Series: Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Josie pulls me in for a hug. “It’s a superpower. You just haven’t figured out how to use it yet. Now, what can I do to help today?”
“Casket flowers. I think Armando ordered this mortuary to give me business. The guy called and said he understood I’d be the flower shop he’d be dealing with from now on.” I open my eyes wide and cover my exaggerated “O”-shaped mouth.
“Oh my God! Married to the mob has its advantages.”
“I’m not married. But um, yeah. He makes things happen, that’s for sure.”
Josie clucks her tongue. “I never would’ve put you with a guy like that, but you know what? I can see how it works.”
“You can?”
She shrugs. “Yeah. I mean, aren’t Italians supposed to be so passionate? And you’re Ms. Emotional. So that works.”
I shake my head. “He’s not emotional at all. He’s the opposite—like flat-liner opposite. But you’re right. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t mind my over-emoting. He’s used to it.”
“Or, maybe he’s just really into you.” Josie waggles her eyebrows.
My fingertip touches the diamond nose ring he bought me. “It doesn’t seem like it. But I don’t know. I guess it’s hard to tell with a guy who’s flatlining on emotions.”
“If you’ve done your crying thing and he didn’t bail, he’s into you. Trust me.”
I give her a stupid-happy smile, wanting to believe. And also so relieved that we got work things out in the open.
I hate to jinx anything, but it seems like my life is actually starting to work. I’m facing business stuff. Friend stuff. I’m having great sex. I’m in love with a guy who accepts me for who I am and also encourages me to be something more. There are problems to be worked through, for sure. But hope is soaking in through all the broken places.
Chapter Fourteen
Armando
Hannah straddles my ass, her wet pussy sliding over my skin as her hands slide slowly up my oiled back as she gives me a massage.
It’s hard as fuck to take. It isn’t sex—I already thoroughly fucked her. I fucked her until the neighbors banged on the wall, and I had to yell some shit back at them to shut them up.
But this?
Almost torture. I don’t like being touched.
Maybe I used to—hard to say. It’s been too long to remember. I always liked being the one in charge—that’s for sure. But now it’s hard to take. But Hannah wants to give me this. She made a big deal about it—went and got the oil from the bathroom, looked so pleased with herself.
So I close my eyes and listen. I listen to her soft, breathy moans as she leans her weight into her thumbs, working up the ropes of my muscles. Like stroking my body turns her on. I soak in the attention she’s paying to my body, the way she finds all the tight spots and works them until they soften.
And the whole time, I’m trying to figure out why she’s doing this. Why she wants to do this.
“What did you miss most when you were in prison?” she asks. “I mean, apart from freedom?”
Oh Christ. Are we really gonna talk about prison right now?
All the work I’d done—the work she’d done—to unwind my muscles goes out the window. I feel my tone turn solid again. I’m tempted to shut her down. Just not answer or tell her I don’t want to talk about it. But she’s giving so much right now, it makes me feel like an asshole. So I think about the question.
“Sex would be the easy answer. I missed it most at first—before I...”
“Before you what?” she asks softly.
“Before I changed. Lost feeling. Stepped out of my body.”
Hannah’s hands continue to caress my back, smoothing away the ripples of discontent that come out as I speak.
“So what were you looking forward to most when you got out?”
I consider. It was mostly freedom. I didn’t want to see anyone. Or anything. “Food, maybe,” I admit. It’s the only thing that even sounds remotely true. “My ma’s baked ziti. Gio’s calzones.”
“You like your Italian food.” I hear a smile in Hannah’s voice. “All I know how to cook is spaghetti.”
She says it like she wants to cook for me, which is really fucking sweet. Especially considering she’s no cook, as far as I can tell. I don’t even think she likes food much.
“Were those the calzones you ordered the first night you were here?”
“Yeah.”
“What about the ziti? Have you had it yet?”
“No. I sent my mom out of town while things are hot for me here. I don’t want her to get hurt.” Now I’m talking business with Hannah—something I never should do.
But it feels right. Like she deserves these facts about me.
“Are you close to her?”
“I was before, yeah. She’s the best. She’d do anything for me, you know? My dad walked out when I was eight, so it was always just me and her.”