“I don’t blame anyone but myself for letting him manipulate me. I knew he was moving too quickly, and I let it happen,” she says with a shrug. “But that isn’t going to stop me from one day trying again. I want a husband and a family, and that includes procreating with the man I love.”
She tilts her head and smirks, and some weird shit inside me sparks to life as I imagine her fucking someone other than me, which leads me to wonder what kind of woman she is in bed. Would she just lie there like a starfish, or would she be an active participant? Is she a screamer, a squirter?—
“You don’t want that?” she asks, cutting off my thoughts.
“What?” I choke out, wondering if she somehow knows what I was thinking about.
“To have a family of your own one day?” she clarifies.
“No,” I tell her point-blank, then change the subject, not wanting to continue this pointless conversation.
My brother wants to be a family man, and he can go for it. But that shit ain’t for me.
“You hungry?” I ask, pulling out my phone. “We can order something in. Thai, Italian, Greek …”
“Mmm,” she moans, thankfully letting the subject drop. “Greek sounds good.”
The noise she makes goes straight to my cock, and I force myself to push the lust away as I question if I made the right choice, having her stay with me. Maybe I should’ve had her stay with my brother and Peyton …
But then she glances at me with a soft smile and says, “Thank you for everything, Matteo,” and I throw that thought out the window because I want her here.
She’s mine to protect.
End of story.
“I ate way too much,”Daniella whines, holding her stomach and glaring at me. “And I blame you. Who orders that much food for only two people?”
“Someone who eats a shit ton,” I say with a laugh, taking another bite of my gyro. “And you weren’t complaining when you were stuffing your face.”
“Well, now that I’m having food regret, I’m complaining and blaming you.”
She sticks her tongue out, and if she were any other woman, I’d point out what I’d like for her to do with that tongue. But instead, I shove another bite into my mouth.
“And thanks to Enrique, I can’t even go for a jog.” She pouts. “Not that it does much …” Her gaze descends to her stomach, and she frowns.
I don’t know much about women, aside from how to pleasure them, but thanks to having a sister, who was obsessed with her weight when she was younger, it’s clear that’s what Daniella is doing—unnecessarily so.
“Nope. None of thatwoe is meshit allowed around here.” I shake my head. “Your body is banging with all them curves, but if you want to jog, I have an entire gym you can use anytime. It’s not the same as running in the fresh air, but it will do.”
“Ugh, I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re right … not about thebanging bodypart, but about thewoe is meshit. I honestly don’t mind being fat. But Enrique made a few comments, and now, they’re stuck in my head.”
“Fat?” I scoff. “You’re far from fat.”
She snorts, and I lock eyes with her.
“Stand. Show me where you’re fat.”
“What?” She gasps. “No way.”
“C’mon.” I set my plate of food down, pause the show we were watching, and stand, pulling her up with me. “Let’s go, Little Russo. You started this shit. Now, show me the fat.”
She huffs, rolls her eyes, and then says, “Fine.”
Her hands go to the seam of my shirt, and she lifts it up to just below the bottom swells of her tits. “This,” she says matter-of-factly, “is fat.”
She’s about to drop the shirt when I reach out and stop her, holding the shirt up with one hand while my other one goes to her soft belly.
“This”—I turn her so we’re facing the mirror hanging on my wall, some decorative piece my interior decorator picked out when she furnished my entire place for me—“is not fat.”
