Page 14 of Nine Years Gone

“I think I can accommodate that. You think this old man can handle it?”

“I don’t know. Let’s see.” I giggle and bite my bottom lip.

He leans in to kiss me again.

The smell of coffee wafts through the air, and when I look to my left, the bed is empty. Massimo must be in the other room because I hear him talking to someone.

I stretch. My legs are sore after having sex several times last night. It’s the kind of sore I could get used to. As I remember our night, my skin tingles. Massimo was able to draw my orgasm from me several times. He knew when to be gentle and when not to be. He played my body like a fine-tuned guitar.

I pull the covers back and reach for my glasses on the nightstand. I’m wearing Massimo’s T-shirt, which I slept in last night. It smells like the cologne he was wearing. I pad my way to the bathroom just outside his bedroom door. As I’m in there, I hear him yell, “Fuck, Stella, I don’t know but just deal with it! I’ll be there later.”

Stella, who’s that? And why is he so upset with her? Ugh, is he in a relationship with someone? Great, just what I need.I leave the bathroom and head to the kitchen where Massimo is standing by the stove shirtless and barefoot. His shorts hang low, exposing his deep V.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Hi, beautiful.” He kisses me.

I fix my frames to sit squarely on the bridge of my nose and ask, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

“I heard you talking to someone. You sounded upset.”

“Oh, yeah. I was on the phone with my sister. She’s having some issues at the restaurant, but nothing that can’t wait. I’ll deal with it later.”

His sister, phew!What a relief. I was beginning to think I was played last night. Glad I was wrong. “You got any coffee?”

“Yeah, I just brewed it. Mugs are in that cabinet,” he says, pointing to the back-right corner farthest away from me.

“Thanks.” I walk over to the cabinet, opening it to grab a mug. “Do you need one too?” I ask him.

“Yeah, thanks. Cream is in the fridge, and the sugar is in the cabinet next to the fridge.”

“I drink my coffee black but can prepare yours. How do you like it?”

“I like it many different ways.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“I remember,” I say, biting my lip.

He stops what he’s doing and stares at me, licking his lips before responding, “Two sugars and just a little bit of cream.”

I pour our coffee into the mugs and prepare his. When I sip it, it’s weak, tastes like dirty water, and I scrunch my nose.

“Is my coffee terrible?”

“Kinda,” I say, nodding. “It’s not strong at all.”

“I can make another pot.”

“Nah, I’m good. I can have some more when I get home. I’m a coffee snob, so it’s nothing personal.”

“Okay. Now I know, next time I’ll let you make the coffee.”

“Next time?” I ask, happy to hear him say those words.

CHAPTER 5

A Man Like That

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