Page 60 of One Night Only
She cries out, panting between feral sounds, her back arching, thighs trembling.
“That’s it, baby,” I hiss, gripping the steering wheel with everything I have because if I don’t, I’m not sure I can be trusted not to touch her, or at the very least my aching cock. “I want you to look at me when you come. Look at me, and saymyfucking name, you got that?”
Her eyes flare, and I get the feeling she likes it when I’m a little bossy. Noted.
“Fuck,” she sobs on a whimper. “Ohmygod…”
“Come on, Goldie. Give it to me,” I mutter through gritted teeth.
“Dallas,” she cries out, her voice hoarse.
I look at her, meeting her eyes right as she tumbles over the edge, her thighs clamping around her own hand. “Ah! I’m c-coming, I’m coming, I’m coming… oh… fuuuuck… Dallas!”
Reaching over, I skate the tips of my fingers over her exposed upper thigh, smirking as she comes down from her high, breathless and sagging into the seat all lax and languid.
“Show me,” I demand after a few moments.
Emily looks at me, one brow quirked like she doesn’t know what I’m asking.
I jut my chin at her hand that’s still clamped between her legs and, with a shudder, she pulls it out, and I catch the sight of her fingers fucking dripping with her release.
Reaching for her, I grab her hand, watching the road as I guide her fingers to my mouth, licking and sucking each one clean and reveling in the sweet, tart taste of her that I’m already addicted to.
“Such a good fucking girl for me,” I murmur, kissing the backs of her fingers and glancing at her to find her watching me with a look of pure, unadulterated adoration.
Her hand then moves to my thigh, upwards to where my cock is hard as fucking steel, pressing painfully against the zipper on my jeans.
“Can I?” she asks sweetly, tracing the outline of my dick.
I suck in a trembling breath between my teeth, groaning in a combination of lust and frustration. “Baby, I would love nothing more, but honestly, if you so much as even look at my dick right now, I can’t be sure I won’t accidentally drive us right into oncoming traffic.”
She retracts her hand quickly with a sheepish smile, muttering, “Sorry.”
I flash her a cocky grin, meeting her eyes and, reaching over, I graze her cheek with my thumb. “Don’t you worry, Goldie, you’ll get your hands on it soon enough. That’s a fucking promise.”
Twenty minutes later, and my balls are officially blue as I walk into Cucina Vappiano, holding Emily’s hand and leading her through the small, dimly lit restaurant. This is probably my favorite place in New York. Red and white checked cloths cover the tables, with small jars full of fresh posies and little glowing lanterns decorating the center of each one. It’s Sunday, and it’s after the dinner rush, so thankfully the place is almost empty, save for an older couple dining at the table by the front window and a couple of delivery drivers waiting for orders.
Rosie, the owner, has my other hand, leading me through the maze of tables to the one in the far back corner, away from the potential risk of prying eyes. She doesn’t speak much English, but she doesn’t need to. I can tell by the conspiratorial look in her eyes as she glances from me to Emily and back again before nodding approvingly that she knows this is a date.
“You sit. I bring you the gnocchi and bruschetta,” Rosie says, her accent thick and adorable.
That’s another thing about Rosie; she doesn’t let me actually order, like ever. She just brings me what she thinks I’ll like. And, I don’t know how she does it, but she’s never failed once. So far, I’ve loved everything here.
I grin, watching as Emily takes it all in, her gaze flitting about the space. Reaching over, I take her hand—the one that had been playing with her pussy not so long ago—and I entwine my fingers with hers. She looks even more stunning right now. Post orgasm, eyes bright, skin illuminated by the lantern flickering in the center of our table.
“This is where I come whenever I feel homesick,” I say. “I mean, obviously my family isn’t Italian, but I don’t know—” I shrug. “This place just reminds me of home.”
She smiles, meeting my eyes. “I get that vibe. It’s cozy and warm. And that little old lady is like everyone’s favorite grandma.”
I chuckle. She’s so right. Rosie is all the best parts of everyone’s grandma rolled into one four-foot-six, seventy-something Italian package.
Rosie returns with a bottle of wine. There’s no label, but she presents it anyway. “Sangiovese.”
I glance at Emily because I have no idea what the hell Rosie just said, but Emily smiles, nods, and holds her glass up, into which Rosie pours heavily to the very rim. Turning to me, Rosie waves a hand, rolling her eyes indulgently with a muttered, “I get you beer.”
I chuckle again, looking at Emily. “She knows me too well.”
Emily takes a sip of her wine, humming in appreciation, and fuck, she’s even adorable drinking wine. I’m a goner. A fucking goner.
