The Woman in the Back Room by Jessica Gadziala

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Eight

Alessa

 

 

 

 

Okay.

So I was being a child about it.

You know, the whole kissing and groping thing.

Yep.

I approached the whole situation with the maturity level of a little kid who thought you couldn't see them if they just closed their eyes real tight.

I pretended it never happened.

I claimed I didn't remember a damn thing that happened the night of my fever. I was dramatic enough to claim it was lucky I hadn't burned off some brain cells since I was so out of it that I had no idea how I woke up with wet hair.

I knew I was lying.

And Santi, who gave me a small smirk over the rim of his coffee mug as I told the bald-faced lie to his son, certainly knew I was lying too.

But it seemed we both decided to let it go.

Probably because we both came to our damn senses with some distance and sleep.

I mean, in the interest of full disclosure, I was about half a minute from sucking that man off on the tile floor of his bathroom before demanding he take me from behind until we were both puddles of post-orgasm contentedness.

But as much as I physically wanted the man—and it was a painful, nearly ever-present sensation whenever I was around him after the "event"—it was a terrible idea.

For, oh, say, a dozen or so reasons.

At the top of the list, though, was Avi.

The poor kid just lost his mom. The absolute last thing he needed was to see his dad sucking face with someone else. Worst of all, his new buddy.

Because that was what I was too Avi.

His buddy.

I liked the same crap he did, so we had a good time.

But I was no maternal figure. I didn't scold him if he slipped up and said a cuss word. I didn't remind him to brush his teeth unless he was breathing dragon breath in my face. I didn't punish him when he didn't do what he was told.

I was just a pal.

That was how he saw me.

And I didn't want that getting confused.

Because, well, it wasn't confusing.

I wasn't his mom.

I wasn't wife or girlfriend material.

I was just a friend with some really kick-ass self-defense skills "just in case."

I crawled myself out of my sickbed for fifteen minutes on Halloween, just to see Avi do some of the apartments in the building because I knew he was counting on me, and I didn't want to be a disappointment, before Santi pushed me back to bed, and took over himself.

It was another four days after that when I felt human again.

And then it was time for me to get used to Avi's new routine. Which included early mornings for school, having to be the grown-up and force him to do homework, then feed him if Santi wasn't home, and get him to bed at a reasonable hour. Usually, Santi was home for dinner or just after, but because the mornings were early, and I wasn't much of a morning person, I'd started just staying over pretty much all the time, so I was a part of the 'getting the kid to bed' team.

After that, well, I hightailed my ass to my own bed. Partly because I was tired, sure, but also because I genuinely didn't trust myself around my employer.

I'd once walked out bleary-eyed in search of some aspirin for a splitting headache to find Santi sitting on the couch in his pajama pants, watching a boxing match, and eating the sugar cereal I'd bought.

I nearly jumped the man and dry-humped him to oblivion, headache and all.

It was getting more and more difficult to be caught alone with him for more than a minute or two without having to physically remove myself from the situation before I did something I couldn't take back.

So I only spent time with him when Avi was around as a buffer. Which was often. But that only made me like the damn man all the more.

He was good with his son.

I hadn't been sure, at first, what kind of father he was, coming into their lives at the beginning stages of their grief. But he was attentive without being overbearing. He had rules, but wasn't big disciplinarian. He listened to Avi prattle on about some Youtube channel he was obsessed with, or what game he was playing without a single grumble. And, to be honest, I had to cover a grumble with a cough a couple times myself. The kid could talk.

He let Avi have some space and do things for himself, even if he mucked it all up, but was also always happy to offer some advice or a hand when needed.

Best of all, though, Santi was not shy when using the L-word with his son.

As a grown child who'd never heard that word from either parent, it made my heart swell up each time Santi said it to Avi. That kid would never have to grow up questioning his father's love. He would always be sure of his place in his heart and life. I loved that for him.

So, damnit, he wasn't just a hot piece of man meat. Nope. He was a pretty great human being, too.

Which meant I had the lady equivalent of blue balls—blue walls—and almost no means for release.

Until, of course, Avi had a piano lesson that his grandmother wanted to take him to, giving me the early evening off. With the apartment to myself.

I didn't have a whole lot of time, but I took myself into the shower for some, you know, stress relief.

A toy would have been ideal.

But there were just some things I didn't feel comfortable bringing into my employer's home. My collection of halfway X-rated graphic novels. And my sex toys.

So I was going old school manual with it, standing under the hot spray, letting my mind drift back to the tub that night, to the way his gaze had slipped to my breast in my wet shirt, the way his hands had sank into my ass, the way his lips had been demanding, yet soft and coaxing somehow at the same time.

It was pure freaking bliss to think about what it would have been like had we kept going, had we both gotten what we so clearly wanted.

I was driven up faster than usual, so wrapped up in my own fantasy that I didn't realize what was happening until it was one moment too late.

"Avi, where the hell is Aless—" Santi's voice started, pushing open the door to the shared bathroom from Avi's side, and striding in a step before freezing, realizing his mistake.

But not before he got a good eyeful of my naked body in the shower, the way my hand was buried between my thighs.

Shock kept me still.

And shock made Santi freeze, gaze on me.

When I didn't immediately freak out, demand he leave—because the last thing I wanted was for him to leave—he fell back against the wall. Like his legs were weak. Like they refused to hold him up anymore.

"Fuck," he hissed.

I couldn't hear him over the splashing of the water on the tile floor or the pounding of my heartbeat. But I watched his lips form the word, watched his breath rush out of his chest as his head dropped back onto the wall.

His gaze was on me, eyes molten, as his breath started to get faster.

Mine tripped into overdrive to match.

I sucked in a slow, deep breath, watching as his gaze followed the motion, slipping down over my breasts, then lower, then back up again.

I needed to tell him to go.

We needed to stop this before it got out of control.

It was stupid and reckless.

But me, well, I liked things a little bit out of control.

I liked being stupid and reckless.

And, apparently, shameless.

Because with his gaze on me, I took another deep breath as I started to move my fingers against my clit again.

Santi's eyes closed for one moment before opening again, even hotter, hungrier than before. Which only spurred me on.

I had no shame about sex. That said, I'd never stood in front of a man naked who was watching me as I worked my clit.

That said, I'd clearly been missing out.

Because the look in Santi's eyes nearly made me come right then and there.

My breathing got faster, more shallow, as I drove myself up.

A small, throaty moan escaped me. The sound made Santi's head jerk to the side a little, his jaw so tight that his teeth must have ached.

More.

I wanted more.

I wanted him as far gone as I felt.

Taking a deep breath, I lifted my leg out to the side, resting it on the shower seat, giving him a better view as I slid a finger down my cleft, and slipped it inside me.

"Fuck," Santi growled.

Whatever control he had right then snapped as he reached for his fly, working the button and zipper free, then reaching inside.

My walls tightened hard, realizing what was happening.

I was riding the high of pleasure and power as Santi pulled out his thick cock, eyes on me as he started to stroke it.

I'd done that.

Gotten him beyond reason with need.

Without touching him.

Without saying anything to him.

"Don't stop," Santi growled, making me realize my fingers had paused as I stood mesmerized, watching him stroke himself.

My fingers started moving again.

Both of us had our eyes pinned on the other, gazes moving back and fourth from face to where our hands were busying themselves.

It was the single hottest moment of my life as we both started to work our hands harder, faster, too desperate for release to take it slow, to drag it out.

A loud moan escaped me as I felt pushed to that edge, teetering there.

"Fuck," Santi growled, body stiffening.

He was going to come.

And with that realization, I flew over that edge, crashing down into my orgasm as Santi found his own with a savage curse, his free hand curling into a fist and slamming backward into the tiled wall.

It was about, you know, right then that I realized what an epically bad idea it had been, as we both stood there, recovering, coming back into our rational minds.

Because, yeah, we were going to have to face each other after this. We were going to need to talk and brush shoulders. And somehow act like we hadn't engaged in some mutual masturbation like a couple of teenagers.

God.

"Alessa..." Santi started after he tucked himself away. I had no such means to cover myself.

But, thankfully, the universe chose to be kind in that moment.

"Dad! Less! We brought donuts!" Avi called, making Santi stiffen.

He paused to give me a look of uncertainty.

"Go," I demanded in a soft whisper, not wanting Avi or his grandmother to walk in on us staring at each other while I was naked in the shower.

He gave me a tight nod before rushing out.

I hadn't even washed my hair, but I turned off the water, dried off, and quickly got into my clothes, then rushing out into the main area to find Santi's mom, Celeste, unloading a couple of grocery bags onto the oversize island.

Celeste was a stunning woman. She had to be to produce her gorgeous sons, since Arturo, her dead ex, the men's father, wasn't too much to write home about.

But Celeste was tall and lithe with sleek dark hair, sharp features, and green eyes.

After spending so many of her years imprisoned where anything pampering or fancy was denied to her, you never found the woman without flawless hair, makeup, and nails. She had one of the bodies that looked great in anything, but she often chose maxi dresses that hugged her figure without being skintight. I'd seen the woman a few times since I started working for Santi, and every single time, she'd been wearing icepick heels.

"There she is," Celeste said, shooting me a smile. "Did we cut your shower short?" she asked. "I know fitting in a, you know, full-service shower with a small kid around is difficult at best."

"I was just taking a quick one," I said, keeping my gaze away from Santi, even though I felt his on me. "I was going to order some Mexican."

"Nonna is making dinner!" Avi gushed.

"Oh, okay. Well, I don't want to get in the way of family dinner," I said, taking a step back. "I'll head out."

"No, stay," Santi said, voice low.

"Of course you're going to stay. You're practically family now."

"Okay. Thanks," I said, pretending to ignore the warm sensation spreading across my chest.

"Av, why don't you go get to work on your homework?" Santi suggested. "Get it out of the way, so you can relax for the rest of the night."

There was some grumbling to that, but he eventually moved off to his room to get started.

"How was piano?" Santi asked. His mother raised a brow, and reached for a bottle of red wine she'd bought. "That bad, huh?" he asked, wincing.

"I'm not entirely sure why Ottavio takes piano," Celeste said, handing the bottle to her son to open.

I did not watch those sexy hands of his make short work of that task.

Nope.

Not me.

I mean... sexy hands?

What the hell was the matter with me?

"What do you mean?" Santi asked, grabbing three glasses. Normally, I was not a huge red wine drinker—save for at Sunday dinners where it was practically mandatory—but I needed a drink too much to object.

"Well, he's... is there a kind way to say your grandson doesn't have a musical bone in his body? Because he doesn't," Celeste declared with a bemused smile. "I had a splitting headache when we left."

"He's probably out of practice," Santi defended.

"Honey, he spent half the class staring out the window at the cabs passing. He didn't want to practice. That's why I was saying I wasn't sure why he takes it if he doesn't seem to enjoy it."

"Could he have, you know, been thinking about his mom?" I asked. "Since she was the one who used to bring him?"

"I wondered that too," Celeste said as she folded the paper grocery bags and set them aside to look at her ingredients. "I actually asked the teacher when Avi went to the bathroom. She said he's always been like that. I know he's had a lot of change lately. And maybe you just want to keep things status quo right now. But once some time has passed, maybe let him know it's okay if he's not into it. There are plenty of other activities if you want him to do them."

"Yeah," Santi agreed, giving his mother her wine, then approaching me.

I didn't think he would. I figured he would avoid me like the plague after the bathroom incident. Yet he approached me, holding out the glass. And with his big hand, it was impossible to take the glass without our hands brushing.

I swear there was a charge at the contact, a spark that sizzled up my arm.

My gaze shot up, curious if he felt it. But his face was unreadable in the moment.

"So, Alessa, do you cook?"

"She microwaves," Santi supplied with a smirk as he turned away from me to go stand far to the other side of the island. "And orders in."

"And makes highly rated cereal combinations," I added.

"Yeah, can't forget that," Santi agreed.

Celeste looked between the two of us for a moment, but like her son, she had a really good poker face when it served her.

"How about you help me make the olive oil dip for the bread?" Celeste asked.

"Oh, I don't think—" I started to object.

"Sure she can," Santi interrupted.

"Fine. I'm outnumbered," I conceded, taking a long sip of my wine. "But I am not taking any blame if it comes out inedible."

An hour later, we were sitting down to dinner, and Avi was dipping his forth slice of bread into the dip I'd carefully put together.

And, true, it was just some herbs and spices in some olive oil. But it was the most amount of cooking I'd ever done. I was holding my breath that it was good.

It was almost as if Santi sensed that need, because he rustled Avi's hair at the base of his neck. "You like that dip, huh?"

"It's good," Avi said over a mouthful. And none of us corrected him for it.

"Less made it," Santi said.

And the look on this kid's face. I nearly spit out my wine. It was a mix of shock and fear and disgust.

"Don't worry, bud," I said, kicking his foot under the table. "I was under careful supervision."

"She burns pasta," Avi declared to the table.

"Hey. That was frozen pasta. And in my defense, you have a fancier microwave than I do. I didn't realize that I needed to adjust the time down."

"She doesn't like instructions," Avi told his father and grandmother.

"Hey, friends don't narc on friends," I told him, tossing an olive at him. It landed in his pasta, splattering up onto his chin, getting a belly chuckle out of him.

When I glanced back at Santi, there was another unreadable look on his face.

I had no idea what it meant.

But I did know how it made me feel.

Like a warm sensation across my chest.

Whatever the hell that was about.