Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“Not good enough,” he said as he yanked my shorts down so he could press his fingers between my thighs, where I was already wet and aching for him.
“I need to feel you inside me,” I said, leaning in close by his ear. “Filling me,” I added as my fingers teased down his stomach, then worked his button and zipper free. “Stretching me,” I added as my hand moved in and palmed his hard cock.
That did it.
One minute, we were just standing close, hands toying.
The next, he was on his knees in front of me with my leg thrown over his shoulder, his face buried between my thighs, working me with a ruthless tongue.
He worked me until my legs were shaking too much to keep holding me upright.
Getting up, his hands went behind my knees, yanking me upward and off my feet, then slamming me back against the wall, and surging inside of me.
It was hard and fast and rough through two orgasms.
But then it got softer and slower as he pulled me down to the floor, his body coming over mine, his lips claiming mine.
“Can’t fucking wait to raise a kid with you,” he told me after, holding me against his chest.
Me either.
I couldn’t wait to see what he or she would be like.
Shy and reserved like their mom.
Confident and adventurous like their dad.
Only time would tell…
Donovan - 3 years
It was probably the strangest child’s birthday known to mankind.
Sure, it looked normal from the outside.
A backyard barbecue with all the shit that kids would love. A bounce house. Swingset. Trampoline. Cotton candy machine. A mini zoo, thanks to Remy—cursing macaw moved to a place in the house where he wouldn’t scar the children.
Sure, our son was too young to enjoy most of that shit, but the other club kids were having the time of their lives.
The activities weren’t odd.
Neither were the face painters, the lady we hired to do arts and crafts, or the magician.
What was odd was who was attending said birthday party.
A shitton of outlaw bikers, sure. Thanks to the OG guys, the ones I’d prospected with, and the many who had joined our ranks since.
But also Booker, Arty, Eddie, and Teddy.
Then, of course, there was the man walking up the driveway right then, huffing a bit with the effort even though it was his bodyguard who was carrying the massive box in birthday balloon paper.
Tony Barelli.
The boss of the mafia.
“Donny Boy!” he called, voice boisterous as ever as he held his arms out wide, then slapped them hard on my back as he pulled me in for a hug. “Never got to give you a congratulations in person for the kid,” he said, waving the bodyguard to put the box on the table with the rest of the presents. “Kids, they make it all worth it, y’know what I mean?” he asked.
I did.
“Oh, and there is the glowing mother!” Tony said, holding out his hands, but in a different way than how he did with me. He reached for her hands, squeezing them in his meatier ones. “Seems like this motherfucker wised up, yeah?” he asked when his gaze looked down at the ring.
I mean, he knew.
I’d invited him to the wedding.
But he’d been dealing with some pretty serious shit at the time, and had needed to decline in the interest of our safety.
“He did,” she agreed, giving him a smile I knew she didn’t feel.
Not because she didn’t love Tony, she did. But because she was in the middle of her first trimester, and it was kicking her ass.
The girls had told me that they thought it meant she was having a girl this time.
She’d been smooth sailing with our son. Very little morning sickness.
But from the moment she opened her eyes these days until she finally climbed back into bed, she was queasy and needed to be within close proximity of a toilet.
“How far along are you, honey?” he asked, surprising both of us.
We’d told our close friends and family, sure. I mean, we didn’t even mean to do that, but when a woman was spending half of her day with her head in the toilet, people put shit together.
“Not far enough,” she admitted, looking a little gray again.
“It will pass before you know it,” he assured her. “Come on, let’s go get you out of the sun.”
With that, the boss of the Florida mafia walked my wife over under the gazebo, pressed her into a chair, got her some ice water, and sat beside her, fanning her with a stack of paper from the craft booth.
As if that shit wasn’t odd enough, the next time I turned, I saw another familiar face, standing off near the side of the building, clever eyes looking out at the party. A gift bag in her hand.
Natalya.
As if sensing me saying her name in my head, her blue eyes cut to me, and her chin lifted slightly.