Page 50 of Tito

“Michelangelo.” He took another drink. “He started in 1508 and finished in 1512.”

I couldn’t believe it. I stared at him like he was a three-headed hippopotamus. If he could fuck like a porn star and fight like a professional boxer, my quest would be over.

“Have you ever been in a fight?” I asked. “Not like, I don’t know, not like a playground pushing match, but an actual fight?”

“Bare handed street fight, or in a ring?” he asked.

It didn’t matter to me. Either would suffice. I shrugged. “Either.”

“I have.”

Upon hearing his response, I could feel my heartbeat in my pussy. I crossed my legs. “Which?” I squeaked.

“Both,” he replied. “My family developed a form of Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. My father and uncles train MMA fighters.” He coughed out a light laugh. “I’ve been practicing martial arts in the ring since I was old enough to walk. And, as much as I hate to admit it, I’ve been in a few fist-fights while in bars with the motorcycle club I ride with.”

My mouth went dry. “Did you say…” I swallowed against my tightening throat. “Motorcycle club? You ride in a motorcycle club?”

“Yes. For now, at least. I’m considering walking away from it, though.”

Ding, Ding, Ding. We’ve got a winner.

My knees began to involuntarily wag back and forth. There was only one thing left to find out, but it wasn’t anything I could determine by simply asking a question. It required action. Action that would get us arrested if we were in a public place.

Immediately to my right, the waiter was clearing the flatware from a table. I raised my index finger and cleared my dry throat. “Can we get that check, please?”