I’m possessed.
Either that, or Henri’s secretly made of some kind of potent aphrodisiac. She’s a genetic experiment in walking temptation.
That’s the only rational explanation for this desperate need to know how her hair feels between my fingers and why my palms itch to cradle her breasts and how if I don’t bury my cock inside her in the next five minutes, all of my internal organs will implode, sucking me inside myself until I’m the black hole formerly known as Luca Rossi.
Jesus on a breadstick, what is she doing to me?
And why don’t I care?
“Is this—how—you teach?” she gasps between kisses.
“Yes,” I grunt back. I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, but I’ll tell her anything she wants to hear so long as she keeps her legs wrapped around my waist.
Her fingers trail down my bare chest, and she moans into my mouth.
She moans harder when I fumble my hands under her shirt, and when I find those two glorious mounds tipped with pebbled nipples, she pumps her hips harder against mine.
God bless the woman for not wearing a bra.
“More, Luca.”
“Fuck, you’re sexy.”
Is there anything wrong with coming home to a woman who’ll hump me on the kitchen counter?
No.
No, there’s not.
This time, she’s the one who pulls away to tear her own shirt off, and hello, beautiful Henri breasts.
I’m drooling.
I’m drooling over the sight of her rosy nipples and the round plumpness of her flesh, and I’m silently naming the left one Henri and the right one Etta, and I definitely need to make sure both of these ladies feel equally loved.
I hit a home run this afternoon.
I deserve to score when I walk back into my castle.
My run-down castle with the queen who shines so bright that she makes it feel like Buckingham fucking Palace.
Fuckingham Palace.
Yeah. That’s what I’m renaming my home.
Also, I have never tasted better breasts in my life.
It’s like she rubbed them with bacon grease, except better, and also not greasy.
Maybe this is why her last name is Bacon.
Jesus. Thinking about bacon grease shouldn’t be a turn-on, but with every lick of her nipples, I’m getting harder and harder, and I don’t know that my dick’s going to survive me giving Etta the same level of attention that Henri’s currently getting.
And I mean Henri the boob, not Henri the woman.
I switch to Etta before I come in my pants and blow the damn things right off my legs.
Henri the woman has my hair fisted in her hands and she’s chanting yes, oh god, more, Luca, yes yes YES and her legs are rubbing my sides because apparently I’m damn good at sucking on breasts and I’m driving her wild, and swear to sweet holy fuck, this is better than bringing an entire stadium to their feet.
Because an entire stadium doesn’t smell the way Henri’s pussy smells.
“I’m going to eat you,” I order her.
Yeah. Order. I’m ordering her to let me eat her like I’m a caveman, and I’d take it back, except she’s suddenly twisting on the counter and pushing her killer vampire unicorn pajama shorts down, one hip at a time, until she’s spreading her legs and pushing me down between them.
And there’s Henri’s sweet honeypot, and it is all mine.
I’ll probably need the best therapist in the world to explain this all to me and help me work through it tomorrow, but right now, all I care about is licking her clean and exploring that sweet little nub with my tongue and teeth and making her moan.
She was going to feed me corn.
Corn.
Not today, Henri. Not when I can snack on your pussy instead.
I’m going in for the big finish—her hips are thrusting against my mouth and her pants and moans are getting higher pitched, and I know she’s close.
Hell, I’m close.
I thought snacking on her breasts would do it for me?
“Luca, I’m—Nonna!”
Oh, no, she’s not, because I’d never—
She swats my head, squeaks, and then says it again, this time in a hiss. “Nonna.”
“I don’t care,” I tell her pussy.
“Is that so, Luca Antonio?” my grandmother answers.
I jerk my head up.
Henri dives off the counter, lands on a book, which slips out from under her, and she goes flying, legs spread, beaver exposed while my grandmother stands in the doorway surveying her handiwork.
“What are you doing?” I explode while I throw a dish towel, and then a book, and then finally Henri’s shirt at the woman crawling on the floor to try to hide behind a table leg.
Nonna looks at me.
Then at Henri.
Then back to me.
She smiles. “Preening. I’ll be in the guest room. And I’ll wear earplugs.”
Nonna Gels her way out of the kitchen doorway, because that’s Nonna.
Henri peeks up at me. She’s crouched over like she’s playing the part of a turtle in a grade school play, but even the sight of her naked sides and legs is making my dick strain harder.
“So that was my next lesson?” she whispers. “It was very nice. Thank you.”
Very nice.
Thank you.
Only Henri.
“You’re welcome,” I mutter. Because what else is a guy supposed to say to that?
19
Henri
I, Henrietta Leonora Bacon, am not falling in love with Luca Rossi.
I’m not entirely certain what exactly just happened, but I know that if I don’t acknowledge it, then it’s not happening. Even if he’s not the jerk that Jerry made him out to be, that doesn’t mean I’m falling in love.
It means I’m learning to appreciate a man without feeling the need to get engaged to him.
Yep. That’s it.
And the fact that my feelings toward the man who’s re-stacking my books while I pull my clothes back on have warmed after getting to know him better, coupled with him saving me from the hockey players who were saving me from the bird that wanted my hat right before he left, added on to our funny text exchanges while he was gone, and I might still have the hat he gave me tucked in my luggage so I can sniff it occasionally—those are all merely signs that we’re friends.
Not in love.
I’m not having visions of white and I’m not hearing wedding bells.
Does anyone hear wedding bells anymore? I’ve been to dozens of weddings—most of them for research, though I don’t crash, I ask in advance and pay for my own meals—and I’ve only heard wedding bells at two of them.
Which isn’t the point.
The point is, I had a sexual encounter with a man whose bed I’m going to sleep in tonight, with him, most likely naked because his house is a million degrees, and I am not falling in love with him.
“Can I—” he starts after he’s stacked the books, and I cut him off with my brightest smile.
“Nope, that’s great. Thank you! I couldn’t have stacked the books so fast without you! You should go get your rest. Big game tomorrow. It’s all over the news that you might make the playoffs for the first time in so long that the people here forgot the playoffs exist. Or would’ve, if Copper Valley didn’t have such an awesome hockey team. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you take care of you so you can be the best center fielder the Fireballs have ever had.”