I turn to putty at the sight of him. His hooded eyes, messy hair, and sharp jaw glistening with my wetness nearly enough to make me unravel. Slowly, he slides one of his long fingers inside me. I draw in a sharp breath when he retreats and promptly plunges back in.
“Don’t stop, please.”
Pressing a soft kiss to my pussy he gives me a dark grin.
“I’ve never heard you beg before, princess. I like it.”
I fucking hate him. But his cock, ugh. His magical mouth. I dig my fingers into the back of his neck.
“Please.”
“Keep fucking begging,” he rasps. And the vibration makes me mule. He suckles my clit and I swear I see stars.
“Pretty please.”
I propel into his jaw as an endless surge of pleasure engulfs me. My fingers groping his hair as I hold on for dear life, as I explode.
Nick stands a moment later, and the arctic expression on his face throws me. But he sweeps his thumb over my bottom lip, smearing my lipstick.
“I told you I would know what you liked, including juicy, raw tomatoes.”
With that, he stalks out of the room. But not before I catch aglimpse of the hurt in his eyes. Was he upset that I only wanted him for sex?
I stared at our half-eaten grilled sandwiches. I thought this whole thing would be easy, less complicated, without love being involved, but it seems that I was wrong. Love isn’t the only emotion that can hurt you. So was hate.
28
NICK
The end of the year was approaching, so I wanted to gather the data from when we first opened the restaurant in June. I stared at the numbers, ensuring they weren’t playing tricks on me. Over the past couple of weeks, Melanie suggested posting on our Instagram page. It was free, so I thought, why not? She revised our menu, removing all the American dishes, and suggested offering curbside delivery and pickup. I agreed to try it out, but we would revert to the old menu if it didn’t improve sales.
She’s been posting content daily, sometimes up to four times a day. Then, somehow, she convinced me to be in a video she recorded. Shortly after, she suggested bringing my mom in on a couple of them. In one of them, we recorded her making our homemade pasta, along with saying, ciao " and, arrivederci, at the end of each video. The first video of me got over two hundred thousand views and thousands of likes. The second video with my mom and me reached over half a million views. The third one was of me talking about my passion for cooking, which got over a million views.
My phone pinged repeatedly, distracting me, and when I looked over at the notifications, it was comment after comment.
O.M.G. He is so hot!
Can I personally hire you to cook for me at my house? In nothing but tight boxers?
A man that can cook is so fucking sexy.
Are you married?
I want to have your babies!
Where is the restaurant located?
I never liked Italian food, but now I think I love it!
You and your mom are so adorable. Can you hire me as your personal server?
It turns out Mel was right–sex sells. She said I had movie-star good looks, and at first, I didn’t believe her, but the vitality of the videos is proving her right. She also persuaded me to think that if I showed my love for my mom and cooking, it would make women swoon and want to come and eat at the restaurant just to see me.
I had to say, the girl wasn’t dumb when it came to this production stuff. She knew how to work magic with that phone of hers. It would explain why our sales are up twenty percent, and this month isn’t even over yet, but we’ve already exceeded every other month in revenue.
“Okay, I’m convinced Alexa is paying my customers to hate me. Why do I always get these tables who have like a million allergies or are so damn picky, I need a notebook to write down their order.” Melanie says as she places a plate on my desk.
“Here, apparently, the chicken with this pasta dish is too dry. Whatever the hell that means.”
