Zaccaro

hair, she's got me at my brink. But she sits up on her knees just in time.
My hand clamps softly on her neck. “Is my pussy as sweet as I require it to be?”
“Yes, Evan.”
I nuzzle her jawline with kisses and squeeze her neck just slightly. “You sure?”
“It tasted like pure sugar before, Evan. When I started sucking your cock, I got even wetter.”
“Good.” I take her hand and walk her back to the bed. Reese's eyes stay locked on mine, ready to do my bidding. I cup her breast, letting my thumb glide over her hardened nipple. Her breath is warm, tingling on my skin. She wants a kiss but we're in the training stages.
“Fuck me, Evan,” she beseeches. The tone of her voice has my cock thumping against my leg. Like a dog ready to attack. Yet my smile fades.
“When I say we're meeting tonight, what does that mean?” My voice is chilled, low, steely, and the hardness of these words breaks our connection. I'm no longer touching her. Reese's body is screaming for the faintest caress.
“Th... that we’re meeting. Evan, I'm sorry.”
“Damn right you are, the agnolotti-bolognese is getting cold. If I have to warm it up…”

9
Reese
“If I have to warm it up...” He had said.
I want to scream. Cuss. Cry. Thank God Evan was smart enough not to bring his gun holster. I gulp just fathoming the amount of time one gets for attempting to murder a cop. Claiming insanity should work in my favor because he said "if I have to warm it up,” then he stopped. Why did he stop? The mystery is breaking my friggen heart!
I had hastily shrugged into a pair of boyfriend jeans, a white camisole, and beige cardigan.
Now we’re on the ride over. The music is down, and the silence is deafening as I burrow my fidgeting fingers into my thin cardigan. I've dreaded knowing what's going to happen if the agnolotti-bolognese has gotten cold. Will it hurt... Hmmm, Evan can fuck me till I'm brain-dead.
The doorman has a good memory or he glanced at his notepad in his pocket while standing posted at the door. He greets me by name. “Miss Dunham, good evening.” And to Evan, he nods, “Zaccaro.”
“You're nervous?” Evan mentions as the elevator doors swoosh closed.
I lean against the golden wall and sardonically say, “Yeah, I don't want to upset you. Who knows what you've in mind as punishment.”
The elevator doors spring open. “Trust me, I've got it all planned out.” His voice is trained with no emotion and I laugh, a mixture of nerves, anticipation, desire, fear.
When we make it into his studio, my breath escapes as the sight of downtown Los Angeles comes into view. The bold flavors from the dining area makes my eyebrows rise. The tapered candles have gone out. But the glossy white table is set with enough food for a feast, each of the entrées are covered by silver domes. I’m half expecting a butler, for some reason in an all-white penguin suit and white gloves to magically appear.
Evan pulls out the high-back white leather chair, and I mumble my thanks while wondering if he ever would allow ten people over for dinner. There are ten chairs, but this is the spiffiest man cave ever. Yet, there’s enough food. “Well, were you cooking for me or thinking about your various ménage a trois.”
“Haha, my usual guests would be too worried about the carbohydrates.”
Though Evan is honest, I quip, “Carbs, I detest that word. I prefer the synonym: heaven.”
He places his hand on the side of one of the silver domes. “Lukewarm.”
“Are you going to beat me?” The left side of my mouth hitches with anticipation.
“I should. The food tastes better hot.”
“Those are my thoughts exactly. I whole-heartedly agree with any form of punishment you wish to relay.”
His eyes lock onto mine for a second. I wonder his thoughts since his facial expression is so clear.
Evan lifts one of the silver domes, and the agnolotti-bolognese is food-magazine worthy. He starts to scoop it out, but I move my plate away.
“No friggen way, buddy. Despite my consenting to your power trip, I am not like any of your usual playthings. I'll make my plate. I save my carb calories for good eats. If it's good, I’ll eat.” There's the faintest smile on his face.
I opt for a small size and grab the tiniest piece of garlic bread. As the fork touches my mouth for the first bite, thyme and other flavorful ingredients burst into my mouth. I moan, and allow my bottom to slide down the chair. Evan becomes entertained by my reaction. After I’ve had my moment, I sit up and force myself not to shovel agnolotti-bolognese too quickly into my mouth.
Evan’s still on his first round when I pick up the serving fork. So let’s just say someone can burn in the kitchen.
“I'll take it that I've passed?” His eyebrow rises triumphantly.
Not quite finished piling a tiny mountain onto my square plate, I snort, “Yes. Please give the restaurant my praise.”
“I didn't order out.”
“Your maid...”
“My maid only comes once a week to shine shit and feather dust. I'd go hungry waiting to be fed.”
“Errr. Your abuelita?” I pause, and shake my head of all my Spanglish friends. Then wrack my brain for the term “grandma” in Italian. Every once in a while, Milo called his grandma in my presence. A few times I was even permitted to speak with her. Nonna is what he called her, I think. With a grin, I say, “Your sweet, little nonna?”
“Reese, I cooked. One day I'll have a wife and children to feed.”
I stop piling seconds on my plate. “C’mon now, let's keep it strictly business.”
“We're past the business portion, Reese. It wasn't an hour ago when we agreed to a new arrangement.”
My eyes roll away from his as I know exactly what Evan is bringing up. His "you jump" followed by my, "how high" response. There'll be no delving in intimate territories, talk of