by Cecy Robson
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she says, gripping my shoulders. “One of us has to get a view of something other than vagina.”
I laugh. As a midwife dedicated to serving the public sector, she always seems to have an array of genital jokes. I suppose it helps her cope with all the difficult aspects of serving those from underprivileged environments. She loosens the buttons to her white coat. Poor thing must have spent her day at the homeless shelter, and here I am ditching her.
I take her hand in mine. “Would you like to come with us?” I offer.
“On the really hot date with the really hot guy, so I can bask in all the hotness? Hmm, I think I’m better off with Dr. Who, a bowl of popcorn, and the box of wine taking up space in my fridge. But don’t worry, I also have Pop Tarts.”
I wish she was joking, but back in college, Autumn and I frequently drowned our lonely Saturday nights with the cherry-flavored ones.
“I really am sorry,” I tell her.
“It’s okay, Aedry. But I miss you. Call me soon, okay? Oh, and take a picture for me.”
“Take a picture of what?”
“The hot guy.”
I gasp. “What? I can’t do that!”
“Why not? If he’s that good-looking, you need to prove it. Living vicariously through you is almost as good as placing fourth in the Hermione Granger lookalike contest at Harry Potter World last year.” She makes a face. “Granted there were five of us and third place went to a dude, but it’s still cool, anyway.”
“Of course, it is,” I tell her.
“So, you’ll do it?”
“Do what?”
“Take a picture of your yummy date?” she clarifies.
“No!”
“Why? If you’re dumping me and the Doctor, I want proof, damn it!”
I’m about to tell her she’s out of her mind when a hard knock rattles my door. My face warms and we both still. “I think that’s your proof at the door,” I whisper.
“Do you want me to leave through the window?” she offers.
“And die? No.”
“He better be hot,” she says, not so quietly, as I walk to the door.
I bat my hand to silence her. My navy sleeveless dress is casual, yet fits me in a way that boosts what remains of my confidence. I’m a nervous wreck, and more than a little scared.
“Who is it?” I ask, just to be certain.
“Salvatore,” he rumbles.
I open the door, smiling. A black leather jacket hangs over his black silk shirt and dark slacks cover his muscular legs.
I try to be subtle and not drool, or gawk, or straddle. I think I’m doing well until his stare drags the length of my form, heating my body to nuclear meltdown digits.
“Hey,” he says, leaning forward. I’m sure he’s going to kiss me until his attention cuts behind me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m being rude. This is my best friend, Autumn. We were roommates in undergrad together.”
Autumn remains standing where I left her, barely moving and not really breathing. Unlike me, she’s not going for subtle. Not even a little bit. In fact, if “subtle” was a college major, she’d be kicked out of the program and asked never to return.
Her jaw unhinges to the floor as Salvatore follows me in.
A blush creeps up my neck. “Autumn, I’d like to introduce you to Salvatore.”
“Good to meet you,” he says. Based on her response, I don’t think he means it.
“Pleasure,” she spits out, smacking my upper arm awkwardly. “Well, have fun.”
She bolts toward the door, whipping around to point frantically at Sal’s back. Holy shit, she mouths.
Something in my expression causes him to glance over his shoulder, in time for poor Autumn to crash into the raised breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room.
I lurch forward. “I’m okay,” she says, clutching her side as she limps out the door.
Sal meets me with a frown when the door slams shut behind her. “What the fuck’s wrong with her?”
“She’s just nervous,” I say. You see, she’s not used to seeing hot guys She stares at vaginas all day. “She’s actually a well-respected midwife.”
“You serious?”
“Um. Yes.” I reach for my coat, draped over the armchair of the couch. “Shall we?”
“Here. Let me.” He takes the coat from my grasp and helps me into it. My heart flutters. Despite what he claims and what I’ve experienced, I’m convinced he’s a true and honest gentleman.
It doesn’t take long to discover how wrong I really am.
Sal takes us to an elegant restaurant in the city, originally founded in Little Italy. “This is lovely,” I say as we step inside.
“The atmosphere is great, but the food is even better,” he murmurs against my ear, stroking my back gently.
The maitre d’ straightens when he notices us. Sal’s caress remains gentle against my spine, but his expression isn’t as endearing. It’s that one he most frequently demonstrates, a quiet lethality few could pull off.
“Good evening, Mr. Romero,” the maître d tells him as he draws closer.
Sal holds out his hand. “Just a table for two tonight, Suvio.”
The man releases a breath, appearing relieved. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I know this isn’t the right time to ask.
“This way, please,” he says. He leads us to a quiet booth at the rear of the dimly lit restaurant. It’s large with dark leather seats, its mere size enough to swallow us whole.
I smile at him and at the other man who appears with two leather-bound menus. Neither seem to notice me, their full focus on Sal.
“Do you want wine?” Sal asks me.
I smile. “I thought you said you didn’t drink.”
He smirks. “I said I rarely drink. But I always take my pasta with a glass of red.” He looks to the waiter, who materialized from nowhere. “A blend of your best.”
Sal tosses his menu to the side and slides across the leather booth, dissolving the small distance between us. His arm seeks my waist. I quiver at his touch. “Are you cold?” he asks.
“No. Just a little nervous,” I admit.
The corners of his mouth lift. “You have nothing to worry about. Not with me next to you.”
“I know,” I answer.
I want to keep looking at him and that smile he offers. But shyness has me averting my gaze. I catch sight of the maître d as he hurries to speak to the staff, appearing anxious. “Is he all right?” I ask, when he dabs his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Business isn’t what it used to be here. The restaurant might be shutting down,” he tells me.
I scan the room, and with the exception of another booth similar to ours, the place is packed and there are several people waiting at the entrance. “It looks like a popular place,” I say.
“It’s because it’s a weekend.” He takes a sip of his water. “You need more than two good nights to keep a restaurant this size running in New York.”
“I suppose,” I reply, although I admit I remain very much confused. As I skim through the menu, the array of dishes along with the exorbitant prices overwhelm me. I place it aside and motion to his abandoned menu. “Are you going to look through the selections?”
“Don’t need to.” His brown eyes spark with heat. “I already know what I want.”
My eyes open wide. Is this really happening? His knuckles drift over my side in a slow and lazy caress, sending another course of shudders along my spine. Oh my God . . .
“Do you know what you want?” he asks.
“No,” I reply, wishing I didn’t sound so breathless. “Will you help me decide?”
His free hand reaches for my hair, allowing the pieces to glide through his fingers. “What do you like?”
“Everything,” I whisper, unable to rip my stare from his. “You pick,” I add, hoping we’re still talking about food.
“All right, then,” he
murmurs.
The waiter returns with a bottle of red wine. He shows it to Salvatore, who nods in approval. I expect him to give me space, now that we’re not alone. Yet he keeps his hold on me and resumes his gentle strokes to my hair. He’s sweet, endearing, and not afraid to demonstrate affection, despite who’s near.
He passes me the glass of wine the waiter places in front of me, clinking my glass with his as he lifts it. “Salud,” he says.
“Salud,” I repeat, taking a careful sip. A bold blend of grapes reaches my tongue, its richness enveloping every taste bud. “Mmm. Good choice,” I say.
I’m hoping I don’t sound as unsophisticated as I feel, especially with how suave he is.
“Tell me something about yourself,” he says.
I grin. “What would you like to know?”
“I don’t know. Anything. Tell me what it was like growing up in Kansas.”
I laugh, almost spilling my wine. “You mean North Carolina?”
“Same thing,” he says, smirking.
I laugh again. “To begin with, I grew up on a farm.”
He frowns. “People still do that shit?”
“Believe it or not, yes. My parents had a working farm of almost six-hundred acres passed down to them by my grandparents, and my great-grandparents before them. We didn’t have a lot money growing up, but with the population in the area growing like it is, they sold the land to a lucrative builder. In doing so, they were able to put me through school and set aside a nice retirement for themselves.”
“They got rid of the farm,” he acknowledges.
“The original farm, yes. But they’re farmers at heart, so they bought another twenty acres outside of town and are now raising dairy cows.”
I laugh when he regards me like I’m crazy. “That sounds like a messed-up way to retire.” He pauses as the waiter approaches.
“Are you ready to order, signore?”
He lifts his brows at me. “You trust me, right?” At my nod he places our order. “We’ll start with the sautéed calamari. The beef and gorgonzola pasta for me and the quattro formaggi for the lady. Also, the pesto olive cheese bread with our meal.”
“Si, signore.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, smiling back at him.
And it was.
Hours later, Sal pulls into my neighborhood. I’m tired, well fed, and happy, but I also can’t help feeling confused. The dinner was among the best I ever had and the service exceptional. The staff fell all over themselves to please not only us, but everyone present. I don’t understand why their business is failing.
What I also found odd was how the maître d seemed to fear displeasing Salvatore, and how skittish he appeared. Sal was quiet and polite and never once did he criticize or complain. He even left an exorbitant amount of cash for a tip.
I dismiss it as the stress of a failing business, and while I feel terrible on their behalf, Salvatore’s kindness and continued affections lure me away from our meal and into the present.
He rolls to a stop in front of my building and places his SUV in park. “Thank you for such a wonderful evening. I had a really nice time.”
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, lifting my hand and sweeping a kiss over my knuckles.
I’m not sure who moves first. Maybe I do, succumbing to the desire to feel closer to him and surrender to the privacy behind his tinted windows. His seatbelt buckle smacks against the arm rest when he hits the release seconds before mine and moments before his arms encircle my waist, hauling me to him.
Like the night before, his lips stamp against mine. I don’t hesitate to open my mouth, immediately inviting his tongue to explore and tease. With each pass of his hand along my back our kiss deepens, causing me to involuntarily moan. Sal leaves my mouth, trailing his teeth down the curve of my neck, his gentle bites causing my neck to arch and my eyelids to flutter.
I don’t expect his aggression, but that’s exactly what I receive. My breath increases as he smooths his palm across my breasts, popping open the buttons of my dress faster than I can process what’s happening.
As his hand kneads and massages, my mind insists that I should stop him and tell him he’s moving faster than I’m used to. But when he yanks my bra up and tugs at my nipple, all I can do is gasp.
No man’s touch has ever felt so sweet.
I part my lips to speak, but my words fail to form. My focus is solely on him and his hard body pressing into mine. The scent of his cologne, and the way his mouth and hands roam, cause lust to scorch a path through my veins. I grunt, falling back against the window when his head dips down and he starts to suck.
My shoulder blades smack the rim of the door. But it’s when he shoves his hand beneath my skirt, and his fingers circle over the crotch of my panties that my moans dissolve into whimpers.
“Shit,” he groans, my heat building along his hands.
“Salvatore,” I stammer. I need to say something, but I’m so turned on I don’t want him to stop.
With motions of a skilled lover, his circles increase. I’m no longer breathing, I’m panting, my shoulders trembling as an unfamiliar ache overtakes me. It hurts a little, but the pleasure it stirs is so worth the bite, ensnaring me with delicious lust.
My orgasm (that’s what this is!) builds, crashing hard enough to make me jolt. Before I can recover, he slips in a finger, followed by one more. My head lolls back. I’m not sure what to do, but my body does, responding and surrendering to his strokes.
My hips swivel against his touch, the turns as forceful as my cries.
He lifts his head, his irises clouded with need. “You’re so wet, so tight,” he whispers, delving deeper, his palm smacking against my folds. “How long has it been?”
His words are slow, lascivious murmurs against my ear, sending me into a dark sensual world I’ve never experienced. I can’t think, my head spinning with the start of another orgasm. I manage to bite out the truth. “I haven’t . . . I’m a virgin.”
He freezes, grinding everything I’m feeling to a startling halt. Abruptly he pulls away, the warmth he’d given me withdrawing in one painful strike.
I wish I was exaggerating and that this isn’t really his response. Yet it is. What’s worse is he doesn’t just lift off me, he slumps into the driver’s seat, putting as much space as he can between us.
My breath releases in ragged spurts, mimicking the rise and fall of his chest. But while I’m looking directly at him, he keeps his focus ahead.
His hands grip the steering wheel tight. Only inches separate us, but never have I felt so alone, a sudden chill claiming my soul like a winter storm and isolating me within its shadows.
My body shudders as I struggle to sit back in my seat, my legs rubbery and useless. With trembling hands, I pull down my skirt and button the front of my dress. My buttons are off-center. I don’t care. I’m too distracted by the dwindling bulge in Sal’s pants and stunned stupid by his reaction.
He isn’t speaking. He won’t even look at me.
I wait for our breath to slow, trying to give him time to say something. When it’s clear that he won’t, I pass a hand through my disheveled hair and work up my courage. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t answer.
I lick my lips and try again, hating how hard my voice is trembling. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
The expression he pegs me with as he slowly turns is laced with what I can only interpret as betrayal. “I don’t fuck virgins,” he grinds out.
My breath lodges in my throat, his tone and words like stabs to my already deflated confidence. Humiliation fills me, stinging my eyes with tears, until anger replaces my shame with brutal vengeance.
“I wasn’t asking you to,” I fire back. This time, my voice doesn’t shake and it’s his turn to stare back stunned.
Everything in his deepening scowl tells me he’s ready to talk. I don’t stick around to hear what he has to say. I snag my purse from the floor and fling the passenger door open.
/> “Aedry―wait,” he says, reaching for me.
I smack his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”
I lurch out of his SUV, hurling the door behind me.
“Son of bitch―Aedry! God damn it, wait!”
I don’t wait, moving fast when I hear the driver’s side door swing open. His footsteps echo a mere breadth away as I unlock the main door to my building and slip inside, slamming the reinforced door hard in his face.
Despite the layers of metal, Salvatore’s deep voice booms through it, calling my name. I don’t care. Not about him, or us.
I only care about the tears he causes and how fast they’re dripping from my eyes.
Chapter Ten
Salvatore
I’ve screwed up before. I’ll be the first to admit it. But this shit with Aedry is messing with my head two ways from Tuesday. A virgin. Of all things she can be, why does she have to be that?
With any other woman, I’d shrug the whole thing off. But this woman, God damn, I can’t stop thinking about her no matter how hard I try.
Four women. That’s how many have offered to fuck me since Aedry slammed her door in my face. Unlike with Aedry, I didn’t bother chasing after them when I told them to walk and they stormed away from me pissed.
Before Aedry, I would have taken each up on her offer. Hard and more than once. My hips would have pounded, their mouths would have sucked, and they would have begged me to stay. That’s how it’s always been and what’s always been enough for me.
They should have been exactly what I needed to forget everything that happened Saturday. But they weren’t. None of them held my attention.
Every thought I have wanders back to Aedry―her laugh, her smile, and that body.
Shit. When the hell did I become such a pussy? It’s like every time I close my eyes―and sometimes even when I don’t—that night in my ride plays over again. She liked what I was doing to her. I could tell by the way she arched her neck, letting me slide my tongue along her skin while my hands played with her nipples and slipped beneath her dress.
She could have told me to stop. I would have. So why the hell didn’t she? Why did she seem so willing to let me fuck her there on that damn street?