I banish the image and start scrubbing myself with soap, thinking it will help to go through the motions of a normal shower. I massage my muscular chest, and I can’t help the vision of Angela’s dainty, dirty little hands rubbing down my pectorals and my abs.
Stop!
When I start soaping my thigh, my hand brushes against my cock, and the touch makes me lose control. I wrap my fingers around my dick in a fierce grip. I’m going to get her out of my system.
I start rubbing one out frantically, imagining those plump lips around my head, her soft hand sliding up and down the shaft in tandem. But then I stop, and smile lasciviously—I’m the one who’s going to be in control tonight, even in my fantasies. So I brace my hand against the shower wall instead so that it stays fixed, and start pumping into it, imagining I’m pounding Angela’s sweet pussy senseless.
I say her name again and again. Softly. I lick and kiss the shower wall, pretending it’s her soft, pink breast and not hard, white acrylic. I think about her the whole time, and it only makes me release my load all the faster.
As the final rope of cum is washed away by the shower spray, I lean against the wall, feeling no less ravenous for her. My cock is still hard as fuck, and I can’t get the image of her bare breast out of my mind, nor the shy look she had on her face when she offered it to me.
I want her so fucking bad.
I turn the shower temperature all the way down so there’s no heat at all, just frigid cold, and when I finally start shivering, my cock begins to go down. I don’t even bother to go through the motions of soaping myself, not wanting to risk any further arousal. I just stand there, lifeless and inert, which is how I feel inside most of the time. Except when I’m near her.
I finish up and quickly dry myself, being careful not to linger on my nether regions. I dress, choosing sweatpants—something with a lot of room in the crotch region. Something tells me I’m going to need that extra room…
For a shirt, I choose a white T. All my T-Shirts are tight fits, and that’s not something I can even control—the largest sizes barely fit me when I shop, courtesy of my bulging physique.
I head down to the weight room and punish myself with some high intensity sets on the bench press and that helps distract me. I throw in some weighted pull-ups, then some ab work, thoroughly exhausting myself. When I’m done, I start thinking about Angela all over again.
Damn it.
I push her to the back of my mind as I leave the weight room. I’ve worked up an appetite thanks to my gym session, so I head to the kitchen. Luciano finished the last of the risotto, so I cook up a few chicken breasts. I save a portion for Angela, though I doubt she’s going to eat it. I enjoy mine nonetheless, slathering it in barbecue sauce—Salsa BBQ Siciliana.
As I head up the stairs with yet another plate for her, I catch myself humming an old Sicilian song under breath. I realize I don’t feel as angry as usual, which is a nice change. I guess the sexual release helped after all. As did the gym workout. And the food.
I tell myself I’m going to her room because I want to try getting her to eat again. It’s a nice lie. Now that she knows who I am, I truly want to talk to her, like we used to talk. I want to catch up, see what she’s been up to all these years. I know it’s a bad idea—I can’t allow myself to get attached to her—but I also know I’ll go crazy if I stay away. So I’m allowing myself a final visit for the night.
She probably won’t want to talk anyway. She hates me now, remember?
I’ll offer her the chicken, and when she tells me to fuck off, I’ll go.
I unlock the door and enter the room, intending to be genial, but for some reason, as soon as I see her sitting in the corner, with red eyes as if she’s been crying, I can’t help the growing rage. Weakness always has that effect on me, I’m not sure why. I guess I can trace it back to growing up on the ruthless streets of Palermo with my brothers. Or maybe it’s because I was thrown into the sea by men who wanted to kill me, and had to fight tooth and nail to survive. If I was weak in either situation, I wouldn’t be here.
Yes, I can’t stand weakness.
“Rub your eyes,” I tell her. “And stop crying.”
“I wasn’t crying,” she lies, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her blouse.
“Uh huh,” I growl. “And why haven’t you changed into something else? You don’t like the clothes in the wardrobe?”
“Good guess,” she says.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Keep wearing those grubby and dirty clothes. Suits you.”
“I know it does,” she tells me defiantly.
I want to remind her how dirty she can get but hold my tongue. When she sat in my lap and gave me her breast to suck, she was doing it to distract me, not because she likes me. I feel insulted just thinking about it. And yet, that soft breast, that perky nipple…
I quickly glance at the bowl of risotto, which sits untouched on the nightstand.
“I cooked you some chicken.” I beckon at the plate I’m carrying.
She lifts her upper lip in disgust. “I don’t want anything from you.”
I slam the door behind me and she starts.
