I’m coming for you, Angel.
Chapter Six
I make my way downstairs a few minutes early, and head into the break room to snag a bottle of water. It’s hotter than Hades today, and the humidity is unbearable. All I did was a quick shower and change, and I’m already sweating.
I may have taken a few extra minutes in the shower, imagining Marco doing filthy things to me. I’m never this horny, and I can’t deny I’ve masturbated every single night, dreaming about him. I shamelessly sink my fingers into my wet pussy, imagining they’re his. I can make myself come in less than a minute. I haven’t orgasmed like this in years, maybe never. I got myself off against the cool black and white subway tile in the shower, with the intent of alleviating this constant tingling between my legs. I still can’t seem to get rid of the ache.
I tried to dress cute, not that I’m trying to impress Marco or anything. I don’t have much clothing or makeup to choose from. Almost everything I own is donated from the women’s shelter.
I put on some mascara and a little bit of lip gloss. I’m wearing a pair of denim shorts and a dusty pink T-shirt that’s a little too long on me, so I cinched it at the waist. I gathered my long, dark hair at the back of my head with a hair tie and put on the only decent pair of sneakers I own—a pair of pink Chucks.
I don’t want to be, but I’m nervous as hell. I mean, I’m just grabbing some food with a friend. It’s not a date, right? Except I can’t ignore this unexpected attraction I have for Marco.
He’s made it no secret he wants me, and I don’t think it would take much coaxing for him to wear me down.
I have a feeling; I’d quickly become addicted to a guy like him. It’s alarming. I should pack up and run in the other direction.
“This is a bad idea, Mila,” I mumble under my breath. I should cancel. I swing open the fridge to grab a water bottle and stand back, staring. A huge smile grows on my face at the dozen yogurts sitting on the top shelf, like the one Marco ate on me, along with some of those strawberry smoothie drinks I like so much. Dammit, why does he have to be sexy and sweet? You were with a sweet guy once, Mila—until he wasn’t so kind.
“CAB’S HERE!” Marco shouts in his quirky Italian accent, leaning against the doorway.
A pair of white, ripped jeans shorts sit low on his waist, displaying the sexy tattoos on his toned, tan legs. He’s sporting a burgundy T-shirt that says, “Boy Gang.” I chuckle, only Marco could walk the streets of Brooklyn in a shirt like that and not get beat up.
I avoid his vivid blue eyes, which is a big mistake because now I’m staring at his body. My eyes continue to bounce around his torso; ignoring the signals my brain is trying to send. I rubberneck at the mouthwatering bulge in his shorts, and one-hundred-percent make out the outline of his dick. The man’s packing some serious heat, and I’m ten seconds away from climbing him like a gym rope. I’m imagining falling to my knees and taking his thick cock into my mouth. Get a grip.
My eyes dart back up to his, and my cheeks flush when he grins. I’m busted once again. “Why do we need a cab? I thought we were going across the street for pizza?”
“We’re picking up your car,” he shoots a wicked grin, pacing toward me. “Then you’re going to experience the best Italian food Brooklyn has to offer—well, besides my mom’s.”
I assume it’s someplace casual since he’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt. “I don’t have any fancy clothes to wear. I don’t think…”
“You look fucking perfect,” he says in a low, gravelly voice, making my skin tingle and my cheeks heat. “Don’t say no. I finally got you to agree to dinner, now let me feed you.” He strokes his trimmed beard nervously. “Do you trust me?”
Do I trust him? I clear my throat and give him an affirmative nod. “I do need my car.” I shift from one foot to another and give him a shy smile. “Plus…I can only resist the promise of feeding me carbs for so long.”
The cab drops us off a few blocks away from the gym at Flip’s garage. The owner Filippo is a friend of Marco. Of course he is. The guy seems to know everyone.
Flip has no qualms about chastising Marco for leaving the car so long, when it was only a dead battery and a few belts. Apparently, it was ready days ago. Flip softens when Marco pays him extra, promising to drop off some fresh cannoli during the week, for him and the guys.
“It’s not nice to insult someone’s car,” I scold, as they both have their fun ribbing me about my battered silver Honda, with over two hundred thousand miles, naming her Death Trap. She’s been pretty reliable since I got her from a shelter donation.
I continue to glance over at Marco and scowl as I maneuver my car through the streets of Park Slope. He neglected to tell me my car was fixed, and he refused to take the money for the repair. I was ready to kick him right in the shin back at the garage.
Now I’m trapped in this car with him, not knowing where we’re going. His massive frame takes up most of the front seat of my tiny ride, and it’s kind of aggravating that he smells so good. I want to lean over this console and bury my nose into the neck of his shirt. Get a grip, Mila.
“It’s up here on the right.” Marco points to a sign that reads Michael’s perched atop the corner storefront with twinkling lights. Compared to the other shops around it, it looks more like a hilltop fortress with its big arched windows and rustic stone face.
We find a parking spot, and once we’re inside, I feel like I’ve been transported into a classic gangster movie. The main dining room is done in mellow tones and warm paneled wood, all lit with dozens of antique chandeliers. There’s a platform over the bar where a pianist pounds the keys, crooning some Frank Sinatra song.
“Marco!” The attractive hostess smiles brightly, like she wants to eat him up. I get it, honey, he’s a good-looking man. Her golden blonde hair brushes around her shoulders when she sneaks around the podium and gives him a long, giant hug. “Haven’t seen you in forever. How’s the family?” she breathes into his chest.
I’m normally not a jealous person, but for some reason, I’m bent out of shape she gets to hug him, even though they seem to know each other in some capacity. I want to hug him like that.
“Everyone’s great. Nick and Gina are expecting their second baby.” He releases the embrace, placing his hand on my lower back. “This is my friend, Mila. Have any open tables? I want to feed her the best manicotti she’s ever had.”
“Hmmm,” she says with a flip of her hair. “Of course, we do for you.” She shoots me a grin before flashing a mischievous wink at Marco with her bright green eyes. “Follow me.”
She snags two menus, leading us through the bustling dining room with a little extra sway in her hips. The place is decked with shimmering, red vinyl circular booths and fresh white tablecloths.
As soon as we’re seated, a young, dark-haired waiter rushes over, pouring us both sparkling water from a green bottle, before letting us know our server will be over in a minute to take our order.
I gaze around the room, feeling a little uneasy out in public like this. Not a way to hide out, Mila. I take a deep breath to tamp down my anxiety, but I’m nervous someone will recognize me. He’s looking for me.