173

Gio
I told Marissa to call when she got to the L station. That I’d pick her up so she wasn’t walking alone at night.
And somehow, I knew she wouldn’t.
Whether it’s because she’s stubborn and independent or whether it’s because she’s testing my threat to spank her ass, I’m not sure. I definitely noticed how she turned to hot syrup and got flirty with me when I said it.
Either way, when the doorman calls up to say she’s downstairs, I’m pissed off and turned on all at once. “Send her up,” I tell him and stand in my doorway, arms folded across my chest.
The first thing I see when the elevator doors open is the skirt and heels. Cue the soundtrack: She’s Got Legs. And she definitely knows how to use them.
My cock gets harder than stone as I watch her toss that caramel-colored hair and strut into my apartment.
She brought a crate on a handcart, which I take from her and wheel in after the customary two cheek air kisses.
“I asked you to call me from the station,” I remind her the moment I shut the door.
“I wanted to walk.” She breezes past me into my kitchen, like she knows full well I’ll follow with the groceries. She probably knows I’m watching her ass, too, based on the way she’s swishing it. As soon as we’re in the kitchen I leave the cart and crowd up behind her, pushing her hips up to the granite countertop.
“Angel, you must’ve misunderstood,” I rumble in her ear as I catch both her wrists and pin them behind her back.
She gasps, but says nothing, her quickened breath the evidence of her excitement.
I give her ass a hard slap-punishment hard-and she jerks a bit. “See, in this situation, I’m like your employer. You’re working for me.” Another hard slap, this time on the other cheek.
She shifts on her heels, wobbling slightly.
“When I give you directions, I expect them to be followed, angel.” One more slap. “Or there will be consequences.” I rub the last place I spanked, letting the slippering fabric slide over the luscious curve of her ass.
I reach past her to pull a wooden spoon out of the crock of utensils. I slide it under her nose. “Disobey me again, angel, and the skirt comes off.”
I allow myself one more rub, molding my fingers around the lower half of her buttocks and brushing as far between her legs as the fabric will allow.
Then I release her and spin her around. Her face is flushed, pupils dilated. I can’t stop myself from claiming her mouth, tasting her sweet lips, giving her just a small sweep of my tongue.
When I break the kiss, she stares up at me, surprise making her blue-green eyes wide.
“Thank you for wearing the skirt, Marissa.” My voice sounds three times lower than usual.
I release her completely, not trusting myself not to throw her up on the counter and spread her killer legs. To make her forget about cooking and scream my name until she’s hoarse.
But I told her I wasn’t paying for sex. And she’s on my dime right now.
I wrap my arm behind her and cup her ass, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Capiche?”
She rubs her swollen lips together and nods. “Yeah.”
“Good girl.” One more squeeze. “What’s for dinner?”
“Dinner. Um, yeah.” She turns to the crate and starts unpacking it. “Almond-crusted salmon with a lemon-thyme sauce, and artichoke salad. You’re going to love it.”
“Oh, I have no doubt.” I lean a hip against the cupboards. I like watching her catch her stride again, moving from discombobulated to self-assured. It takes about ten minutes, but then she settles in, moving around my kitchen like she owns the place. Frying pan on the stove, cutting board and knife out, vegetables diced in neat piles.
“So white wine?” I ask. “Do you want to pick?”
She looks over her shoulder with an expression that gets me harder than marble. It’s bright-eyed pleasure. She’s all lit up, glowing from doing what she loves, and clearly happy I asked for her opinion. “Yes, what do you have?”
I pull three bottles from the wine chiller and set them on the counter. “You don’t get to call the shots at Michelangelo’s, do you?”
She scoffs. “Not even what size to chop a vegetable.” I love the conspiratorial smile she gives me as examines the bottles. “I dare not vary even the slightest bit from what the chef prescribes.”
“That’s why you agreed to this.”
She selects one of the wines-an oaky Chardonnay-and hands it to me. “Well, yes. It’s fun to make my own menu. Especially with someone else’s money.” Her smug satisfaction transfers to me, filling and warming my chest.
I’m happy to be the guy who made her smug and satisfied. Who gave her the opportunity to show off and the money to spend.
“Speaking of which…” I pull out a wad of cash from my pocket and count out ten hundred-dollar bills. “This is for groceries.”
She closes her fingers around the folded bills but doesn’t take them from me, meeting my eyes on a swallow. She tries to hide it, but money excites her same as it excites most of the population. “For the month? Or do I just keep a tally and ask for more when this runs out?”
“For this week.” I know damn well she didn’t spend a thousand bucks on this week’s food, but I also want her to be compensated for her time, too. Yes, she owes me. But she also works damn hard, and I imagine this job took up the only spare time she has in her life.
Okay, yeah, I’m a softy.
I’m also showing off.
And I like watching her pretend she’s unaffected by it. Her pride is as sexy as those legs.
“Next time you buy the wine, too,” I tell her, like I’m being a hardass.
She inhales sharply through her nose and nods. “Gladly.”
“But if you don’t call me for a ride, the bill’s on you.”
There. That will get her. I don’t know-the wooden spoon might have been too much of an enticement. And I really don’t want her denying me the pleasure of keeping her safe.
The threat turns her on. I know because her nipples are visible beneath her bra.
She plays it tough, but she likes it bossy. Maybe because it gives her something to resist.
I uncork and pour two glasses of wine, but apart from tasting it and giving a nod of satisfaction, she doesn’t drink any more.
Which shouldn’t be such a disappointment, but it is. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I think it signals she’s not comfortable. She wants to keep her wits around me.
Of course, maybe she just doesn’t like white wine. Why not just ask? For fuck’s sake, I’ve turned into the biggest vagina.
“Not a wine drinker?”
She slides a sidelong glance at me. The kind that peeks under her lashes and looks both sly and demure at once. “I’m on the job.”
“True.”
I watch her plate the food.
For one.
One plate.
Mine.
“You’re staying to eat.” I don’t make it a question.
To my surprise, tough girl blushes.
Huh.
“The chef doesn’t eat with the patrons.”
“You’re off shift. Make a second plate.”
She doesn’t move. I don’t sense outright resistance. More indecision. “This isn’t a date,” she clarifies.
“This is you paying off your debt. I want to eat your food, and I want you sitting with me when I try it. Is that too much to ask?”
Cazzo. I’m throwing my weight around like an asshole, but she’s not cowed. She twists her lips up in this cute, contemplative way and cocks her head to the side.
“I’ll eat with you,” she says slowly, “if you’ll play the piano for me when we’re done.”
I manage to get my eyebrows back down in a couple seconds and cock a grin. “What? Don’t believe I can play?”
She’s already moving, plating the second dinner and grabbing utensils from my drawers. I fucking love the way she makes herself at home and doesn’t ask where things are or for help.
“I believe it. I just want to hear it.” She carries both plates with utensils rolled up in cloth napkins that she brought over to my table by the window. She sets the table and waits while I pour myself a second glass of wine and bring both glasses to the table to sit. “This is an incredible view.”
It is. At night, the lights of the city, as well as the yachts docked along the shore, glitter and reflect off the inky water of Lake Michigan. When I bought this place, I pictured myself showing off the view to women I brought home for one-night stands.
And before the shooting, I did quite a bit of that.
Now, though, I’m not even sure I care about that view. Was it just a symbol of my wealth and power? Or do I actually enjoy looking out at the water?
Fuck if I know.
And that’s the problem.
I think I’ve been living my entire life doing what I thought was fulfilling. Getting my dick wet. Getting rich. Seizing power and throwing my weight around. Violence on occasion to make me feel like a real man.
But none of those things have been enough since I got shot. I don’t crave more money. More pussy. Even if Junior hadn’t settled the score, I don’t think I’d burn for revenge for getting shot. I just can’t seem to give three fucks about anything these days.
This little girl in front of me, though. She’s something different. And it seems I’m always hard for her.
I lift my wine glass in the air and wait for Marissa’s hesitation to pass for her to pick up hers and clink them together. “To our new arrangement.”
I see a flicker of anxiety on her face before she nods firmly. “To our new arrangement.” We both drink and I pick up my fork, eager to taste her food.
It’s incredible-she used simple ingredients but the tastes explode in my mouth. “Madonna, this is good. Che meraviglia. It’s wonderful.”
I love the flushed pleasure on her face. “I made you speak Italian.”
I chuckle. “Angel, I’m sure there are quite a few things you could do that would make me break into the old language.”
She does that flirty gaze under her lashes again with a smirk.
“Parli Italiano?”
She shakes her head with regret. “No. I never learned to speak it. I can understand it okay just from hearing my grandparents talk, but that’s it. I want to go there someday. Did you know if you’re Italian American you can get Italian citizenship? And college is free to citizens there, so I could go to college in Italy.”
“Is that what you want?”
She shrugs and I decide it’s not.
“I’ll take you there, angel. Show you the Old Country.”
A little blush creeps up her neck, and I decide she likes that idea but won’t let herself accept it. Just like she couldn’t just ask for help with her cousin. She takes a bite of her fish and even though she doesn’t make a show of it, I can tell she’s satisfied with her creation.
“It’s good, no?”
“It turned out.”
“Don’t be modest. It’s delicious.” I have to slow my shoveling down so I don’t clear my plate in minutes and make her work seem insignificant.
She’s a dainty eater, her soft lips closing delicately around the fork tines in a way that comes off way too sexual for my cock’s comfort.
“So how long have you played piano?”
Her interest in the piano is funny to me. It’s not a talent I share with anyone but family, so I’m not used to having anyone talk to me about it. “Since I was six. It was Christmas-time and I was at a mall with my ma. Some old black guy with a Santa hat was playing ragtime piano, and I stopped to watch. I’d never heard the sound before, but more than that, I was fascinated with how fast his fingers moved. When he was finished with the song, he invited me over and taught me how to play Jingle Bells.”
“And then your parents put you in lessons?”
I choke on a snort, then wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Very funny. No, not exactly.”
“So, what happened?”
“So, I went home and begged for my own piano. And my dad called me a pansy and told me boys don’t play piano. And then I went and punched my brother Paolo.”
It’s her turn to snort. “Isn’t he older?”
“Yeah. I didn’t pick on the babies. Punching your older brother is fully allowed, though. Then I could get the beat-down I was craving and have a reason to cry.”
The shock on her face tells me I should’ve stopped at yeah.
“Too much. Sorry.”
“No, no.” She works to hide her dismay. “So, then what happened?”
“So, my ma had a fit. She blew up at my dad, and when he wouldn’t budge, didn’t speak to him for four days. And I got a piano. My dad told me if I didn’t practice every fucking day, he’d burn the thing. I practiced every fucking day.” I give her a rueful smile.
“You must be good.”
I grin. “State champion at age twelve.” I scrape the last of her delicious sauce off my plate.
“Do you want more? Was that enough food?”
“I always want more, angel. But I don’t need it.” I pat my belly.
She rolls her eyes. “I’ll make more next time. I don’t like fish reheated, so I didn’t make extra this time.”
I like how she’s eager to please. In this aspect, not any other. It turns me on. I pour myself more wine and sit back to watch her eat.