Page 33 of The Enforcer

Zoe

Okay, this trip is a whole mess.

My younger sister and cousin are dickmatized.

The shower was unsatisfying.

And my love life is a mess.

But holy fuck, this is the best roast chicken I’ve ever had in my life.

“Are you going to eat that?” I ask, pointing toward the bit of breast meat left in the dish.

Alfonso shakes his head and pushes the plate toward me.

I spear the meat greedily. “Your mother is amazing. Holy shit.”

That brings a small smile to his face, and he moves another dish of new potatoes, onions, and capers toward me, so I dish some of that onto my plate as well.

“Is she a chef? Does your family own a restaurant?”

“No. She’ll be happy to hear that you think so highly of her cooking.”

“I do. I really, really do.”

“Wait until you taste her cake.”

I moan. Like tongue on my clit, and another on my asshole, and I’m so close to coming that heaven and hell feel real moan.

“Okay, this is the best part of being in hiding. I love it. I promise not to complain for the rest of the night.”

Ever since I came out for dinner, Alfonso has seemed muted, as if he was walking through fog. I’m not oblivious; I’ve rendered many men speechless with my body before. It is a gift.

But apparently, my enthusiasm finally pulls him out of his stupor.

While I shovel a small mound of green beans onto my plate, Alfonso stands from the table to find a knife.

“Wonderful,” I mutter happily.

Once again, Alfonso has to help me to my feet and practically carry me. Thank God we don’t have to scale dozens of steps this time. Unfortunately, we have other hurdles to tackle, separately and together.

If I liked the feel of his arm around my waist after climbing two hundred and fifty stairs, I love it now after I’ve eaten his mother’s good food and had a couple of glasses of red wine. I am in Italy, you know? This is expected, isn’t it?

The mistake I’ve made — the second mistake? — is being so tired that I forget how horny a couple glasses of wine can make me. It’s almost embarrassing, to be honest. My friends can hold out for a couple of cocktails, a shot of something strong and brown, some real top-shelf shit. Me? My basic ass? Nah. All I need is a few good ounces of fermented grapes — don’t even have to be good quality wine — and then me and my erogenous zones are ready to have a real conversation with any and every penis in a three-foot radius.

And I do mean every.

“You smell good,” I mumble against Alfonso’s neck.

“That’s the food and wine talking,” he laughs.

“Don’t mean they’re lying,” I giggle. I never giggle.

He lowers me to the bed and mutters something in a strangled Italian. “I’ll bring you some water,” he says in English before rushing away.

I fall back onto the bed. It’s hard but not uncomfortable. I’m precious about my bathrooms, but not mattresses, apparently. Alfonso is back before I can blink. He places a tall glass of water onto the bedside table. I groan when I feel his hands; one on my thigh, one on the thin blanket under me.

He tucks me in.

---