Harleigh comes with a flood of wetness that bathes my stomach and thighs. Her chest and neck are flushed, she’s covered in sweat and fighting to regain her breath, but she’s never looked more exquisite than she does right now.
Not wanting to break our connection, I don’t remove her from my cock as I roll us both to our sides, then over again so that Harleigh is lying on her back. Nor do I pull out when I tip her hips and shove the pillows from the head of the bed underneath them.
“I want you knocked up, Angel,” I confirm when I’m satisfied that none of my come will be escaping any time soon.
“There’s no use fighting you on this, is there?” She sighs.
“Nope,” I grin, rocking my hips as my semi-erect cock begins to harden at the thought of her already being pregnant.
“You know you’re insane, right?” She mutters. “Between you being in the MC and going on runs that take you out of town for days at a time, and me needing to travel for work, this poor kid isn’t going to know which way is up.”
I notice immediately she didn’t say no, which has my cock instantly standing at full attention, locked, loaded, and ready to go. But her words also remind me I still have some explaining to do. An explanation that I’m relatively sure will make the decision to have my babies even easier. Not that she really had a choice. I’m positive that after this weekend it will have that taken care of.
CHAPTER TWELVE
~ Harleigh ~
“You’re dead to me,” I moan pathetically as I drop my head, resting it against the cold porcelain. “You and your giant cock are no longer welcome here.”
Handing me a damp washcloth, Lyric scoops my exhausted, yet sated body into his arms and sits me on the bathroom vanity. Loading my toothbrush with toothpaste, the tap turns on as warm fingers stroke across my sweaty brow.
“I love you, Angel,” my husband murmurs, watching my every movement as I clean myself up after this latest round of morning sickness.
Whoever labeled death, morning sickness is a fucking idiot. Feeling like you are projectile vomiting your intestines out multiple times a day while you sweat like a four-hundred-pound sumo wrestler in summer is not the definition of sickness. That my friends is the epitome of a living death.
“How is she feeling, Lyric? Are you okay now, sweetie?” Faye asks us, sitting down on the edge of our bed.
When Lyric succeeded in knocking me up on his first try and started talking about buying a house, I told him I couldn’t bring myself to leave Faye and Tripp right now. Lyric said he understood, but couldn’t hide the disappointment he felt at the prospect of having to share my time with other people.
Since finding out I’m pregnant, Lyric has turned into a functioning psychopath. He monitors what and how much I eat, and checks the labels of boxes for potentially harmful chemicals that may endanger his ‘little princess’ as he likes to call the chickpea size vomit inducer I’m gestating.
Okay, so that was a little harsh, but what do you expect? When I envision myself being on my hands and knees twice a day it couldn’t be more removed than me hugging porcelain, thanking God for the invention of running water.
A soft hand on my arm has me rolling my eyes up at my best friend.
“No, I am not okay. Nothing about this is all right, Faye.”
“Oh, sweetie,” she coos. “It will get better, I promise. I was eleven weeks with Tripp before it started to ease, and you’re nearly there.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, jumping up and racing to the bathroom again. I almost don’t make it before the remainder of my breakfast is violently expelled from my body, along with half my internal organs.
“This seriously sucks,” I whine as I crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin a few minutes later. Turning to my husband I add, “I hope you’re happy with one because that’s all you’re getting out of me.”
“Give us a few, would you Faye?” He asks.
Taking the hint, she backs out of the room, shutting the door behind her without saying a word. Granted she does grin and wink at me, so apparently she’s becoming more adept at reading my husband than he’s given her credit for.
Lyric and I moved into Faye and Dante’s pool house the day he told me he had resigned his patch and taken a job as Darkness Rising’s head of security. I was shocked and humbled by his admission of what he had done in order for him to stay here in L.A. with me. He knew I loved it here, that I didn’t want to, but that I would leave my job if I had to, and took it upon himself to fix what would have been problems before they had a chance to rear their ugly heads.
The fact that Lyric was willing to sacrifice something he had wanted his whole life – to be part of the MC – for me made me feel more than a little guilty. But when he explained to me why he did it, that he couldn’t bear to be separated from me again for any length of time, which he would be if he stayed with the club, my guilt lessened a little.
It couldn’t have been an easy choice for him to make, and there are times my suspicions are proved right when I see Lyric staring at his bike for long, silent minutes. It’s in those instances that I yearn to go to him and tell him that it’s okay if he wants to patch back in. That I would support and love him no matter what he decides. But I don’t because he asked me not to. Actually, he made me promise I wouldn’t.
To cut a long story short; Lyric spent months slowly backing away from the club after his request to retire his patch was approved. Boss, Vengeance’s president, and Lyric’s dad’s best friend agreed to keep the news quiet until Lyric was ready to share it with his brothers as a personal favor to my husband.
In the MC world there are several ways to leave a club and most of them, save retiring your patch aren’t nice. In fact, some are downright brutal and barbaric. Having your ink removed being the worst.
However, the way Lyric chose to go out is the way a legacy member would. The patch declaring Lyric’s position in the club had he worked his way up to having one would remain property of the club, but he was allowed to keep his cut with the stipulation that he could no longer wear it out in public. Lyric would be welcome to visit his brothers at the clubhouse, attend hog roasts and family events, but only in the capacity of a friend of the club, nothing more.
Respect would be shown by the men he rode with. However, Lyric would have to earn the trust of the younger, newer members who weren’t around before he left. In essence, Lyric would become a glorified visitor in a place he once called home – a sad truth that made my heart ache for all that he sacrificed for me. For us.
There was a light at the end of the tunnel, though. Lyric loves his job coordinating and providing security for Darkness Rising. Not only does he get to come to work with me every day, which he claims is the best part about his new position, but he is utilizing his natural ability to assess risk and plan for worst case scenarios. It also doesn’t hurt that Lyric was given free rein to hire his own team of sudo-commandos as I call them, either.
The first man Lyric hired is, Ford. A twenty-nine-year-old, ex-who the hell knows what he did before, import from Houston, Texas who is Lyric’s right-hand man and new BFF. Sometimes I wonder if those two weren’t separated at birth they are so alike. But then I’m reminded of their differences when I see how Ford melts the panties off a different woman every night ending in Y.
Ford was followed by Eli, a disgustingly handsome, incredibly charming, and very married ex-police officer from Charlotte. His wife, Annabelle is equally attractive and sickeningly sweet, so, of course, that left Faye and I no choice but to adopt her as one of our own.
The last and newest recruit is, Jake. I haven’t managed to get a read on him yet, but you can bet your ass I’m trying to. Jake, or Shade as the guys call him, is the dark horse of the group. Quiet and watchful, it’s not often that you see any real emotion from him unless his best friend, Simon and his sister, Farrah are around. If you ask me, I think it has more to do with the beautiful, softly spoken Farrah than her brother. But hey, what do I know
?
That reminds me…
Crawling over the top of my husband, who is currently sprawled out width ways across our bed, I straddle his hips and begin pulling his sweats down over his hips.
“What are you doing, Angel?” Lyric growls, moving to stop me.
Pushing his hands away, I continue to strip him and lick my lips as the head of his cock springs free from its confines.
“What does it look like? I’m issuing payback for you waking me up with your head between my legs this morning.”
There’s nothing better than slowly coming awake to the sensation of Lyric’s tongue lapping at my slit. Except maybe waking up while coming. On second thoughts, the latter is definitely better, and something Lyric strives to achieve, at least, twice a week.
Wrapping my lips around the head of his cock, Lyric groan vibrates through his chest as I lick the single salty drop of pre-come dripping from the slit in his tip. Taking the time to worship the sheer beauty of his magnificent cock, my mouth makes its way down his shaft methodically laving every inch – of which there are many – of his hot, hard skin.
“So does this mean you forgive me for knocking you up then?” My annoying husband interrupts, breaking my studious oral inspection of his impressive cock.
“No, it most certainly doesn’t. Now shut up and let me suck you off. I have to be at work in an hour, and you’re distracting me,” I retort, immediately continuing my research on how best to make Lyric moan.
Chuckling at my hormonal outburst, they quickly die out when I suck his cock all the way to the back of my throat.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Yeah, Angel. Just like that. Fuck, yes.”
Bobbing my head up and down a few times to wet his length, I suction my lips half the way up his shaft and use my hand to work the rest of him. This way I can use my tongue to give Lyric exactly what I know he needs to come. And come fast.
The apex between my thighs tingles and my panties become soaked when Lyric’s hand finds its way to my hair. He is incapable of relinquishing control for long, so I anticipated him taking over. However, the sensation of him tugging my head to where he wants it and fucking my face with determined, deliberate strokes still thrills me.
It’s not that I need him to dominate me or tell me what to do in order to get off, but I can’t deny that I like the powerful, domineering side of my man. The hoarse rasp of Lyric’s voice when he’s playing with the wetness between my thighs, and the way he sucks my juices off his fingers and then demands I taste myself on him is a huge turn on. As is what he’s doing right now.
Holding the base of his cock, squeezing tightly, Lyric begins to use my mouth as a vessel to jerk off. Long measured strokes, each hitting the back of my throat has my pussy aching for him to fill it. My arousal is so heightened, that I can’t help but snake my hand into my panties to take the edge off before I spontaneously combust.
Lyric’s firm hand on my wrist stops me mid-circle, and I almost scream out of pure frustration. I need to come so bad I can nearly taste it.
“Did I say you can touch my pussy?” He snarls, not slowing the speed of his strokes.
“No,” I whimper around the head of his dick, swallowing reflexively as he shoves himself so far in it makes me gag.
Saliva mixed with pre-come drips down my chin and tears spring to my eyes as his hips pick up the pace. Thrusting in and out of my mouth, Lyric’s rhythm becomes erratic as the first spurt of hot, thick, come sprays the back of my throat.
My gaze flits over my husband’s body, admiring how perfect it is. I am a lucky woman, that’s for sure.
Toned calves lead up to thick, muscular thighs are sparsely covered with dark hair. Jesus, even his feet are sexy. The V of Lyric’s hips is pronounced but not so cut that his hip bones dig into my pelvis as I ride him to orgasm. I love that he takes care of himself, working out almost every day, but Lyric’s physique isn’t honed from hours spent in the gym. Instead, it’s defined and perfected from hard work and manual labor.
His sculpted chest and washboard abs are one of my favorite playgrounds. My fingers adore exploring every ridge, hollow, and dip from his neck to his waist. Broad shoulders and defined arms are tattooed with reminders of our past. They are also where I find the most comfort. Curled up in Lyric’s arms, it’s easy to forget there was ever a time I didn’t trust him. Especially when now all I feel when I’m in them is safe and loved.
Sliding his cock from between my lips with a wet pop, dislodging Lyric’s grip on my hair, I position myself above him. His length glistens with my saliva and his come, making his entrance painless except for the stretching burn that accompanies a cock his size.
“You’ve got five seconds to ride it like you stole it before I flip you onto your back, and fuck the shit out of you,” Lyric states without a single trace of humor.
Complying with his high-handed demand, I slam myself down on top of him and scream.
“Yes!”
Our movements are frenzied and desperate. There is no finesse. No soft strokes or gentle caresses. This is raw fucking at its finest. Brutal thrusts, teeth, lips, and hands grabbing, squeezing, claiming. As Lyric’s rigid cock pounds into my pussy from beneath me, he growls and I moan while I hold on for the ride, helpless to do anything else.
It could be minutes or maybe hours before I feel Lyric’s cock throb inside me. My pussy flutters around him in answer, clamping down harshly when it hits that special spot that makes me shiver in anticipation of what’s to come.
“Finger on your clit, baby. Get yourself there while I watch,” Lyric rumbles – his voice so deep and commanding that goosebumps break out across the surface of my skin.
I slip two fingers in a V shape around the base of Lyric’s cock, sliding them back until they open my pussy lips and expose my clit to the cool air. Moving them back and forth, swirling the impossibly hard nub, I cry out as the first shudders of my climax crash over me and threaten to pull me under.
Stars explode behind my eyes, and Lyric’s bellow of completion matches the intensity of my own orgasm so perfectly that you would think they were two halves of one whole. And in a way, I suppose they are.
As individuals we aren’t perfect, neither is the history of our relationship. There are still a lot of things we have to work out, to decide on, such as our living arrangements and whether or not I will continue to work after the baby is born. Both of us have made mistakes, and as sure as I am of my love for Lyric, I’m certain we’ll make more.
But there’s one I’m even more sure of than our propensity to fuck up and then make up, and that’s our ability to overcome anything as long as we’re together.
Mine and Lyric’s journey is far from over. In fact, this is just an alternate beginning to a tale that began long ago. This time, though, instead of believing everything will work out the way it is supposed to, I am going to trust that it will. No more doubt. No more running. I’m in this with Lyric for the long haul, one crazy twist and turn at a time.
EPILOGUE
~ Lyric ~
“Stop fucking rushing me, woman. It’s not like they’re going to start without us,” I say, using the back of the couch to protect my balls, avoiding my violent, traitorous wife.
“Give. Him. To. Me,” Harleigh growls, holding out her arms and tapping her foot impatiently.
Ha, yeah, that is so not going to happen. The second I hand him over to Harleigh, I’m fair game. And after the last hour we’ve spent arguing over her agreeing we’d go to this party without asking me, I doubt I’ll make it to the hall before she rips my balls off and plays Hacky Sack with them.
“Not on your life,” I eventually reply, cradling my infant son in front of me like a shield.
“Fine,” she huffs. “Then consider my offer of a blowjob with me in nothing but thigh high’s rescinded until further notice.”
And fuck if that doesn’t have me changing my mind in the time it takes for the sly little grin to tease my wife’s lips.
She damn well
knows there’s only one thing that will guarantee I’ll relinquish my son to someone else willingly, and that’s the promise of Harleigh’s naked body any way I can get it. Thigh high’s or not, the rest of her will be bare, ripe, and exposed, ready for me to touch, taste, and fuck as hard and long as I want.
“You win this round, but you bet your ass you’ll be making good on that promise later tonight,” I mutter, placing our now sleeping seven-week-old son, Zac, in her arms.
Winking at me, Harleigh strides off down the hall to put, Zac in his crib saying,
“Sure. And if you’re a very good boy, I’ll even do that thing with my tongue you like so much.”
Fucking A! You better believe I’ll be on my best behavior now. Not that I wouldn’t have been anyway; Faye’s gone to a lot of trouble to make tonight go off without a hitch. And although I appreciate the effort, I’d prefer to be at home buried inside my wife’s tight, wet pussy than sitting around with a bunch of guys drinking beer.
Yours: A Forever After Novella Page 9