Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Sensing the orgasm, he kept the same pace, but applied just a little more pressure.
And it was seconds, actually seconds, before the orgasm was slamming through my system, making a choked sobbing sound escape me while the waves crashed over and over again.
He worked me through it, dragging it out.
But I swear I’d just come back down when my panties were snapping back into place, he was pulling away, and my skirt was falling back down to cover me.
Before I could even open my eyes to look, he was at the door, then making his way out.
He didn’t look back.
What the actual hell?
I jolted back to myself, reaching to tuck my boob away, then buttoning my dress with shaky fingers as I turned to face myself, seeing the proof of the orgasm clear on my face, but knowing I didn’t have the time to let my flush calm down, or school my features into calm nothingness.
So I smoothed my hair back, splashed a little cold water on my cheeks, and made my way back out into the restaurant, feeling like everyone was going to know what had happened.
But no one paid me any mind as I moved back behind the counter, noticing that Salvatore was standing beside his table, fiddling with something, then turning and walking to the door.
He didn’t look back at me.
Taking a steadying breath, trying not to allow myself to feel the disappointment that started to spread through my chest and belly, I made my way over toward his table.
There on the surface was a crisp hundred-dollar bill.
To pay for the food he didn’t eat.
And a tip.
I knew that.
Like, of course.
But I couldn’t help the strange, shameful little voice that said it had little to do with the cheap food and more to do with what had happened in the bathroom.
I mean, it was ridiculous.
A hot mafia guy didn’t need to pay for sex.
And it wasn’t even sex.
He’d gone down on me.
No guy would pay to go down on a woman and get nothing in return.
I tucked the money into my book and let my gaze move out onto the street, watching his retreating form as he walked down the street.
He didn’t look back.
And I tried like hell to tell myself that I didn’t care.
But every freaking ounce of me was begging for him to look back at me.
The thing was… he didn’t.
And I would just have to learn to live with that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whitney
It had been days.
Days and days, even.
But, still, when I heard a knock at my door, my stupid heart leaped into my throat like there was even a small chance that Salvatore was going to show up and finish what we’d started in the bathroom at my work.
“One second,” I called, pulling the tray out of the oven and setting it on the stovetop before rushing to the door.
It wasn’t him.
Of course it wasn’t.
It was my sister.
And I was furious with myself for being disappointed with that fact as I reached up to slide the locks.
“Hey you! This was unexpected,” I said, forcing my voice to be cheery even though it was just that—forced.
So, all that stuff I had to say about myself? About being perfectly… average? Yeah, that did not apply to my baby sister.
A late-in-life whoopsie-daisy, Wren was born when I was already thirteen years old.
I’d been infatuated with her from the day my parents brought her home. She’d been this chubby, inconsolable thing that spat up all the time and constantly needed to be changed, but you couldn’t peel me away from her.
All that stuff about new moms not being able to sleep? That wasn’t true in my house. Because I was the one rushing into Wren’s nursery to coo over her and change her and feed her while my mom got rest.
The first thing I did after school after dropping my backpack on the floor was pull her out of my mother’s arms.
When our parents passed tragically when I’d just turned twenty-six, I’d rushed right over to scoop up Wren, to mourn with her, then to talk the social workers into letting me raise her.
She’d been twelve.
And I’d become a stand-in mother figure for her.
She was my whole world.
And where I’d gotten average brown hair, hers was laced with streaks of spun gold, waving in just the right way, never going frizzy or flat. And where my eyes were just plain brown, hers had starbursts of gold. Her features all fit together perfectly, making her look absolutely gorgeous, but also approachable.
She, too, got our mother’s smile.
I liked it even better on her face than I did on my own.
Even if it had been a long, long time since I’d seen one truly light up her face.
She’d always had a killer body, too. Though, admittedly, she’d lost way too much weight over the past few years.