Page 60 of Nanny to the Mafia

She grabbed my hands on her thighs and moved them to her breasts. Fucking hot! She gained momentum riding me, hard and fast, her moans ringing loud in the room.

A desperation to fill her with my seed took over me. I dropped my harsh grip on her ass, even though I knew it would leave her bruised. I didn't care. I pumped my hips into her, harder and faster, trying to impale myself into her.

Her clenching muscles around my dick told me she was close.

Thank fuck!

I let go amid her spasms, letting my cum drain out of me.

How had I got so fucking lucky?

There was never a prettier sight on my kitchen stool than the one on it today. Even after a shower where I had taken her hard against the tiled wall, my cock was semi-hard watching her swinging on my stool wearing a fresh shirt of mine. I wished the stool was me, except I had to give her a break. She must be sore, but it seemed my body couldn’t care less.

What a moron.

I had thought fucking her would resolve this ache for her, but it seemed it only increased my need for her. Now that I had tasted her, I wanted more, much more.

I watched her swing her legs and swirl on the stool while popping some grapes and sipping a glass of white wine. I imagined her riding me on that same stool.

She missed one grape, and it slid through her cleavage. I groaned as she tried to retrieve it. Right. Time for a distraction.

“You liked the party yesterday?”

She looked up, smiling in victory, with the missing grape in her hand. “Yeah, it was beautiful.” She sighed. “You have a lot of family and friends,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

The control I had on my body was a fucking joke. Reaching over, I took the grape and popped it into my mouth as hers gaped open. “What can I say? We are Italian. We have big families.” Especially when you were in Cosa Nostra.

“Must be like Indians.” She smiled, hinting at something wistful, but continued on. “I like your cousin Laura.”

“She’s great. You can visit her in London if you want,” I suggested. There was no reason why we couldn’t take off for a few days with Cora. I enjoyed London as well.

She shook her head. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not? You haven’t been here that long.”

“Not the same … without … my parents.” Her quiet words filtered to the floor and made me feel just like I should. A jerk.

“You miss your parents a lot,” I stated the obvious. I am not sure what my purpose here was.

She nodded, still with her eyes fixed on the floor.

I didn’t care for this awkward silence. I brought it on myself. Maybe because I really did want to know more about her, and her parents were the key to all her actions.

“What were they like?”

She shredded the bread in her hand into tiny pieces while she swirled absentmindedly on her stool. The air hung with something heavy that I didn’t care for. Seconds lapped into minutes, and when I thought she wouldn’t answer, she finally spoke up. “They were the best.” Her voice was heavy and broken. “Strong when it was needed, soft otherwise. Real. Authentic. I was the centre of their world, and they … mine. We were the three musketeers. We did everything together.” She laughed bitterly. “Except dying, of course.”

Her pain flying out of her and shooting through to my chest caught me by surprise. I didn’t even want to carry the burden of emotions. But I felt it anyway. I felt suffocated and uncomfortable and didn’t know what to do with it. When I tried to take her hand, she slid hers out from underneath and continued to shred the already shredded pieces of bread.

“Do you have other family?” I pushed, my insensitivity knowing no end.

“No. No more family.”

There was a special place in hell for assholes like me.

“I had my mum’s parents, but I lost them when I was small.” She continued, laughing nervously. “My dad has a big family, like Italians, but they all dumped him when he met my mum. Every single one of them. He was no longer their son, brother, grandson…”

That sounded familiar. “We Italians can be traditional too.”

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