Junior
Madonna, she cooks.
She cooks, she cleans, she’s a better nurse than Florence f*****g Nightingale. Where did this woman come from? It’s stupid, but the fantasy of keeping her here beyond Gio’s recovery flashes through my mind.
Desiree waiting at the door for me in nothing but high heels and her lacy b*a and panties, a drink in hand. Desiree on her knees, taking my c**k deep while I conduct business on my phone.
It’s wrong and f****d up and so damn appealing.
I get a hunk of parmesan from the cheese drawer in the fridge and bring it to the table with the grater.
She grins. “Right. I forgot the cheese.”
“What’s funny?”
“I just figured there were risks in preparing Italian food for a Sicilian. I knew you’d get me on something.”
I grate cheese on both our plates, then open a bo
