They were alone at the table. Rachel sipped her cappuccino and tried to keep her gaze averted from Damiano. The two of them sat at the kitchen table—which again seemed more like a museum piece with the round glass top being supported by what looked like giant bicycle wheels. Every time she’d cross or uncross her legs, she’d kick one of them on accident. Clearly Christina put artistic style above comfort, which was completely different from her son. Damiano was all about comfort and quality. Rachel knew first hand he’d drop twenty thousand dollars on a chair for his living room, but it would be amazingly orgasmic to sit in. Which reminded her. He’d given her an orgasm last night. Not just an orgasm, but the most intense orgasm of her life. And then immediately afterward, he’d calmly stood up and declared he was going to sleep on the couch. As if it had done absolutely nothing for him, and he’d just been doing her a favor by getting her off. Arrogant son of a— “How is your brioche?”
