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The server arrives at the table and breaks the tension between us. The man wears his brown hair slicked back, revealing prominent large ears and a mustache. He wears rings on every finger and greets us with a stutter.
“Mmm… Mister Man…Man… Mancini.”
Corrado replies in Italian and orders what I think are drinks.
“What did you order for me?” I ask.
“Fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
“Thank you.” Since he handed the server the menus, I ask, “And what did you order for me for dinner?”
“Nothing yet. What kind of meat are you in the mood for? Red?”
“I would like to order dinner for myself.”
Corrado lifts a hand. The pair of waiters standing at the terrace entrance rushes toward our table.
“A menu,” Corrado says. Within moments, one of them delivers it.
I start reading. The menu is in Italian, not a single word of English. “You’d think a restaurant in New York would have a menu in English.”
“You would think that, but the people who come here enjoy ordering in Italian.”
I try pronouncing some words, then give up and hand him the menu. “Go ahead.”
“I could read, then translate,” he offers as he takes the menu from my hand. Corrado reads Italian like he was born there, and perhaps he was, but I can’t tell because he has no English accent either. Italian is a beautiful language, and coming from Corrado, it’s even more beautiful. Lethally attractive, in fact.
Corrado lifts his gaze, then does a double take. He folds the leather-bound menu and flings it like a frisbee. The server fumbles, but catches it, then pumps his fist for doing so while Corrado remains staring at me, his gaze more intense, heated as if he knows I liked listening to him roll Italian words over his tongue.
“You’re looking at me like you want to crawl under the table,” he says. “Do you?”
Caught off guard by his question, I gape. “Wha…”
“Don’t bother denying it. Next time I catch you looking at me like that, you’ll dine on my cum. Is that clear?”
The trouble with that is now that he’s brought it up, the visual of me sucking him off takes up residence in my brain and makes me face my attraction to this man. Cue the heat crawling up my face that must make me look like I’m raising my red freak flag. He must never catch me admiring anything about him ever again.
He makes that hissing noise and looks out over the terrace, then tucks a hand under the table and presumably adjusts himself the way he did in the car. In the car, I didn’t miss the outline of his growing erection. Corrado is thick and long.
At the thought of his cock, heat crawls up my cheeks at the same time that Corrado slides me a gaze. “Last warning, Michela.”
I lean in. “To be fair, you took away the menu, and now I don’t even have anything to fan myself with.”
At first, his eyes widen, but then Corrado laughs and pushes the drink toward me. “The lemonade will cool you off.”
I drink my lemonade. Deliciously fresh. “How many languages do you speak?”
“Five.” He shows me a hand. “English. French. Italian. German. And Romani.”
“Romani?”
“Mmhm.”
“I dabbled in French in high school,” I say.
“Why did you only dabble?”
“Those were trying teenage years.”
