Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75683 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
It was a question, but also seemed a bit like a demand.
Like if I said no, I might still find a security system installed when I showed up at work one day. Which would have been overstepping in just about anyone’s estimation.
But when it came from such a good place, even if I thought it misguided, was I actually doing harm by not allowing him to do it? And it would add a level of safety at work for us moving forward.
“Savannah,” Nino said, and I swear I felt a little shiver move through me at the sound of my name on his lips, in that soft, yet commanding voice. “Just say yes.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “T…”
“And don’t thank me again,” he said, and this time a little smile toyed with his lips. “I will lock up on my way out,” he told me.
Then, he was gone.
And there was a hollow little feeling in my stomach at the sound of the front door closing.
That was kind of ridiculous.
But, clearly, I was starting to form a bit of an attachment to Nino.
And I had this odd certainty that it was really, really going to hurt when he decided he no longer felt guilty, and went back to his life.
CHAPTER NINE
Nino
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I was acting like a damn horny teenager.
I was supposed to be helping the woman do daily life tasks that’d been made more difficult because of the injuries she’d sustained because of me. Helping her dress. Changing her bandages.
I wasn’t supposed to be working her with my mouth again. No matter how much I suddenly found myself craving her taste.
I tried to tell myself that orgasms were their own kind of medicine, that she deserved to feel good after a long, hard day that had left her achy and exhausted.
The problem was, it was blurring already unclear lines.
I owed her.
I needed to be in her life to repay that debt.
And I couldn’t be letting shit get complicated.
Sex, whether we wanted to admit it or not, always made shit complicated.
“Fuck,” I hissed, sitting in her driveway, raking my hands down my face, trying to calm my system.
I wasn’t going to let myself relieve the tension, to go home, take a shower, and rub one out to thoughts of her. That was only going to make it harder to keep my hands to myself in the future.
Backing out of her driveway, I didn’t trust myself to go home, to let myself obsess over thoughts of her.
So what did you do when you were trying to behave your fucking self?
You went to visit with your mom, that’s what.
Oddly enough, it seemed like Dante and Santo had the same idea, because it was their cars on the street when I pulled into the driveway behind my ma’s car.
The problem was, I thought of nothing but Savannah as I walked up the front path that was lined in sprawling gardens.
Her putting in new plants, pulling weeds, on her hands and knees while I moved in behind her…
“Jesus Christ,” I grumbled to myself as I opened the front door.
The sounds of conversation called to me from the back of the house, as they often did. The kitchen had always been the heart of the household my entire life.
Every good day started in that kitchen, sharing small talk over a big breakfast.
And every bad night ended in it too. Sometimes, with my brothers or me getting our asses handed to us for sneaking out or fucking something up, getting that ‘disappointed’ speech that always made me wish my mother was more of an ass-whopping kind of mom because I figured it would hurt less than the knife to the gut feeling that particular word always created.
When we were older, the bad night ended up with a lot of silence, hands cupping mugs of coffee, or stiff drinks, just sharing each other’s company as we tried to come to grips with whatever tragedy had befallen the family.
It was my mom’s favorite place, and that love was reflected in the decor.
The floor was an imported stone. Down the center of the room was a massive antique table instead of a traditional island. Part of the top was stone, the other part worn wooden slats. The range was nestled in its own cove, an all black massive machine with brass accents, eight burners, three oven doors, and a pot filler.
Along the window ledge onto the back porch were pots of some of her most used herbs: basil, thyme, rosemary, oregano, sage, and parsley. When you walked past, the air always managed to kick up the scents. If, by some off chance, the room wasn’t already filled with the scent of cooking.
There was a massive blue storage cabinet with plate slots and closed drawers, hiding away some of my mom’s many pots and pans and various other cooking gadgets.