And there.
She swallowed.
Right. There. Across the table.
One annoying, arrogant, asshole—I bet even his asshole is beautiful.
“Have you ever had casonsei, Nico?” his mother asked.
She started, surprised to hear the sound of her name and having no idea how to respond because she had no idea what had been asked.
Yesandnocovered a lot of territory.Have you been having lecherous thoughts about my son? Yes. Did you know said lecherous thoughts are like a match that can set all this carbon and phosphorus sitting around this table ablaze? No.
She stared at Rocco. His eyes flashing, an evil grin slithering up his cheeks as his foot, like that Chilean snake with the slow and fast twitching tongue, slithered up her leg.
Slow-twitch. Fast-twitch. Yes-twitch. No-twitch.
He licked his lips.
Yes.
“No,” she suddenly heard herself say.
Rocco’s mother smiled at her and held out a plate. “Ah, well you will love it.”
Nico sighed, relieved.
Smiling, she took the plate. “It looks and smells wonderful.”
“Casonsei is ravioli with a sauce of butter, sage, and bacon,” his grandmother said.
His grandfather leaned forward, looking past Beatrice. “You’ll never taste anything more delicious.”
“I don’t know,” Rocco said, catching her eye. “I think I might have tasted something more delicious.”
Her eyes ballooned as his foot slid up and down her leg.
She jumped.
“Are you all right, dear?” his mother asked.
“Yes.” Nico swallowed. “I’m, I’m fine.”
Fast-twitch. Slow-twitch. Yes-twitch. No-twitch.
“That’s sacrilegious,” his grandfather said. “You have not tasted anything better, Rocco.”
She glanced at him and saw on his face that he was enjoying this way too much.
It’s payback for that fairy tale.
She glared at him.
Wait until I get my hands on you.
Thinking about what she would do when she did got her thinking about what he had done. Up against that tree. And that got her thinking about the things he hadn’t done. The things she wanted him to do.
She wondered if there was enough phosphorus and carbon sitting around this table to self-combust, if her filthy thoughts could create enough heat so that everyone around them would disintegrate when she threw him on the table and they did those things. He did those things. In the middle of the Casonsei, the green salad, and the vinaigrette, the roasted peppers, the crusty bread, and the olive oil. Oh, the olive oil. Lots of olive oil. On his chest. On his thighs. On his ass. In those dimples. Would she ever find out if he had those dimples?
