Once everything was ready, I carried plates to the table, while Gio did his best to help.
“Not gonna lie, I don’t typically eat down-home cookin’,” Gio said after he’d obliterated his sixth piece of chicken. “But this was the best fried chicken I’ve ever had.”
I smiled. “Down-home cooking?”
“Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, that sort of thing.”
“What do you eat?”
He polished off the rest of his potatoes and shrugged. “Italian, or fast food.”
“Wait, I need more information. You look likethatand you eat Italian and fast food?”
“No, not typically. I eat a lot of veggies and chicken breast, unless my mom decides I’m ‘too skinny,’ then it’s Italian. If I’m with my brothers andI don’t have time or a place to cook, it’s fast food. If I’m cooking for someone else, I’ll experiment. But usually, I fall back to what I know.”
“Okay, so do you notlikedown-home cooking or has there been no one around to cook it for you?” I pressed.
“I guess it’s a little of both. I tried to make biscuits once, they ended up rock-hard. And I usually don’t eat fried chicken unless the Colonel makes it. But, honestly, I’m mostly there for the slaw.”
I sighed. “Yeah, that coleslaw is thebest.”
“Seriously.” He licked his fingers. “But their chicken doesn’t hold a candle to yours.”
I grinned, taking our plates to the sink. “I’m glad I can expand your horizons.”
He followed and once the dishes were in the dishwasher, I noticed him rolling his shoulder. I frowned. “Bothering you?”
“Little bit. But it’s good.”
“Take off your shirt and go sit on the sofa.”
“I am not that kind of guy, madam.”
I laughed. “Oh, believe me, you will be when I’m done with you.”
He did as I ordered, and I heated up some massage oil before joining him. Good lord, he was beautiful.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Uh. Yes.” I smiled. “I’m just trying to figure out the best way to get at you.”
He chuckled, patting his thighs. “Climb on, beautiful.”
I straddled his thighs, poured oil into my palm,and set the bottle on the side table next to the sofa before rubbing it into my palms. I then began to massage his shoulder and that’s when things went south.
Fast.
“Jesus,” he breathed out.
“Am I hurting you?”
He grimaced. “No, you’re givin’ me a raging hard-on.”
“Can you think about baseball stats or something while I work this out?” I asked, digging my fingers into his shoulder.
Dropping his head back, he let out a groan that sounded rather X-rated.
“Gio,” I warned.
