Page 53 of Tito

Reggie

Just inside the threshold of the door, Tito unlaced his boots. Excited beyond comprehension, I was a few steps ahead of him, at the foot of the bed. One of my shoes was in the kitchen. One was in the hallway. My shirt was on the floor at my side.

I reached to unclasp my bra.

He calmly set his boots aside and looked up. Under the scrutiny of his watchful eyes, my shaking hands fumbled with the clasp like a seventh-grade boy beneath the bleachers at a football game. Eventually, my fingertips won the battle and I dropped the black undergarment to the floor.

Upon seeing me bare-chested, his eyes widened.

I wasn’t ashamed of my boobs, but they weren’t a strength by any stretch of the imagination. I crossed my forearms over my chest. “What?”

“You look.” He swallowed heavily. “Fantastic.”

“I’d say the same.” I unbuttoned my jeans. “But you’re still dressed.”

Frozen in place, he smirked. “I waited until we got in the bedroom.”

I pushed my jeans to mid-thigh. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Manners?”

I paused. “Is there such a thing as sexual manners?”

“I think so.”

“Well,” I said with a laugh. “Don’t use them. Not tonight, anyway.”

He took off his jeans, folded them, and set them beside his boots. Pant-less and perplexed at what seemed to be OCD tendencies, I stood in my panties and watched him continue.

Now wearing nothing more than boxer shorts, socks, and tee shirt, he lifted his shirt over his head. While I stared in admiration of his athletic build, he bent down to fold the shirt. It was then that I noticed a large tattoo on his back.

The tattoo spanned from shoulder blade to shoulder blade and covered his entire lower back. The artwork was expertly done. A grim reaper with a bag of money in one hand and a pistol in the other was the centerpiece. Inscribed over the top of the bandito of death were the words Devil’s Disciples. Beneath the reaper, there were three Latin words.

Familia Ante Omnia.

Reading them sent a chill down my spine.

Translated to English, the three-word phrase was one of my father’s firmly established beliefs. He’d pounded it into my head since childhood.

Family over all.

I suspected Devil’s Disciples was the moniker of his MC. In studying the tattoo, I began to wonder if my father was correct about his car wash assumptions.

Lost in a sea of intrigue regarding the possibilities of who he really was, I didn’t even notice him finish getting undressed. The sound of him clearing his throat caused me to blink my eyes into focus. I glanced at his neatly stacked clothes and then at him.

“What?” I asked.

Naked, he took a step in my direction and nodded toward my hand. “What are you doing?”

I realized my jeans were still in my hand. I dropped then in a pile at my feet. I hooked my thumbs beneath the elastic band of my panties. “I’m not as neat as you.”

“Not that,” he said with a laugh. “You were just standing there glassy-eyed with your mouth open, staring.”

“I faded away for a second.” I tossed my panties at him. “Sorry.”

There wasn’t a mad dash for the bed, nor did he shove me against the wall and make me his sex slave until sunrise. As if we were a married couple that had returned from a night out, he draped his arm over my shoulder, and pulled me against him.

Chest to chest, we kissed.