me the blowjob of a lifetime.
Which, to be fair, she did about four hours ago.
She laughs warmly. “You can take it with you. You don’t have to rush.”
But I do. I do have to rush because if I stay any longer I’m going to do something stupid like ask her to make me lunch too, or fuck her on this table, or—worse—just sit here and talk to her while she drinks her coffee and looks at me like I’m not a violent criminal who’s sole purpose right now is to murder his father.
I’m already standing, chewing, wiping my mouth and moving all at the same time. I bring the dishes to the kitchen, ignoring her reach for them with a warning glare, and wash them while I finish swallowing.
The routine is becoming automatic. Eat her food. Wash the dishes. Try not to think about how fucking easy this feels.
“You’re not eating?” I ask, scrubbing at the plate harder than necessary.
“I don’t really eat breakfast. The coffee, I love though.”
I freeze, hands in the soapy water. She made all this, and she’s not eating any of it?
“You made all this for me?”
She meets my eyes with that gentle smile. “You are a good houseguest.”
When she winks at me, something snaps in me. Before I can think better of it, I grab her by the waist and jerk her against me. She squeals, that high-pitched sound that goes straight to my cock, as I look down at her.
“With this amazing food, that wet pussy, and your gorgeous fat ass, you’re going to land yourself a nice traditional husband to cook for in no time, princess.” I nuzzle into her neck, growling, breathing her in.
She’s still laughing, her hands on my chest. “I’m in no rush, Vincenzo.”
I pull back and narrow my eyes at her. There’s something in her voice that makes me uncomfortable as fuck.
She laughs again, reading my face. “Don’t worry. I could just mean that I enjoy playing with you until my husband comes along.”
“You could just mean that, huh.”
She kisses me on the cheek, just a soft press of lips, and turns to the refrigerator. “Don’t overthink it.” She pulls out a insulated bag, the same kind she gives me each morning. “I made you lunch.”
My eyes pop open wide. “Mmm! Best host ever.”
I take it from her, kiss her on both cheeks, and head for the door. I need to leave. Now. Before I do something catastrophically stupid. But when I open the door, my feet stop moving.
The morning air hits me. The door’s open. I could walk through it right now, text her later with some excuse, never come back. That’s what I should do. That’s what I always do. After a second that stretches too long, I turn back toward her.
She’s leaning against the counter, coffee cup cradled in both hands, watching me with those big brown eyes that see too fucking much.
“Make some of those arancini again tonight.” It’s not a question. Orders are easier than requests.
Her lips curve. “Actually, I’m making a crispy roast chicken with a side of tagliatelle and alfredo sauce, stuffed artichokes, and pesto green beans.”
I just stare. My brain short-circuits trying to process how incredible that sounds. Roasted chicken with crispy skin. Fresh pasta. Alfredo made from scratch, not that jarred bullshit.
I nod slowly, hoping I don’t look as fucking dazed as I feel. “I’ll be here at 8.”
“It won’t be ready until after 9, Vincenzo.” She sips her coffee, unfazed by my intensity. “I’m working through the dinner rush and then it takes a couple of hours to make.”
She’s got that kitchen bossiness that makes me want to bend her over and fuck the attitude out of her then tie her to the bed and show her exactly who gives the orders. But it also makes me want to show up at 8 and watch her cook.
Fucking Christ.
I hold her gaze. She doesn’t back down, doesn’t look away. Just watches me with those big eyes over her coffee cup. “I’ll be here at 8.”
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. Matti probably wondering where the fuck I am.
I give her my biggest grin. “Thanks for the pussy and the food, princess.”
I say it like a joke, casual, like I’m not already planning what I’m going to do to her tonight when I show up at 8 and she’s still cooking and I have to wait until 9 to taste her food and another hour before I can taste her.
She just smiles back, soft and knowing, like she can see right through me. Like she knows I’m fucked, too.