I don’t care about anything else except how good it feels when he’s inside me. It’s addictive. A drug I can’t help but chase. My whole body spasms, and my moan is so loud, I fear it will travel to the surrounding neighbors. I cum so hard.
“Fuck.” Those green eyes grow dark and his fingers grip so tight as he pulses inside me. “Don’t ever talk about another man's cock in front of me.”
“Okay,” I rasped out. Liquid heat fills me, and a sharp bite to my throat makes me cry out. And then he’s sucking, soothing the sting and leaving his mark on me.
30
NICK
“The first thing we will use is the flour, two cups.” My mom says, and I watch as Melanie pours the flour onto the table. “Then you’re going to make a circle and crack the eggs here.” Her broken English comes through as she instructs.
Melanie grabs one, then the other, then cracks the eggs open and pours them in the middle of the flour.
“Now you need a little salt.”
Melanie takes a spoon and digs it into the tiny bowl of salt.
“No, no,” my mom raises a hand over hers. “Not too much, just a little bit.”
“Okay,” Melanie puts the rest of the salt settled between her fingers in the bowl.
“Now beat the eggs.”
Melanie picks up a fork and does as she’s told. “Yes, that’s it. A little bit at a time.”
Italian music plays in the background as my mom shows Melanie how to cook homemade pasta. The sight of Melanie cooking alongside my mom stirs a feeling inside me that makes me want to snap a photo of them, so I do.
“Niccolo, don’t you take a photo of my big butt.”
I can’t help it hold back a small smile as I stare down at the photo. My mom isn’t fat by any means but over the years, she’s gained some cushion in her hip and thighs. Being surrounded by Italian food twenty-four seven. I’m surprised she looks as good as she does for her age. She’s a lot shorter than Melanie which was hard for anyone to do since Melanie was tall. And with her perfect ass, she could have been a swimsuit model.
“Ya Niccolo.” Her voice has me reluctantly turning my gaze from my phone to the two women standing before me. Melanie kneaded the doe as my mom stood beside her, guiding her like she would her own daughter.
My mom must say something funny because Melanie tips her head back in laughter. And a supernatural power has flashes of the future coming to the forefront of my mind. Melanie with a swollen belly, carrying my child. Christmases to come, opening up presents around the fireplace. Her walking down the aisle of our beautiful church, getting the wedding she rightfully deserved. Taking a trip to Italy together. Endless nights of us getting lost in each other’s bodies. And even us growing old together all coming crashing in my brain like a title-wave.
“Okay nice. Very nice. Mix it well.” My mom’s Italian accent always pokes through more when her native language blasts through the speakers of my Google home that sits on my coffee table in the living area.
“Okay, so if it’s too wet, you can add a little flour, and if it’s too dry, you can add a little wada, I got-ta the wada here. You don’t have to pour the water, just wet your hands like this.” My mom demonstrates.
“Got it,” Melanie says as she kneads the dough into a perfect ball.
“That’s it, give it all your muscolo.” My mom says. “Okay, bene.”
My mom takes the rolled-up dough into her hands and starts to cut it in half and places the other half to the side covering it with a hand towel, so it won’t dry out.
“Okay, so take a little more flour, and now we are going to putthe dough through this machine.” One Christmas, I got a pasta machine for Mom and me. After her arthritis got worse, I wanted to help her out in any way that I could.
“So you see right here,” she points to the knob on the side as she turns to face Melanie.
“This is small, big, and really big. You want to do the big.”
She puts the dough in between the two metal parts. “Then you turn.” My mom turns the knob and the dough comes out the other side, flattened. “Okay, then you fold and do it again.” Once the dough is all rolled out, she tells Melanie. “Now you start the thin.” My mom adjusts the knob and repeats the process a few more times until it’s flattened out to the size of a rectangular pizza.
“Okay beautiful. Now what you’re going to do is pour a little flour on the top and you cut. Now the cutter,” She looks up at Melanie through her glasses. “you got to know if you want a fettuccine, Linguine, spaghetti,rigatoni, you need to know how long you want to cutter.”
“It’s cut mom.”
“That’s what I said.” My mom looks over her shoulder at me. And I have to stifle a laugh.
