"How do you know?" I ask, peeling the top off the pudding. I'm not even hungry, so I'm not sure why she gave me this.
"It was listed on your passport."
"Ah."
"I would've made you a cake," she says. "Or, well, had you one made, but I didn't think you'd eat it, you know, in case it got doped with cyanide." She casts me a sideways look as she takes another bite. "I guess I could've bought like a honey bun or something, but we had pudding in the fridge, so..."
"So pudding it is," I mutter, taking a small bite before I wave at her with my spoon. "I didn't expect anything."
"I figured," she says, "considering you never even mentioned it."
She devours her pudding, practically licking the plastic clean of chocolate, as I set mine down on the table without taking another bite. I pull my shirt back up as she watches me.
"It looks better," she says, setting her empty container down beside mine. Reaching over, she runs her fingertips along the skin around my wound, her touch so light it sends a tingle through me. The forming scar is nasty but it's healing, barely even sore anymore.
Sighing, I relax back against the couch, relishing the sensation of her touch. "It feels better."
Her hand moves, shifting away from my injury, and runs along my stomach, caressing the skin. She traces the ridges of my abs, following the trail of hair up to my chest as she slowly edges toward me.
I close my eyes when she leans my way, feeling her lips as they press against my stomach, trailing kisses up toward my chest. Her hand brushes against my lap, rubbing my cock through my pants. It stirs beneath her palm, just the simple touch enough to make it harden.
Reaching beneath the fabric, she grasps a hold of me, stroking a few times as she releases me from my pants. I open my eyes just as she shifts position and drops her head toward my lap.
"Karissa..."
Her eyes dart to mine, but she doesn't stop, doesn't waver, as she takes my cock into her mouth. The wet warmth soothes me, and I want to protest, I should protest, but it feels too good.
Too fucking good.
My hands settle on top of her head, lightly running through her hair. She sucks... and sucks... and sucks, teeth grazing and tongue stroking until my head starts spinning and I feel like I'm going to explode.
I should warn her.
I should stop her.
I should end this, but I'm weak.
I'm fucking weak.
I'm regaining my strength, but the woman still has the power to destroy me.
I come hard, my body tensing, pain running through me. It hurts. It hurts. But this pain feels better than anything I've felt in years. I grip on to her hair as she swallows, not letting go until she releases me from her mouth. I close my eyes, breathing deeply. "I told you never to do that..."
"No, you told me I don't belong on my knees, and I wasn't on them," she counters, sitting up, her gaze on my face. There's a twinkle in her eye when I look at her. Amusement. "You know you should always say what you mean."
She tries to move away them but I grab a hold of her, pulling her onto my lap. I grunt when she straddles me, pain stabbing my side from my injury as her knee hits it.
"Shit, sorry," she says, panicked when I wince, but I grip tightly to her hips to keep her there, shaking off her apology.
"It was my fault," I say, clenching my jaw. "I should've known better."
I stare at her, hands shifting from her hips, running up her back. I grip the back of her neck, pulling her to me, and kiss her as ringing echoes through the room. My phone. I try to deepen the kiss, but Karissa pulls back. "Do you need to get that?"
I shake my head, kissing her again and again, as she whispers against my mouth, "don't you... need to... at least see... who it is?"
"I know who it is."
"Who?"
"My mother."
She pulls away completely as the ringing stops, her gaze briefly darting across the room toward my phone. "How do you know?"
"Because it's my birthday."
I try to kiss her again, but she resists, her palms flat against my chest.
"Your mother," she says. "Is she as pleasant as your father?"
"Few people are as pleasant as Giuseppe Vitale." I shake my head. "My mother's a good woman. You'll never meet a nicer person."
"So why don't you ever see her?" she asks. "Why didn't you take her call?"
"Because she's better off without me," I say. "When you love people, you want what's best for them, and sometimes what's best for them isn't you."
"You said that about me once," she says. "You said you loved me, and you wanted what was best for me, even though you thought what was best for me wasn't you."