She rode the high until it reached its climax then she slowly drifted down. Her nails started to loosen from my arms, but she still moaned quietly to herself. Her eyes were glued to mine, and that look of satisfaction was worth more than a vault of gold.
I grinded against her with a few more strokes until I came with a moan, my eyes glued to her face. I couldn’t wait to fill her bare pussy with every drop of my seed. I couldn’t wait to claim her as my own. But for now, filling my boxers was good enough. “Rome…fuck.” It was the best orgasm I’d had to date—and I almost couldn’t believe it.
I was thirty years old, and I just dry-humped someone.
She wrapped her arms around my neck affectionately then kissed the corner of my mouth. It was full of gratitude, thankful for the way I’d just rocked her world through my slacks. The kiss was delicate and soft, but it made my insides burn with longing. “You’re such a man.”
The unexpected compliment filled me with warmth, and the sincerity in her voice sent chills down my spine. I didn’t know exactly what her compliment meant, but I assumed she was impressed I made her come so hard without actually touching her. I made her feel like the sexiest woman in the world.
And I would do that every night.
7
Rome
I got there early and set up the kitchen, a ridiculous smile on my face that wouldn’t disappear. Calloway was a phenomenal kisser, and his package was impressive. Once I felt the definition against my clitoris, I was gone.
He gave me the best orgasm I’d ever had.
He didn’t sleep over like I thought he might. He went home, and I hadn’t heard from him since. He was supposed to help me out today, but he hadn’t shown yet. Hopefully, his alarm went off.
The kitchen staff arrived and prepared the meal. We were serving chicken and dumplings, rice, and carrots, along with a piece of French bread. It was warm and filling, and it would give the homeless some respite from the cold.
“Hey, pretty lady.” John came behind the counter and looked me up and down. “Do something fun last night?” He wore the same green sweater covered with stains, and his black pants had holes in the knees. He’d been living on the streets for ten years, diagnosed with extreme bipolar depression. Sometimes, like now, he was in a great mood. And other times, I couldn’t get him to even speak.
I smiled so I could keep up his good mood as long as possible. “I had a date.”
“Ooh…about time. You’re always working.”
“I know. I need to get out more.”
“Well, I’m always available if this chap doesn’t work out.”
I smiled because I knew he was kidding. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Your services are unnecessary.” The threat filled the room and cast a shadow over everyone. Even the guys sitting at the back table could feel it because they all looked at us. Calloway’s voice took on a new tone I’d never heard before. Without raising his voice or using explicit words, he managed to terrify everyone. He looked down at John and silently excused him from the conversation.
John didn’t stick around after that. He walked into the seating area and joined some of the members of his gang. Their voices fell and they huddled together, obviously talking about Calloway’s unwelcome presence.
Calloway walked to me, wearing a gray t-shirt and dark jeans. His clothes didn’t look old, and I hoped he was prepared to get them demolished with gravy. The irritated look was still on his face when he looked at me, like I was somehow responsible for what just happened.
My good mood evaporated like steam. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” He kept a straight face like it was a legitimate question.
“You didn’t need to be an ass to John. He’s a very nice guy.”
“Any guy who hits on you is not a nice guy.” He grabbed an apron from the pile and tied it around his waist.
“You hit on me.”
“Not the same thing, and you know it.” He walked away before I could say anything more. He grabbed a stainless steel container full of dumplings and placed it on the food line.
Was the conversation over? I joined him at the counter and put one hand on my hip, giving him a fiery look. “That was unacceptable, and you know it was. He was just joking—”
“No. He wasn’t.” He dropped the cylinder into the tray then turned back to me. The red apron was tight across his broad and powerful chest. He probably needed one a few sizes bigger—a size we didn’t have. “It’s one thing to be nice to someone, but it’s another to let them walk all over you. He crossed a line, and we both know it. Small talk is fine. But romantic advances are not.”