I don’t answer.
“How’s he doing, anyway?”
“Desiree says he’s stable.”
“Good.”
Just saying Desiree’s name has me recalling how luscious she felt under my body this morning. The beautiful sounds she made, the way she gave herself over so completely. I never in a million years dreamed I’d make some woman’s fantasy come true, but knowing I can?
Is fucking hot.
And even though I was an ass to her after we talked, I have the strong urge to reward her for giving herself up to me like that. And for being her.
She appeared this morning, showered and wearing one of my t-shirts. Didn’t even ask me for permission, just helped herself.
I don’t know why I fucking love that about her. Maybe because Marne, my ex, is so incapable of doing anything for herself with or without permission.
But as much as I love knowing she’s wearing my clothes, she’s gonna need her own shit.
“Listen, you stay here and keep an eye on him, huh? I’m gonna run Desiree to her apartment to pack a bag.”
Paolo nods. “Sure.”
“Where did you put her car?”
“It’s in your garage.”
“Good. I’ll be back in a couple hours. Call me if anything changes with Gio.”
“I will.”
“And call Vlad. We need to arrange a meeting to deal with their fucking setup. As far as I’m concerned, we’re at war. Find out what the word on the street is about the Russians. I want every ear to the ground.”
Paolo nods, phone already out.
I jog down the stairs and find my kitchen spotless, Desiree wiping down the inside of the refrigerator. Fuck if it doesn’t get me hard, imagining enacting a scene where she’s my maid and I force her to bend over and take it from her boss. Does she want role play? Or is the mafia kingpin scenario all she needs from me?
I adjust my junk and clear my throat.
“Yes?” She doesn’t turn around. She doesn’t jump to attention, or get nervous and babble around me like other females who work for me. This girl is totally different.
Built from a very special mold.
“Grab your coat, doll. I’m gonna take you to pack a bag.”
“Yeah?” Now she turns, shoving her thick brown hair from her face with the back of her wrist, her hands full with the spray bottle and paper towel. “Cool. Just let me finish here.”
I should tell her no one makes Junior Tacone wait.
The thing is—I’m sure she knows that, which is precisely why I find it hot that she gives me so much shit. She knows better. I’m an asshole. I’m dangerous as hell, and she still decides to push me. It’s brazen as hell. I love her confidence.
I decide to let it go since my current view makes the wait worth it.
Desiree has this unbelievable body—curves everywhere, but toned muscle underneath. Nice full hourglass figure—big boobs, slender waist, big hips. Sturdy thighs. Like she works out, but can’t stop with the Ben & Jerry’s. Which is perfect for me. I like a little meat to hold onto. Especially when it’s shaped with such delicious mounds.
Right now she’s giving me a prime view of her ass, the thin fabric of her scrubs stretched taut across the globes I turned pink just a few hours ago.
“I have a housekeeper, you know.”
“Well, she needs to clean the inside of your fridge, Tacone. You tell her that next time.”
I pick up a dish towel, spin it into a tight twist and whip it at her ass.
“Ow!” She shrieks and throws her hand back. “Fuck, that hurt.” She whirls and seeks my face with her gaze, brows down.
I don’t know what my expression shows—probably all the dirty things I want to do to her, because whatever she was going to say next dies on her lips and she flushes like an innocent.
“Come on, sassy-pants. I don’t like to wait.”
“Of course you don’t.” She punctuates the words by putting down the spray bottle and towel and shutting the refrigerator door with a little too much force. “Well—you’re the boss.”
“You seem to keep forgetting it, doll.”
I escort her out of the house and to my car, which is sitting in the driveway. She has the audacity to fiddle with my radio on the drive, changing it to some Top 40 station and singing along to the Camila Cabello song Havana.
I give her a sidelong glance. With the last name Lopez, I know she’s Latina. I’m guessing Puerto Rican, based on the neighborhood where she lives. “You speak Spanish, doll?”
“Si, jefe. You speak Italian?”
“Si.”
“Lemme hear some. I bet I’ll understand it.”
“You have a nice voice,” I tell her in Italian.
Her full lips stretch into a smile. “Pues.”
I like when she blushes because it seems so out of character. Or I guess I just like when I make her blush.
We pull into her neighborhood and I find a place to park. She gets out and slams her door. “I sure as hell hope you brought my keys.”