Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
They were close friends, and they enjoyed spending time together. But in retrospect, I wonder if my mother knew this space offered Martina an escape from her prick of a husband.
Together, they planted enough tomatoes, basil, and parsley to feed half of Seattle. They also planted hardy varieties of fig trees and filled the greenhouse with lemons.
During my absence, Abella took on the task of preserving the legacy after her mother’s accident. My father often reported that she and Nonna spent a lot of time in the garden, giving away the excess to other families in the Cosa Nostra.
It didn’t surprise me. Abella has always valued tradition and family. She respects her elders and asks Nonna to tell her stories because she actually enjoys listening to them. She collects recipes and treasures every heirloom that’s ever been given to her. It’s easy to see why she’s a favorite of every Nonna on the West Coast.
She used to tell me her plans to pass down those treasures, recipes, and stories to the children we’d have together one day. It was a foregone conclusion that we’d have a big family. She thought five siblings would be a good number, and when she spoke of that future, I could tell there was nothing she wanted more. But she hasn’t mentioned that conceptual family once since we married.
I’m the only one who speaks of it. And while she claims she never wanted Matteo, I can’t ignore the possibility she’s still mourning him—and the family she would have had with him instead. It’s hard to reconcile that idea when she gives herself to me so completely. But six years ago, it was also impossible to believe she’d given up what we had for Matteo.
That thought darkens my mood as I approach her. She’s kneeling on a garden pad in a soft, fitted black dress that hugs every curve on her body. When she leans forward to gather some fresh herbs, the swell of her breasts beneath that curved hem sends a rush of blood straight to my cock.
I’m deep in the fantasy of face-fucking my wife and groping her tits when Nonna calls out to me.
“Angelo, look.” She shows off her basket of herbs. “For the pesto.”
I thank her in Italian, aware of the effort she’s pouring into today’s lunch. There’s nothing she enjoys more than feeding anyone and everyone, but I appreciate her labor.
“I’ll give you a moment,” Nonna tells Abella. “Bring me the parsley when you’re done.”
Abella nods as Nonna scurries off, leaving us alone.
“Hi.” Abella glances up at me with a nervous smile.
I reach down and drag my thumb across her lips, contemplating if I have time to fuck her.
“Are you bleeding?” I ask her bluntly.
She shakes her head, and something about the expression on her face gnaws at my gut. It’s a problem for later. But right now, I’ll settle for purging my frustration.
Abella seems to be aware of my thoughts when she reaches up to palm the erection in my trousers. She tilts her gaze toward me, eyes soft, lips parted—the perfect offering. On her knees, she’s mine to command, mine to ruin.
She extends that invitation when she slowly drags the zipper of my trousers down and presses a kiss against the hard outline in my briefs.
I wind my fingers through her hair, the need to fuck her mouth greater than the risk of being caught. Not far from us, laughter drifts from the backyard, and it’s not improbable that I already have guests here.
It doesn’t stop me from slipping my palm into the top of her dress and playing with her tits as she jerks me off through my briefs. Fuck that feels good.
“In your mouth,” I order roughly.
She obeys, pulling down my briefs and sliding her fingers around the base of my cock. She grips as much of me as she can, then she opens her mouth and sucks me inside.
“Bellissima, guarda come mi prendi.”
She melts for me, aching to be my good girl as she offers up her throat and takes me deeper. The reverent sounds that bleed from her as she pleasures me could only be described as worship.
I close my eyes and surrender to the feeling. Abella must, too. Because a moment later, when we hear Gabi’s voice, we both startle.
“Ho—ly crap.”
When I open my eyes, Gabi, Serafina, and Chantel are all standing at the edge of the garden, wearing matching expressions of shock.
Abella panics and pulls her mouth off my dick, only to realize her friends are all inadvertently staring at it now. She tries to cover it with her hands, which doesn’t work, and now they’re all panicking.
“Oh my god,” Serafina blurts, slapping her hands over her eyes. “We’re sorry—oh my god.”
“We’ll just”—Chantel tugs at Gabi, who seems to be frozen in place—“be going now.”