Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“I just want him to be okay.”
“He already is. He’s happy and content. He knows he’s loved.” He sat back. “Just because you can’t give him stuff doesn’t mean he isn’t okay.” He sighed. “My dad died when I was young. My parents had immigrated from Italy just before my oldest brother was born. Neither of them could speak English, but they learned. My dad’s English was better than my mom’s since he was exposed to it every day, while she stayed home and raised us.” He smiled fondly. “Even today, she has her own way of speaking.”
“You’re very close with her.”
He nodded. “There are six of us. After my dad passed, my mom had to go to work, and it was my siblings who had to step in. We had no family here, although my parents had great friends who helped when they could. There wasn’t a lot of money left for ‘things.’ Hand-me-downs reigned. Used toys. Leftovers. Stretching a dollar as far as it would go. But there was a lot of love, and we made it work. We all turned out okay.”
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
He nodded. “He was larger-than-life. There wasn’t anything he couldn’t do. He was the greatest guy. I remember his friends coming over and showing my older brothers how to fix things in the house, taking us for the day, I’m sure to give my mom a break. Their wives cooking and bringing things over to help my mom. We all learned to cook. To do repairs.” He met my gaze. “To accept help when offered, knowing it wasn’t charity—it was friendship.”
I traced the top of the table with my finger. “I see.”
“What about your parents?” he asked quietly.
I fought down the pain his words stirred in my chest.
“They died in a fire when I was twenty-two.”
“Tesoro, I’m sorry.”
I swallowed down the lump in my throat. “We were at a friend’s cottage. Someone forgot to put the cover on the fireplace before we went to bed, and a piece of wood rolled…” I trailed off and cleared my throat. “It was a log cabin and went up fast. My parents didn’t get out. The owner’s wife died as well. I, ah, have some scars on my back and hip where I got caught.”
He reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “I’m sorry,” he repeated.
I nodded, unable to speak.
“So they never met Theo.”
“No.”
“His, ah, father?”
I stood. “Not in the picture,” I snapped.
I carried my plate to the counter, and immediately Stefano was behind me, encircling me in his arms.
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay,” he soothed. He slid his hand down to mine and tugged. I followed him to the small TV room, and we sat on the love seat. He sat in the middle, pulling me down to his lap so I was straddling him. He pressed my head to his shoulder, rubbing my stiff neck muscles, easing the tension. Simply thinking about Theo’s father made me feel ill.
With a long sigh, I let Stefano’s magic fingers do the trick. I relaxed into his warmth. He murmured soft hushing noises and quiet words of Italian. I had no idea what he said, but his tone was low and affectionate.
“You’re twenty…?” He trailed off.
“Eight,” I replied. “I’m twenty-eight.”
“I’m thirty-four.”
I hummed at his information. Six years wasn’t a big age gap by any means.
“Gabriella,” he murmured after a few moments. “So, Italian?”
I tilted up my head. “Sorry, my mom just liked the name. She was Canadian, my dad was English. I got her dark hair and his dark eyes.”
“Ah.” A mischievous grin lit his face. “So no Italian in you.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Yet.”
A giggle burst from my mouth, and he chuckled. I ran my fingers along his jaw, the scruff soft under my fingers. “Yet,” I repeated.
His eyes narrowed, and he lowered his head, capturing my mouth. I slid my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss became heated quickly. He worked my mouth, taking control, slipping his hands under my shirt, gliding them over my skin. I shivered at his touch. I’d never had a reaction to a man the way I did with him. One look, one touch, and I longed for more.
I whimpered as I felt him growing hard and erect under me, his desire evident. He groaned low and needy in his throat as I reached between us, palming his erection. He gripped my ass, moving me against him, the thick bulge of him hitting me exactly where I needed it through my thin skort. I shuddered with longing, unable to stop myself from undulating over him.
He brought me back to his mouth, kissing me long, hard, and deep, his tongue pressing on mine in controlling passes. I rocked against him, the pleasure building. I gripped his shoulders, kissing him back, lost to a sea of sensation. His touch, his mouth, his heat. The strength of his body, the feel of his grip—powerful, yet so gentle—all of him surrounding me. Holding me close as if he couldn’t bear to let me go. His quiet grunts and growls became more pronounced, and suddenly, it wasn’t enough. I had to feel him. I lifted myself up, tugging down his zipper and reaching inside the denim. I groaned out loud.