Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 31582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 31582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 158(@200wpm)___ 126(@250wpm)___ 105(@300wpm)
Everyone is gone from my home except for my chef and my housekeeper, so I know I won’t be disturbed. Pulling my cock out of my pants, pre-cum already coating the head, I stroke the length. Growling, I picture those eyes looking up at me as she takes me between her plump, pink glossy lips.
My hand grips tightly to the chair as the other runs up and down my shaft, pressure building as I imagine her smiling as she pulls off, mischievous, daring before running her tongue over my heated flesh and then taking me back into her mouth, sucking hard. I grip her hair and tell her that she’ll always be mine, and she moans a yes around my thickness. I shoot off, coming all over my hand, spent and pleased.
It’s the first time since the accident that I’ve beat off, and I know it won’t be the last. It’s all I’ll ever get from her, so I greedily take it. This look into Fiore’s restaurant won’t be temporary as I switch to the present time. There she is, just getting her day started, and my dick jolts back to life again.
Chapter Four
Isabelle
“Hey, I need you to make a large serving of Tagliatelle for me. I’m driving up to my brother’s estate to check in on him, and I’m sure he’d love to have it.”
“I’m already on it. It’s like clockwork.” Every month for the year and a half, I’ve been making Tagliatelle al Ragù alla Bolognese for Fabio to take to Franco and my heart does flips, knowing that Fabio always comes to get more. It’s been almost two years since the accident that nearly killed Franco, and I haven’t gotten him out of my head.
“Thank you. He’s turned into a really grumpy asshole, but this is a peace offering I bring.”
“Hey, if it works. Is he getting better?”
“Physically? Yes. Emotionally, no. He’s always been a bit of a dick—even more than me—but now it’s gotten a bit out of hand. He has only four people that work inside his home, and only a few that are allowed to visit.”
“Perhaps in time.”
“Yeah. He’s learned to walk, but his strength just isn’t there yet.”
“I wish him all the best.”
“Thanks, Isabelle. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d go out of business, obviously, or be mauled by the beast up in his castle.”
“You’ve got that right.”
My eyes dart up to the cameras, something I do on the regular, but especially on nights I make Franco his dinner. It’s silly, but I imagine he’s hiding away watching me, getting aroused by my gentle movements. Every night I leave and spend my time with my fingers between my legs, allowing the built-up lust to pour out with his name on my lips. It doesn’t ever change because I long for this man more than anything. Everyone tries to get me to go out, and even my sister attempts to make me forget about Franco, but I can’t.
I’ve finished his meal when pain shoots through my arm and then I lose control of the pot I’m holding, nearly spilling it all. A little splash lands on my hand. “Ouch. Shit.” I can’t put it off anymore. I’ve cleaned up the mess and then the kitchen door flies open. I’m about to yell at whoever was acting so carelessly when I see my boss.
“Damn it, are you okay?” Fabio asks, rushing into the kitchen with worry on his face. He’s wining and dining a couple of clients out there and it’s a big night for the restaurant, so I’ve been working too hard without resting.
“Yeah, my shoulder is killing me.” It’s been almost two years since I first complained about the nagging ache. And of course I never went to the doctor, hiding it from Anabelle, and thankfully she was too busy dealing with my other crazy behavior to notice I never followed through. Today, it’s gotten a lot worse.
“Get to the doctor. ER, right now,” he barks out. “Andre, take over for Isabelle.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll drive there,” I grunt out.
“No, you won’t. It’s going to storm again. I’ll drive you,” Fabio commands, leading me out of the kitchen through the back way as he calls out for the hostess to handle everything until he returns.
“It’s not a big deal,” I explain.
“Enough. You nearly scalded yourself.”
“How did you know?”
He points upward. “The security cameras.” The damn cameras. The ones I feel watching me every single day and for some reason, as shy as I am, I want to perform for them. Cooking, prepping, staging with elegance and panache as if Franco’s watching. Pathetic, I know, but it doesn’t stop me.
“Oh. Spying on me? What do you think I’m doing back here?” I argue, hating that he’s watching them even though he’s the one who had them installed and I’ve known about them since I started working at Fiore’s.