Page 44 of Cocky Jerk

My Nonna comes to mind.

My sweet, loving and very dead, Nonna.

May she rest in peace.

“We could skip dinner,” Antonia says as I pop a piece of chicken into my mouth.

As tempting as that is, I shake my head. I’m not a horny teenager who can’t control himself. I’m a fucking man and I don’t want to be another name on the list of douchebags she’s dated. For some odd reason, I want her to place me in a category of my own.

Meeting her gaze, I say, “I’m going to school you on something. If a man can’t get his dick under control and sit through a meal with a beautiful woman, he’s going to be selfish in the bedroom. It’s all about patience.”

“Let me guess, you’re patient.”

“In not so many words you just gave me the green light to fuck you and we’re still sitting at the table. What do you think?”

“I think you better live up to the expectations you’re making me have.”

I laugh, cutting another piece of chicken.

“I’ll try my best,” I retort, winking at her.

* * *

Determinedto make it through the meal, I shifted our conversation. Instead of talking about her lips and how perfect they would look wrapped around my cock or how badly I wanted to bury my face between her tits, we took the time to get to know one another better. We had been doing a lot of that during the week over the phone, but she’s always the one asking the questions. The girl could write a book on me and all I know about her are half-truths.

I got myself another beer, poured her another glass of wine, and started with the small stuff. One question bled into four and I learned once Antonia loosened up, she liked to talk.

She told me a little about her mom, and how they didn’t get along, but didn’t elaborate on why. Antonia liked to talk, but she was very elusive with information. She gave you bits and pieces of a story and watched you intently as she spoke. It was almost as if she was waiting for a reaction, for someone to judge her for whatever it was she was sharing. If you smiled at her, she would continue revealing another fact, but if you showed the slightest bit of concern or asked for more information, she quickly changed the subject. She was a tricky one to figure out, and I was learning there were many layers to Antonia DeLuca, layers she had yet to discover herself. Layers she buried. I wanted to peel back every single one and I would with time because with time came trust.

The conversation tapered off after a while and we cleared the table. Rolling up my sleeves, I got to work on the dishes. Antonia insisted on helping despite my best efforts and hoisted herself onto the counter next to the sink. We had a nice system. I washed, she dried, and we continued talking, taking turns on who asked questions.

“That’s the last one,” I say, turning off the tap.

Leaning my hip against the sink, I cross my arms and study her as she finishes drying the last plate.

“You’re staring, Pirelli,” she points out, gently setting the dry dish on top of the others.

“You’re only noticing now? I’ve been staring at you all night.”

Kicking off the cabinet, I make my way toward her. She folds the dishtowel and sets it on the counter next to her as my hands move to her knees, gently coaxing them apart. I step between them and lift my hands to cup her cheeks. She lifts her chin, and her eyes find mine. There’s a glint of mischief there, and a plea too.

“I got you something,” I tell her.

Her eyes light up at that and I decide watching her react to me might be my new favorite pastime.

“Is it another bouquet of melon?”

Laughing, I lean forward and kiss the side of her mouth. My hands fall from her face and take purchase on her thighs, giving them a squeeze as my lips trail toward her jaw.

I should stop.

Put on a movie.

Maybe some music.

Take her for a fucking walk.

Something.

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