Page 53 of Come Find Me Tonight

“Fuck, I love your dick,” she cries out, throwing her head back.

She squeezes her muscles around me, sinking back down on my length, and I know she’s on the brink of coming hard. “You’re about to take some serious come if you keep doing that,” I warn.

Appa laughs out, making her whole body vibrate all the way to my balls-deep cock. “Good, I’ll always take it.”

I’ll remember that, baby girl.

Chapter Twenty

Appa

The room is bright when my eyes open again. I blink and notice the blue-striped comforter on the bed.

Oh, yeah, Napa—it wasn’t a dream.

I’m in Robby’s childhood bedroom, with band posters taped up on the dated tan walls, a snow globe on the desk, and a couple of small trophies on a bookshelf. I rub my eyes and untangle my legs from the sheets. The bed is empty, and it makes me frown that my personal heating blanket has already gotten up this morning. I pull on the cotton pajama short set I meant to wear last night, but things got heated…fast. I find my bikini is hanging and now dry in the bathroom, so Robby must have picked it up after I crashed.

His family’s home is beautiful. Stepping out of his room, it’s open to the great room below, separated by a metal railing, and I can smell something sweet coming from downstairs. Large wood beams cross the ceiling, which feels very on-brand for NorCal. I take the large staircase downstairs to the chef’s kitchen, where Robby is standing at the kitchen island by the cooktop. Shirtless, abs on display, in gray sweatpants, and with a cross around his neck. He’s a snack and appears more at home here than at his house.

He glances up. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning.” I stride over to him, embracing his torso from behind and giving him a light squeeze. I press my cheek and frizzy curls into his bare back. “French toast?”

“Yep, my mom made challah before they left. Best French toast you’ll ever have.”

“Sounds good. You know me so well.” I kiss the back of his shoulder blade and walk away. I think he’s more of a bacon and eggs guy, but I love my sweets for breakfast. “Coffee?”

“There’s cold brew in the fridge,” Robby answers, flipping the bread in the pan.

As I step toward the refrigerator, I spot half a loaf of challah on the counter on a crumb-covered cutting board. “Did your mom make that, too?” I ask, opening the heavy stainless-steel door for my caffeine fix.

Robby lightly laughs. “No, it’s store-bought.”

I spot the sealed bottle in the door and reach for the milk, too. “Did she get this specially for me?”

“Yeah. When I told her I was bringing a girl up to Napa while they were away, she asked me what you were into.” Heat spreads in my chest. My mom always judged me for my iced-coffee ways.

“Not that anyone’s talking about marriage or anything, but would she be a good mother-in-law?” My voice is quiet because I know Robby would take me straight to a courthouse if I were completely serious. Hell, maybe I am. Mafia or not, I want to be part of whatever this family legacy is.

“We haven’t talked about marriage yet?” Robby teases, dipping a bread slice in the French toast mix.

“Robby…” I roll my eyes playfully. “Cups?” I ask.

“Cabinet by the fridge.”

I go on my tiptoes to reach a tall tumbler glass. “It’s like you never left. Would you move back?”

Robby puts his hand on my back and reaches up to get the glass for me. “Yeah, in a heartbeat. Look, LA is…LA, but I don’t want roots there. I want my kids to grow up here with my family nearby, running through the vineyard like I used to.”

I take the glass from him. “Thanks,” I say.

He returns to the cooktop to flip bread. “Do you want to raise a family in LA or Georgia?”

“No to LA and absolutely not to Georgia,” I answer a little too quickly.

“So, you wouldn’t be mad if we ended up here someday?” Robby asks just as gently as I asked about his mom.

“I haven’t really seen much of Napa, but I can see how amazing it must be to have your family so close. I bet the holidays are amazing, like Christmas…lights everywhere.” I stop myself from going further. I know Robby is half Jewish. “Um, sorry, I don’t know what your parents celebrate.”