Chapter 16 Annie
SIXTEEN
Annie
I’m white-knuckling the bar above my seat.
What I’m not doing, however, is riding the fuck out of Nico Giannuzzi in the back seat.
He grips the steering wheel, ten and two.
“I. Fuckin’. Hate. Sister. Annie,” he grits out between clenched teeth as he drives us home.
After I told him it’s not happening. “Look at you,” he says, but it sounds slurred, like “lookatchu,” because his accent is back in his voice in full, full force, like he’s lost all control.
“Look how bad you want this,” he says to my crossed thighs that are currently trying to strangle an orgasm out of my clit.
“Just from having my hands all over you. You’re dyin’ for it but won’t take it.
And for what? For what, Annie? Depriving yourself of something you’re convinced is bad for you.
You know what’ll be good for you? Having me on my knees.
My mouth all over that tiger on your stomach.
Everything in my mouth. Anything on my tongue.
Your perfect fucking tits, that hot, wet, tight little pussy, your—”
“Oh god,” I breathe out, starting to rock, my head pushed back onto the headrest.
He cuts his gaze over to me again. “Fuck, baby, look at you. I can make you come right now without even touching you. You’re so close. Can you imagine how it’d feel once I fill you up? When I—”
I can’t. Can’t do it. “Stop, Nico. No means no,” I tell him, but I don’t mean one ounce of it.
Nico, though, Mr. Manners, Mr. Good Fuckin’ Person and Consent King, immediately takes it the other way.
He stops, and I could kill him. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, shaking his head like a dog.
I’m half convinced he’s going to crack the steering wheel into three separate pieces.
“God. Fuck. You’re right. I’m sorry. Shit. I’m sorry.”
I TAKE IT BACK, I’m about to shriek at the top of my lungs. I TAKE IT ALL BACK; TAKE ME NOW.
I don’t say any of this.
We’re both panting at this point, like we’ve run a half-mile. The energy, the tension in this car is thick, viscous, dripping all over us, down my neck, in between my breasts, in between my thighs. I try to swallow and can’t, the inside of my mouth like sandpaper.
Nico wordlessly rolls all the windows of the car down, tension rippling out in waves from his body. The cool air on my skin isn’t helping; it’s making it exponentially worse.
When he finally turns the car off in the driveway, it takes thirty years of self-control not to leap over and straddle him.
He glances over at me, and my heart jumps for a second at the possibility that Nico is not actually a gentleman and will instead pull me over his lap for that really steamy spanking he mentioned earlier.
He does not do this. I hear an audible swallow before he says, “I’m sorry,” he rasps, in a voice that sounds more or less under control. “For pushing you. I’ll stop.”
I feel like bursting into tears. Instead, I clear my throat. “It’s not only you, Nico. It’s not your fault. I’m not exactly sending clear signals,” I say to the windshield.
“No is a clear signal, Annie.”
There are a million things I want to say to this, but nothing comes out. I nod instead, then get out of the car and walk on shaky legs into my house.
It takes an embarrassingly short amount of time to get myself off.
Afterward, I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, drowning in post-nut clarity. But this time, the regret feels... different.
For what, Annie? Depriving yourself of something you’re convinced is bad for you. Before the filth (Christ, the filth… where the hell did that come from?), Nico had a point. A very good point after that, too, but that’s neither here nor there.
Almost a year of Sister Annie, and I can barely remember why the hell she exists.
Or at least, what I was trying to accomplish with her.
No sex, no drugs, no alcohol—for what? Because those things led to reckless choices, choices that hurt people.
That hurt me. And the logic was simple: I can’t make bad choices if I remove the things that tempt me.
But sitting here now, skin still buzzing, heart still racing, I wonder—am I giving up bad habits, or am I just giving up living?
I get the renouncing sex and drugs and alcohol shit, but renouncing ‘fun’ is fuckin’ ridiculous.
Renouncing ‘new’ and ‘different’ seems like life is living you and not the other way around.
Because cutting out sex and drugs and alcohol?
Sure. Makes sense. I can follow that train of thought.
But cutting out fun? Cutting out new and different just because they might lead somewhere uncertain?
That’s not self-control—that’s hiding. Letting life live me instead of the other way around.
How are you gonna find a balance all holed up in a cave?
That’s no way to live, Annie. And I think you’re setting yourself up for failure.
And finally, my own words echo back to me, mocking me. It’s honestly shocking how something so easy and boring can be so incredible.
So now I have to ask myself—Is Nico bad for me? Is Nico easy? And if he is, can he be incredible?
Relax, really. Stay with me. Trust me. Just follow my lead.
Handsome, successful, kind, safe Dr. Nico.
The one who knows what he’s doing with his life, who has it all figured out, with the graduate degrees and the mansions and the Tom Ford sunglasses, moving back home to take care of his mom.
The one who shredded up my titanium shields as if they were made of tissue paper and replaced them with his hoodie and his hugs.
The one who was bad for me fourteen years ago, who fucked me over, but now is trying to convince me to live it in an easy, boring, incredible way?
Do I let him in?
I don’t get much sleep, and whatever light dozing I manage is shattered by the sun shining through the window. I peel my eyes open, grab my laptop, and attempt to be a responsible, easy, boring, tax-paying adult by answering some work emails.
The NakedReactions page is still up in my browser. Before I go to close the tab, though, I notice that he’s posted a new video.
You know what? It’s way too early to keep being Responsible Annie, anyway. So, priorities. I hop out of bed and make a sweep of the house, shutting every single blind.
I run back to bed and throw myself and the laptop under the covers before pressing play.
This kitchen is different from his usual one. The one from his last video was different, too. The only thing that’s sure and dependable is his absolutely scrumptious body taking up space.
I close my eyes, listening to that smooth, languid scholarly voice that would win awards narrating smutty audiobooks.
He never really says anything overtly sexual in his videos, but I could imagine thousands and thousands of people getting off to him saying things like “You’re doing so good,” “You know what’ll be good for you?
” “Having me on my knees,” or my personal favorite from last night, “Fuck, baby, look at you.”
Instead, this guy starts talking about “—the Maillard reaction.”
I open my eyes.
He has a steak out on the counter, his thick hands gesturing towards it. “—named after Louis Camille Maillard, a French chemist—”
I blink.
“—complex series of chemical reactions that cause food to brown. It’s often confused with caramelization, but caramelization only involves sugars.
Onions, carrots, actual sugar—those things are caramelized.
But the Maillard reaction refers to the heating of both sugars and protein.
The browning of things like meats, bread, and coffee beans. ”
I sit up. Turn the volume up.
“Remember, we want brown. Browning is good. Browning is delicious. Think of the last good steak you had, the crust on it. It wasn’t gray, that’s for sure.”
A dull roar floods my ears, causing me to miss a bunch of what he says next.
“—high heat. I have a gas burner here, so I’m going to turn it all the way up. We want the reaction to happen very quickly. Now, the Maillard reaction happens above three hundred and fifty degrees. This is why boiled foods don’t brown, because water has an upper temperature limit of—”
“Two hundred and twelve Fahrenheit,” I say at the same time as him.
I look down at this man’s hands. At his forearms. At his chest, his shoulders, his torso. He turns around to get something from the other side of the kitchen. I run my eyes down the wide expanse of his back, the curve of his ass. A sudden thrum of energy pulses through my veins.
“We don’t want any steam,” he’s saying, and oh god. “Steam will stop the reaction and the browning from happening. In this case, steam is bad.”
He pauses.
No. Nooooo.
“But steam can be very, very good for making things pink.”
I slam my laptop shut.
A rush of adrenaline sends my pulse into overdrive.
What?
No.
What?!
A laugh escapes my mouth.
Chef?! Nico?! There’s no way. Is this for real? Did he do this on purpose? Is this why he was so happy yesterday? Does that mean he trusts me with this information? I don’t even know where to begin with that. Is this some sort of twisted “as per your last email” response?! Does he know I’m Ali?!
But what if I’m wrong? What if this is some fucked-up coincidence? I don’t recognize his voice. But maybe this is what it sounds like when he gets rid of his accent.
There’s only one thing I need to see—physically see—to confirm. And when or if I do, then what?
From: ali@
To: chef@
Haven’t heard from you in a while. Been keeping busy? I’m still waiting to hear your deepest, darkest secrets.