Baring Brando (The Adamos Book 8)

by Mia Madison

  My boots are comfortable enough for some casual club dancing, but they’re not designed for waitressing. I have a new appreciation for what a tough job it is, and I’m not even taking the orders.

  By the time a third waitress shows up and Kami decrees it’s break time, my feet are throbbing. We sink into chairs in the small office tucked into one corner of the building. For now, we’re the only ones in there, and I don’t waste time.

  “Kami, I don’t mean to be rude, but what the fuck is going on?”

  A slow smile warms her face. “The family’s checking you out.”

  “The fa— you mean Brando’s family?” I flash back to what he said on the way up here from the city, about his clan showing up. “All those people are Adamos?”

  “Except for one or two tables, yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Didn’t want you freaking out, like you are right now.”

  I bury my face in my hands. “Holy shit. Did Brando know? He did, didn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “And he just … just let me …”

  “Sweetie.” Kami’s tone is sympathetic. “If the family wants to check you out, they’re gonna check you out. If we hadn’t gone out there, they would have found excuses to wander back into the kitchen.”

  “Oh my god.”

  “So he was in a bind. Trust me when I tell you that nosy Adamo mamas are like a gravitational force; there’s no resisting them.”

  “Mamas.” I grab Kami’s hand. “Was his mother out there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t believe this. My Big Fat Greek Wedding has nothing on these people.” I shoot a glance at Kami. “No offense.”

  She grins. “None taken.”

  “How did they even know I was here? I’m sure Brando didn’t tell them. Did you?”

  Kami shakes her head. “Nope. Scout’s honor,” she says when I look skeptical. “Anyway, Adamo mamas are psychic.”

  “Psychic?” I stare at her in dawning horror. “She doesn’t … I mean …”

  “Oh, yes,” Kami says matter-of-factly. “She knows you two have been doing the business.”

  Covering my face again, I groan, “Kill me now.”

  “Gotta tell you something.”

  I peek through my fingers. “What?”

  “Not everyone gets an invasion.”

  That gets my attention. “I thought Brando said it was sort of a tradition.”

  “It is. But not everyone gets one.”

  I squint at her. “Who doesn’t get one?”

  “It’s not like there are hard and fast rules or anything. But, generally speaking, an invasion is a sign of approval.”

  I fling my arms out. “How could it be a sign of approval when they hadn’t met me yet?”

  “Like I said. Psychic.”

  I shake my head, giving up on trying to figure out Brando’s relatives. “At least once they’re done eating, this can go back to being a quiet Tuesday night.”

  Kami laughs. “Nah, they’re gonna have a party out there. They’ll be here all night. Any minute now, they’re gonna start singing.”

  I slump back in my chair. “I think this would be a good time for me to wander outside and get lost in the woods.”

  13

  Take A Chance

  I’ve had all evening, while I cook for my family, to get my head straight about the implications of them showing up here.

  I know the stories. All my cousins who met their women this past year had their own invasions. And every one of them is engaged now, if not already married.

  If my family had done this with any other woman I was seeing, I would have been furious at the intrusion … and scared out of my mind that I might get stuck with whoever it was.

  When Gastone told me what was going on, I waited for me to lose my shit.

  Didn’t happen. Still hasn’t.

  It’s not like I’m going to run out tomorrow and buy a ring. But having my family, in its own wacky way, give me the thumbs up with Sasha?

  I’m okay with that. In fact, at some deep level that I can’t really understand, I’m at peace with it.

  Which means that Project Sasha is full steam ahead. I need to get to know her a lot better than I do. And court her, the way Alonzo did Lucrezia.

  With a little luck, I’ll convince her to take a chance on me.

  14

  A Dog Named Pizza

  Kami’s right. The Adamo occupation of Brando’s restaurant goes past closing time. There is laughter, storytelling, and yes, singing.

  Once the cooking part of the evening is done, Brando walks through the dining room with me, introducing me to everyone, including his parents. Which kind of freaks me out again, because it makes us way too much like a couple at a wedding reception. I keep reminding myself it’s just a family reunion of sorts.

  Alma, his mother, is lovely to me. I find myself wondering if she really is psychic; she has the air of someone who’s in tune with … deeper things. His father, Nario, is a big burly bear of a man who’s never met a stranger. He’s at the center of the action, laughing often and easily, leading songs, making toasts, doing everything with irrepressible good humor. And he adores his wife.

  I can see how Brando takes after both of them. He’s very much his own person, but he has his father’s physical presence and gift for hospitality, and also some of his mother’s gentleness and ability to look beneath the surface.

  The notable absence from this extended family gathering is Brando’s brother, Matteo. Not only is he not there, but no one even mentions him. Where is he, and what is he doing, that such an obviously affectionate family would act as though he doesn’t exist?

  I want to ask, but I don’t. Invasion notwithstanding, it’s not my place.

  When the evening finally winds down, late at night, everyone goes into the kitchen to help clean up. Most of it is long since done, and Brando assures them he can take care of the odds and ends tomorrow, but the mamas and aunties and nonnas won’t hear of it, and no one argues with them.

  Then it’s time to say good night, with hugs and kisses all around. I’m included as if I were already part of the family, and it leaves me with a warm glow, but also a little overwhelmed.

  “Your family doesn’t do things by half measures,” I say, covering a yawn, as we lock up and go out to the SUV. Brando let the staff leave hours ago. Gastone and Kami stayed, of course, with the rest of the family.

  “No, they don’t.” Brando slings an arm around my shoulders. “They liked you.”

  I get that glow again. “I liked them too.”

  The ride back to Brando’s cabin passes in companionable silence. When we get there we go straight upstairs, and since it’s now the wee hours of Wednesday morning, and we’ve only had four hours’ sleep since Sunday night, I expect that we’ll collapse.

  I’m wrong. We’re still wired from the evening’s events, and when I peel off my outfit and get down to Brando’s boxer briefs, he sends me a crooked grin and pulls me gently to him. “You should always wear my clothes,” he says, his breath warm against my neck.

  “Always?”

  “When you wear anything at all, that is.”

  I press against him when his hands cup my ass. My brain may be too tired for a snappy comeback, but my body has no problem responding to his touch. Soon we’re both naked and tumbling into bed.

  Even bleary-eyed as we are, our bodies know what to do. It’s strange how quickly the dance of lovemaking has imprinted itself on me, right down to the cellular level. It must be an instinct passed down in the genes, waiting for the right events — the right man — to awaken it.

  When he enters me I rise to meet him, my nails digging into his back, and urgency seizes us. Our coupling turns frantic, rough and greedy, and the sound of our bodies meeting fills the room.

  My neck arches, my head going back as Brando spears into me, fast, then faster, the delicious friction of his cock sending me soaring, dri
ving me to the edge, until pleasure arcs across my nerve endings like white lightning, dragging me into ecstasy with velvet-tipped claws. My body bucks as the climax shreds me, my pussy clamping down hard, milking Brando for every drop of his release.

  He collapses on me, and for a few moments I bear his full weight. It feels so right, in a way I can’t explain. Then he moves, and without a word shifts us into the same positions as before, with him curled around me.

  Only then does he speak. “ When I was a kid, we had a dog named Pizza.”

  “That’s adorable.”

  “He was a good dog. And he did love pizza, which we were not supposed to feed him. It made his farts really stinky.”

  I laugh. “I had a cat named Fluffer. She was huge, and apparently considered herself a guard cat. One time a dog came into the yard and she jumped on his back and rode him down the street, the poor dog yelping all the way.”

  “Cats are mean.”

  “Hey, she was protecting her domain. She was very nice when it came to her people. And at least cats aren’t stinky.”

  “So you’re a cat person.”

  “I like dogs, too,” I protest.

  “Cat person,” he says teasingly, as if it were a schoolyard taunt.

  “Whatever,” I retort in a mock huffy tone. “All right-thinking people appreciate both species.”

  We trade stories of our childhoods, in softer and softer voices, until sleep claims us. My last thought, as I drift off, is that maybe the Adamo mamas are right.

  15

  Under The Mat

  When I wake up, I’m alone in Brando’s bed. Bright sunshine streams through the windows. I get up and put on more of his clothes: boxer briefs, gym shorts that I cinch in at the waist, a t-shirt that I have to tuck in because it hangs on me like a dress, and a flannel shirt because it’s a lot cooler up here in the mountains.

  I go in the bathroom and brush my teeth with the spare that Brando gave me. It brings home how fast all this has happened.

  Am I staying? Does he want me to? If I am, then I need to ask about going to a store and getting some supplies, but I don’t want to bring it up and sound like I’m fishing for an invitation.

  Face washed, I go downstairs. A delicious smell reaches me on the way, and I can see that Brando’s in the kitchen. I’m not making much noise on the stairs — they don’t creak — but he looks over anyway.

  “Hi. I thought I’d let you sleep.”

  Now that I’m close enough, I can see that he doesn’t seem to have slept much at all. His face is pale, his cheeks covered in stubble as if he were too exhausted to shave. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. Fine.” His tone and the way he breaks eye contact make clear he doesn’t want to talk about it. I can’t help worrying, but I don’t push.

  “What are you making?” I ask after a moment of not-so-comfortable silence. “It smells delicious.”

  “Spaghetti. Sauce and meatballs are done, and I’m about to start on the garlic bread.”

  “Ohh, foodgasm alert.” That gets me a smile. “Can I help?”

  Instead of answering, he turns to me and hooks an arm around my waist, tugging me closer. “I was short with you. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right.”

  Brando looks down at me, a half-smile playing around his face. “You’re beautiful, you know.” He touches his mouth to mine, and immediately I melt against him, my arms twining around his neck.

  The kiss turns hot, and deep, and his hands tug the t-shirt loose, then burrow inside his clothing to cup my bare ass, squeezing. I groan into his mouth, and he breaks the kiss only to grab the hem of the t-shirt and flannel shirt and peel them both off me in one smooth move.

  His mouth clamps over my breast while his hand goes into the shorts again, this time to cup my pussy. He finds me drenched and growls deep in his throat, the sound vibrating through my nipple, making me quiver in ecstasy.

  I cling to him while his fingers work me. His mouth switches to my other breast, sucking hard. I’m bent back over his arm, my hands in his hair, holding him against me as pleasure screams through my system like a wildfire burning out of control.

  When the climax hits me, I jerk in his grasp. His thumb finds my clit and his teeth graze my nipple, sending me straight into another orgasm, my whole body quaking.

  Brando leans me against the wall long enough to get his shorts and boxer briefs off me, then carries me over to the dining room table. Laying me down, he frees himself, takes hold of my hips, and fills me with one hard thrust.

  “Oh!” My shout echoes up to the high ceiling. He’s fucking me hard, all the muscles in his athletic body working together to claim me, brand me, pummel me into submission.

  “Never get enough of you,” he grunts as he pounds into me, and his words send me over the edge into my first brutal climax, my body convulsing with the force of my release. “Fuck you forever.”

  “Yes,” I gasp, barely able to breathe because he hasn’t slowed down at all and I’m already on the verge of another orgasm. “Never stop fucking me, Brando.”

  “Sasha.” He goes even faster, bending over me, my legs lying flat against my body, my feet by my head, and now he’s hitting my clit with every stroke. I start coming and can’t stop, bucking against him as he plows into me, until my nails rake his back and my teeth sink into his shoulder and he finds his own long, shuddering release.

  When he gets his breath back, Brando lifts me off the table, keeping our bodies joined, and eases back onto a chair. He cradles me against him, his strong arms around me, his hands stroking my back, my hair. I have never felt so cherished in my life.

  After a while, his mouth finds mine. We kiss, gently, for a long time. At first it’s pure tenderness, each of us giving with no demands, but gradually it heats up, until I tighten around him.

  At that, his hands find my hips and he starts to raise and lower me, very slowly. He’s in a mood to be bossy; he won’t let me set the pace, even when I start to whimper with need.

  Finally, he goes faster, his hips starting to flex, drilling into me with his cock every time he brings my body down. He speeds up until he’s yanking me down hard, thrusting up to meet me, my breasts jiggling from the impact.

  I know I’m close, but just as I start to reach for my clit the climax hits me and I explode, clamping around him as wave after wave of pleasure breaks over me. Moments later, he follows me over the edge.

  We lean together as our breathing slows. My skin is slick with sweat; his shirt is soaked through with it. “Shower,” he says at last.

  “Yeah. Did we ruin the spaghetti?”

  “Nah. The sauce is on low; I hadn’t put the pasta on yet.” He kisses my forehead and I bite my tongue, literally, to keep from blurting out words I can’t say. Not yet, maybe not ever.

  The mention of a shower reminds me to ask, “Do you have another deodorant? The one in the medicine cabinet is pretty much gone. I looked, but I couldn’t find one.”

  He looks at me, and his face changes. Something I can’t read comes into his eyes. “What?” I say.

  “You’re in school, right? You’re off for the summer?”

  “Right.”

  “Got a job lined up?”

  I shake my head, suddenly embarrassed that I have the luxury of not working. “I was planning on volunteering with a charity for the summer.”

  “That’s cool. Got one picked out?”

  “Not yet. Why, do you have one in mind?”

  “No. I was just thinking …” He runs his hands up and down my arms. “We have charities up here. Maybe not here here, I’m not sure, but down the hill anyway.”

  My heart leaps; light sparkles through me. “You probably do.”

  “I know we just met, but … I like having you around.” He gives a little laugh. “Not the most romantic speech ever. I didn’t practice this.”

  “I like being around you.”

  He gives me a lazy smile that curls my toes. “Yeah?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. And, you know, I don’t have to work at a charity. I just wanted to do something useful with my time, not be sitting around on my ass. I could get some kind of job up here.”

  “It so happens I know a few people around here. I could probably find someone who needed help. What’s your major, anyway?”

  “Sociology.” I whisper it like it’s something dirty.

  Brando cocks an eyebrow at me. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing. Except it won’t equip me to follow my dad into the family business.”

  “Ahh. Which you have no intention of doing, but he doesn’t know that yet.”

  “Exactly. I know he loves me, but … I’m his only child, and there’s this assumption that he’s going to pass the business on to me.”

  “It’s a hard thing, to feel like following your heart will disappoint someone you love.”

  “It really is. I just have to hope he’ll understand when I tell him.”

  I’m starting to get chilled. When I huddle closer to him, Brando pulls off his shirt and gives it to me. I pull it on, still warm from his body, and smile at him. “I should always wear your clothes.”

  His eyes twinkle. “When you wear any at all,” he agrees. “So. This summer, up here?”

  I nod. I should be freaking out that we’re having this conversation, but it feels right. Totally right. “Yeah.”

  “Good. Let’s get that shower.”

  The spaghetti is delicious. While we’re eating it, some of Brando’s girl cousins show up with an emergency delivery of clothes, shoes, and toiletries. Later, when I go with him to the restaurant again, none of the staff say anything to us, but I see a lot of smiles. Kami keeps grinning like she’s just won the lottery.

  We get back to the cabin at midnight. The bags the girls brought are on the floor by the couch. I start toward them, but Brando stops me. “Leave them, babe. We can deal with it in the morning.”

  I warm at the we. “Okay.”