“There’s a guy she works with who she dated a couple of times, and now that she doesn’t want it to continue, he’s being a jerk about it. She’s thinking that she’ll have to find something else.”
As I talk, Gio expertly swirls the long strands of pasta coated in the creamy sauce on his fork.
“That’s not good.” He stops mid-twirl. “Hey, my friend owns a club in Manhattan, and they’re always looking for experienced bar staff. What did you say she was?”
“A mixologist, which is a cocktail-maker specialist. She’s always coming up with the most amazing combinations of herbs and spices in drinks that are absolutely delicious.”
“Well, I think that’s exactly what my friend’s club needs. It’s called The Vice Club, and it’s a private sex club.”
My jaw drops. “A sex club? I’m pretty sure my sister doesn’t want to work in that type of club.”
He again gathers the pasta like the mention of a sex club over lunch is perfectly normal.
“No, hear me out. It’s not seedy at all. I promise. In fact, it’s a very exclusive club, frequented by many of the wealthyand elite of New York. Ryan, my friend who runs the club, is former military and very strict about what is and isn’t acceptable behavior.”
“Where is the club?” I ask for no reason other than I don’t really know what else to say. Although I can’t help wondering what goes on in a sex club, other than the obvious answer: sex.
Should I put, visit a sex club, on my bucket list of adventures?
“It’s in Midtown, on a very nice street. Why, do you want to visit?”
“Maybe I do.”
He chuckles, the laughter lines around his mouth deepening and a dimple on his left cheek showing itself for the first time.
For a minute, his fork sits suspended in midair, with the pasta still coiled around it, before he brings it to his mouth, no strands slipping off.
Now, that’s a skill that would be useful. When I try to do the same, I’m lucky if one strand remains clinging before I can get it to my mouth.
“How do you get the pasta to stay on your fork like that?” I ask, placing my fork back on my plate.
He chokes out a laugh, the pasta plopping back into the bowl this time. After a big gulp of water, he reaches across the table, picks up my discarded fork, and places it upright at the edge of my bowl of pasta.
“Let me show you,” he says, twirling it slowly, then lifting the coated fork to my mouth. “Open for me, bella.”
Damn, when he calls mebellawith a hint of an Italian accent, I want to crawl across the table and curl into his chest.
My mouth pops open so he can feed me the creamy wrapped bundle, and when the sauce touches my tongue, my mouth waters and a moan of appreciation slips out, my lips closing around the metal prongs. “That’s so good,” I murmur, and when I meet his gaze, heat flows through my body all the way downto the juncture of my thighs. I almost moan again, though for a completely different reason this time.
Slowly, he retreats, leaving me wanting more. And I don’t mean pasta. To hide the flush that I’m sure is painting my cheeks pink, I pick up my glass and take a refreshing sip, then hold its frosty surface against my skin.
“The sauce. It’s so good. There must be some special ingredient because my carbonara never tastes like that.” I babble on for a full minute while Gio continues to stare at me. He must think I’m the most socially awkward idiot he’s ever met.
“I’m glad you like it.”
Chapter five
Gio
Tori is messing with my head. The way she opened her mouth on my command has me wondering if she’d be just as compliant if I were to ask her to do other things. I suspect the answer would be yes given the cheeky glint she had in her tempered-chocolate-colored eyes.
Shifting in my seat, I try to surreptitiously adjust my shorts under the table. If more blood flows south, it’s going to get very uncomfortable. She wipes a drop of the creamy sauce from the corner of her mouth.
Fuck, it looks like …No, stop! Those kinds of thoughts and flashes of my dreams from last night that featured her are giving me a raging hard-on. Thank fuck there’s a linen cloth that partially covers it. I drag my chair closer under the table and drop the navy cloth napkin from beside my plate onto my lap.
Beads of perspiration dot my forehead, and I can guarantee they’re not only due to the sun.
“After lunch, we should swim. I know a quiet place where the water is so clear you can see the fish swimming by.” A cooling thought will hopefully resolve my embarrassing issue.
