Charmingly Yours (A Morning Glory #1)

by Liz Talley

  She sighed, and when he lifted her from the black-and-white hexagon tile, she wrapped her legs around him, loving every part of their bodies lined up just right. She wriggled her hips, rocking his hardness against her softness.

  The spray had warmed and Sal reached over and adjusted the temperature, still holding her aloft. He let her down and she went straight to her knees.

  Since she was trying new things, there was still one thing she hadn’t done. Okay, yes, she knew there were other things. Sex toys, stuff she’d read about in Fifty Shades of Grey, et cetera, but this she was pretty certain she could handle. She’d read an article in Cosmopolitan two months ago on how to give the perfect blow job.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, looking down at her with a lazy smile.

  “Practicing my fellatio skills?” she said with a saucy flashbulb smile.

  “Well, never let it be said I held you back from practicing,” he said.

  And Rosemary went to work, making damn sure he found taking a shower with her very worthwhile.

  Ten minutes later, she found herself sprawled wet on her cousin’s fluffy living room rug. Ten minutes after that, she had a panting Sal lying beneath her and kitty pitty-pats on her rump.

  “I think your cats want to be fed,” Sal said, peering around her hips at the cat standing on his thighs.

  “They’re not my cats.”

  “Still, I think you should feed them before they swat me again. My balls are sorta out there.”

  Rosemary climbed off him, reaching for the towel she’d abandoned earlier. She did a quick cleanup, tossing the towel to him before rising and padding toward the kitchen. She was bare-assed naked and didn’t care. She’d never walked around the carriage house naked because her brother had a bad habit of sneaking inside at strange times. He’d scared the daylights out of her more than once. So it was freeing to walk around without a stitch of clothing on.

  She made coffee in the professional chef’s coffeepot that honestly didn’t taste any better than a Mr. Coffee, but she wouldn’t point that out to Halle. Sal pulled on the clothes he’d abandoned last night and used Rosemary’s brush to comb his hair. She’d found a spare toothbrush in the cabinet and set it out.

  She’d just poured a cup of coffee for him when his arm snaked around her waist and his lips found the sweet spot below her ear.

  “Mmm, delicious,” he said, nuzzling her neck and bringing his hands around to cup her breasts. “Do you always make coffee in the nude?”

  “Of course not. I’m not a weirdo, you know.” She held a mug out to him. “Want some?”

  He took the cup. “And she pours him coffee the morning after? I’m pretty sure you’re the perfect woman.”

  “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents,” she said, parking her hip against the counter, watching him add cream to his coffee. She felt a little silly standing there naked, but he seemed to enjoy it. His gaze felt hot on her.

  “No, you’re a woman of considerable talents,” he said, taking a sip, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation. “Now I know why those Mississippi boys keep you hostage down there.” Her reached out and traced her hip.

  “Ha. Guys from down my way only hold a woman in high esteem if she can cook up a mess of peas or help process venison,” she said, thinking that if he knew how few Mississippi boys she’d actually been with he’d think her even more backward than she was.

  No. Sal didn’t think her anything. He didn’t seem to be a judgmental sort. He was a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. For the second time, she thought about how similar they were. She had little doubt he knew she wasn’t very experienced when it came to the bedroom, the same way she could tell he knew his way around a woman’s body.

  “Wait, you know how to process venison? Bonus!” he joked, giving a fist pump.

  “Actually, I don’t. But it’s highly prized in a southern woman, along with baiting her own hook, baking a pie like his mama, and never mistaking his spit cup for her Diet Dr Pepper.”

  “Spit cup? I’m not sure I want to know.”

  Rosemary laughed. “Yeah, Morning Glory is backward on a lot of things, but it’s also pretty as a Sunday picnic.”

  Sal smiled. “Is it?”

  “Sure, my town has a lot of colorful folks who walk slower, talk slower, and live slower. Guess slow is not exactly a bad thing these days.”

  And it wasn’t. If anything, being in the fast-paced rat race of New York City, she’d learned to appreciate the time she had to smell the flowers. Like, literally smell the flowers. The town square was overflowing with blooms planted by the horticulture club, of which Rosemary was a member. Oh, make no mistake, she liked Manhattan. Stepping outside onto the hot pavement opened a new world of different cultures, sounds, tastes, and smells. Electric energy sparked in the air, making her feel as if she was drunk on life. But she wouldn’t trade the soft summer nights on the porch drinking wine or the way everyone showed up for funerals with a casserole. It might be hard to keep a secret in Morning Glory, but that was the key to a good small town. People knew and they cared.

  Sal’s brows knitted together. “I guess you’re right. It’s not a bad way to live.” He looked as if he might say something more but then seemed to think better of it. “What are your plans for today?”

  “Go back to bed for another four hours and—”

  “You’re going back to bed without me?” he asked, poking a lip out comically before giving her ribs a tickle. “You can’t do that. Not fair.”

  “But I need my beauty sleep. You wore me out.”

  “Me? More like you. You’re a sex machine, woman.”

  “I am not.” Rosemary faked outrage but stepped toward him. She looped an arm about his waist and snuggled in to him.

  He dropped a kiss on her head, his hand immediately sliding down to squeeze her butt. “I’m working early, so I’ll be off again tonight.”

  “Does that mean I should wait here with the handcuffs and whips?” she asked against the buttons of his shirt. She could smell his cologne, the yummy woodsy yet clean scent. She wanted to bathe in it, have his scent on her all day long.

  He tipped up her chin. “I’ve unleashed an insatiable monster.”

  “Yeah, you have.”

  “In all seriousness, there isn’t a moment I don’t want to spend with you. As long as that’s good with you.”

  Then he kissed her, his hands sliding up and down her naked back, lingering on the curve of her breast, patting her rump.

  And his kiss tasted like coffee and a promise.

  “It’s better than good with me,” Rosemary said, going up on her tiptoes to kiss his chin. “I want to be with you. So text me later?”

  “Yeah. I can get back here by six o’clock. We’ll go out.”

  “Or stay in,” she said.

  He kissed his way down to her breasts. “Or I can quit my job and stay here all day long. Just me and your tits.”

  Desire reared its head, twitching its ears as if to ask, Yes? But Rosemary tamped it down and stepped away. “Just them? Or is the rest of me not invited? And really, don’t start what you can’t finish.”

  “No worries. I can be quick,” he said, reaching for her again.

  “No, you go on to work. I’ll stay here and find something to do,” she said, cupping her breasts before sliding her hands down her stomach, teasing him.

  Something in his gaze flared and he stilled. “Rosemary, you’re killing me.”

  She pushed him toward the door. “I’m joking. I’m saving it all for you. Now off you go before you have to explain to your family what you’ve been doing all night.” Rosemary walked to the bed and found her nightgown she’d discarded yesterday. Of course, she had to move Melbourne off it first. She didn’t know what had gotten into her. Rubbing her hands down her body, going down on a guy, walking around naked, and going back to bed. She’d turned into that woman. And she loved it. Why hadn’t anyone ever told her how much fun being slutty was?


  Sal waited at the door for her, still sipping his coffee, watching her the way a hawk regards the hapless field mouse. “Maybe I want to get fired.”

  Something in his tone gave her pause. “Do you?”

  “I’m thinking about it. I feel bewitched.”

  “Bothered and bewildered?” she finished for him with a smile. “That’s it exactly. My evil plan is now fully realized. When I hopped on my broom and set it for SoHo, I told myself I’d find a sexy Italian and make him my sex slave. Mission accomplished.”

  He gave her a hard kiss. “If my being your sex slave qualifies as an evil plan, I’m all in.”

  “Silly slave boy, you now have my permission to go make decadent sauces. Return to me and prepare to be punished . . . exquisitely,” she said, unlocking the door and flinging it open with more than a little dramatic flair.

  He walked out and paused. “Thank God you have no sense of direction or there might be some other guy under your spell. If I could find the man who pointed you my way, I’d kiss him.”

  “Hey, now. I’m open to kinkiness but not that much kinky.” She laughed, blowing him a kiss. “I guess being directionally challenged was a good thing in this case.”

  “A very good thing. I’ll see you tonight.” And then he was gone, hurrying down the stairs. As he turned on the landing, he looked up at her and smiled.

  Rosemary felt happiness all the way down to her Pretty in Pink toenail polish. She closed the door, locking it. And then double-checked it the way she’d promised her father she would. But she took Sal’s smile and tucked it inside her for an extra glow that would last all day.

  She couldn’t wait to see him again.

  An hour later Sal emerged from his apartment, humming “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and nearly bowled Angelina over.

  “Holy crap,” he said, catching her upper arms so she didn’t fly backward.

  “Sal,” she squeaked, her long fingernails grazing his pristine white button-down as she grappled for something to hold on to.

  “You okay?” he asked, righting her. The stairs were dangerously close and she was lucky she didn’t take a tumble.

  “Yeah,” she said, looking up at him. Her brown eyes were ringed red and makeup streaked her cheeks. Something crawly wriggled inside him.

  “What’s up?” he asked cautiously while locking his door.

  “You know what’s up. You know how terrible this all is.”

  He spun toward her, his mind grappling with a million thoughts but centering on one—she’d found out about Rosemary. And the hot-tempered Angelina wouldn’t take it well. “What?”

  “This whole thing,” she said, swiping at fresh tears pooling in her eyes. “How could you—”

  “You don’t have the—”

  “Aunt Louisa always loved you.”

  “Aunt Louisa?” He stood far back in the dark on this one, but relief that he didn’t have to deal with Angelina’s jealousy that morning bloomed in him.

  “You mean you don’t know about Aunt Louisa? Your ma didn’t tell you?” Angelina said, placing her hand on his arm. “I can’t believe you haven’t heard. It’s the worst news possible.”

  He didn’t know what in the hell Angelina talked about. “Did something happen to Mrs. Grimaldi?”

  “The garbage truck? The wreck?” A fresh wave of emotion seemed to hit her and she pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh God.”

  Sal took Angelina’s trembling hand. “What happened?”

  The Genovese family had been friends with the Vitale family for generations and Angelina’s mother, Marianna, had three sisters, one of whom was Louisa Grimaldi, whose husband owned a dry cleaner’s. Sal had always liked Louisa with her dimpled smile, good Italian bread, and red cowboy boots. She had a crush on Johnny Cash that surpassed the county singer’s death.

  “She’s dead,” Angelina wailed, nearly collapsing. “I thought you knew. Your mother said she tried calling you and you didn’t answer. But I assumed she talked to you this morning. I called three times myself.”

  “Uh, I had my phone on vibrate. Had trouble sleeping last night.” Which was not a lie. No way could he tell her about Rosemary now. Not when she was this emotional.

  With nothing left to do, he curled an arm around Angelina’s thin shoulders and pulled his keys out of his pocket. He didn’t want to let Angelina in his apartment, but then again, the death of her aunt had knocked him for a loop. “Here, come sit down. Let me get you some cold water or something.”

  Angelina nodded, sniffling and swiping at her cheeks. She wore a business suit, dark gray and impeccable with a bright-pink, silky-looking top. Her heels clacked on the old linoleum in the hallway. Opening the door, he stepped back to let her pass, but she reached out for his arm. “I’m glad you’re here. She always liked you so much.”

  Had she? Sal didn’t know. He’d been around the woman only a few times. Plus, the only reason he was here for Angelina was because she’d shown up on his doorstep. “Louisa was a nice lady. I’m sorry for your loss, Angelina.”

  She swallowed hard and then stepped inside his place, which was neither pristine nor posh. While the location was good, he’d never bothered to make much of the place. He’d collected leftover furniture from his parents and brothers and bummed his grandmother’s secondhand dishes. The place had always felt temporary to him.

  Angelina looked around, her nose wrinkling before she smoothed her face into an accepting one. Tricks of the trade, no doubt. “So this is your place?”

  She didn’t sound impressed. He hurried to pick up last Sunday’s New York Times from the end of the couch along with a stack of folded laundry he’d yet to tuck away. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess. I’ve been busy lately.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, sitting down on the cleared spot. She grabbed his arm. “Sit with me?”

  What else could he do?

  Gingerly he sat next to her, toeing a flip-flop back under the coffee table next to its mate. “Can I get you anything?”

  She shook her head, lower lip trembling. “I can’t believe what happened to her. The police said it was her fault, so Uncle Joe can’t even sue the stupid city. She T-boned a garbage truck and they’re checking her blood alcohol. But Aunt Lou didn’t drink. Sure, the communion wine and maybe a nip every now and then. Oh God, it’s just so horrible.” Angelina pressed her hand against her mouth again and then collapsed against him in tears.

  Sal patted her awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Angie. She was a good lady.”

  “I know,” Angelina sobbed, clutching his only clean shirt and boohooing into it. He truly felt bad for the woman whose best quality was her closeness with her family. Her loyalty was one of the reasons Natalie Genovese liked her so much. That and she had a good job. For a few seconds, he patted her and let her cry it out.

  Finally, she lifted her head. Mascara streaked her cheeks and her hair flew about her head, falling out of the bun thing she’d pulled it into. “Life is so precious,” she whispered.

  And then she kissed him.

  He hadn’t been expecting it, so his mouth was halfway open, which Angelina took full advantage of. He froze for a moment and then he pulled away, trying to remember Angelina was overwhelmed with emotion.

  She stared at him with glassy eyes and a half smile. “I guess I shouldn’t have done that, but I’ve been thinking about kissing you again. You’ve been so distant and I’ve tried so hard to get you to . . . like me.”

  Honesty was something he always appreciated, but at that moment after she’d kissed him—after she’d shown up for comfort—it was the last thing he wanted. Days ago, he’d tried to have an honest conversation with her about where he stood, but she obviously hadn’t gotten the message. Friends didn’t kiss friends like that.

  Sighing, he shifted away. “I like you, Angelina. Our families have been friends for a long time, and this is a sad day for you, but I’m not sure kissing should be something we engage in, you know? You’re dealing with the shock of you
r aunt’s death.”

  She stared at him for a few minutes, a long few minutes. Finally, her shoulders sank and she swiped a finger under her lower lashes, stanching the tears. “You’re right. Now’s definitely not the time. It’s just I’m human and I needed someone, you know?”

  He nodded because what else could he do? He felt uncomfortable. Like a man in a room full of snakes. Not that Angelina was a snake. But he still felt like he couldn’t step left or right without getting struck.

  “I should go,” she said, rising and pressing her hands against her skirt. “You don’t mind my using your powder room?”

  He had no idea how clean his bathroom was. Probably had underwear on the floor or towels hanging over the shower curtain. Might have left his deodorant out. “Uh, I’m not sure how clean it is.”

  Her mouth twisted faintly. “Well, I can’t go to a showing like this. I need to wash up and fix my face.” She picked up the designer bag she’d dumped on his couch.

  “Right through there,” he said, pointing to his right.

  She went in the bathroom and closed the door.

  Sal dug his cell phone out of his pocket and texted his father he’d be late. He added Angelina had shown up upset about her aunt, which would soften the ass chewing he’d get for coming in late. Then he set about picking up his place.

  He’d planned on bringing Rosemary to Brooklyn to see some of the other parts of the city, so the place needed a good scrubbing. Maybe he’d call Merry Maids. And put fresh sheets on the bed.

  A ding on his phone relayed a text from his pops.

  Don’t worry. Take care of Angie.

  Of course his father would say that since Sal’s mother had likely already selected his and Angelina’s wedding china.

  He managed to pick up the living area and toss the papers into the recycling bin before Angelina emerged, looking more put together, hair back in place.

  “I took a little time to tidy up your bathroom for you,” she said, rubbing her lips together. Fresh shiny gloss coated her lips and the pink matched the rims of her eyes, which still showed sign of grief.