He reaches around and finds my clit. His other hand pulls hard on my hair, keeping my back in the perfect arch. Suddenly, he’s rubbing and fucking me, rubbing and fucking, and I lose all sense of reality. The sounds I’m making don’t even sound human. They’re loud, and I don’t care. I can’t stop. Delicious pressure and pleasure keep building and building and I’m going to fucking come apart.
“Do you like it? Tell me.” Brent’s voice is raw and lusty.
I struggle to find my voice. “Yes, yes I like it,” I gasp.
His hand tightens in my hair. “What do you like?”
I’m seconds away from playing tennis with the stars. “I like it…when you fill me up, Sir. Oh God, I love it!”
He groans and releases my hair. I’m on the edge, looking over. My ass is so full, my clit begging and fighting for release. The first slap on my ass comes as a complete surprise. I yelp, and it turns into a moan as he works my clit harder. Faster. Oh God, fucking my ass like he owns it, as the next slap comes.
“More, please Sir, more!”
Another. My ass cheek burns, but each spank makes the tension higher, tighter. Brent’s hand comes down hard, his palm imprinting me and launching me into another orgasm so strong, I feel like I’m going to black out. My head spins, my body soars. Brent wraps an arm around my chest and supports me. I feel him growing even harder—I didn’t realize such a thing was possible—just a moment before he comes, holding my hips firmly and loosing a sexy as hell groan from deep in his throat. His motions slowly ebb, and he almost drapes his body across mine, almost collapsing us both.
His chest rises and falls hard as he struggles to catch his breath. We sit like that for long minutes and it takes me that long to remember that we’re outside. It’s a little late for modesty now.
Pulling back from me with a sleepy smile, Brent cleans me off with his shirt and helps me up. His arms wrap around me, his lips consuming mine until I’m dizzy again.
“Come on, Mrs. Peters.”
I’ll never get tired of hearing that I’m his wife. He leads me into the shower, takes his time washing me. I’m exhausted by the time I dress in a slip and lie in bed, and it’s only two in the afternoon.
Brent pads around barefoot in only his shorts with his dark, wet hair slicked back. He has just leaned down to kiss me when there’s a knock at the door. We weren’t expecting anyone. Then again, with our new, low-key identities, we never really do. Since we gave the housekeeper the day off in light of our wedding, I move to get up and answer the door, but he stops me.
“Just stay here.”
A flicker of alarm goes through me. I can’t lie. Worry about the mob is still there, it’s just easier to ignore than it was before. What if someone’s found us? Brent’s soothing voice wafts back to me from the front room, but it’s not enough. I have to make sure for myself that no one is waiting on the other side to kill him.
I go into the front room and stop dead.
It’s the security guard from Brent’s old house—the guy who told me to never talk to strangers and who always seemed to be watching me too closely. He and Brent clasp hands and Brent all but pulls him into the villa. The guard looks at me and smiles like an old friend. I look between him and Brent, confused and still a little concerned.
“Eduard, you remember my wife, Lacy?”
They share a knowing look and Eduard nods. “Of course. Lacy.”
Turning back to Brent, he hands him a plain brown cardboard box. My mind flies back to another box, one I handed Brent, all those years ago. Brent’s face grows serious as he opens it and slowly, rifles through whatever’s inside.
He lowers the box and closes his eyes. “Thank God.”
“I knew you would be pleased.” Eduard crosses his hands in front of him. “I’m happy to have been of help in this.”
Brent frowns, obviously confused. He hands me the box as he asks the guard, “What kind of help?”
Brent’s arm slips around me as I look inside. And go cold. Pictures, several of them, are stacked neatly inside. All of Georgios’ corpse. His face and body crossed with the neat incisions of autopsy. Nausea hits me but it quickly goes away as I realize, really realize, that Georgios is dead.
All the pain of the past year gels together and just…leaves. Nathalie and Liz are vindicated. Finally, there’s been some justice for the role that this horrible man played in our lives.
“Heart attack,” Eduard says. “That’s what the coroner said. After you and Erica left the country, I signed on with Georgios’ security team. But only,” he quickly added, “to monitor whether or not the mob would be able to track you down. I was valuable to them, giving them false leads on where I thought you might have gone.”
I shut the box and handed it back to Brent. I didn’t want anything else to do with what was inside, ever.
“Georgios was very vocal about his abnormal heart rhythm, so I took advantage of it. Some wet footprints leading to his room in the night. A sink that overflowed for no reason. Erica’s name written on the bathroom mirror. All childish pranks that made a very superstitious man believe the ghost of a drowned young woman was haunting him.”
“You gave him a heart attack!” I burst. I’m actually rather impressed.
Eduard shrugged, his expression completely unconcerned. “He was an evil man.”
He reached into his inner jacket pocket and produced a white badge. Eduard O’Hern, FBI, retired Intelligence Security Division.
“Explains how you found us.” Brent said.
“Yes. I understand that you’ve found yourself in business again and would like to offer my security services. If you’re in need.”
New names, new lives, new country. It doesn’t matter. I want whatever it takes to keep Brent safe, always.
“Yes,” I say and look at Brent. “We need you.”
“Excellent.” Eduard suddenly turns and out stretches an arm. I see a flash of red approach the doorway and there she is! My mouth goes dry, my eye wide as I stare. Stunned.
“I hope you don’t mind. I’ve brought my fiancé. She was peeking in a shop down the street.”
Brent barks a laugh and reaches for the woman, and suddenly he’s hugging her and she’s hugging me and tears are flowing down my face.
Donetta!
It turns out after Brent’s disappearance, she tracked Eduard down. She knew if anyone knew where her boss was, where I was, it was him. In a move I can’t help but be proud of, she waited on his doorstep day and night until he told her Mr. Masters was safe. And by the time he trusted her enough to tell her that, they’d fallen in love.
We could go back, but why? Everything I ever cared about is here now. I pull my husband into my arms and kiss his sexy mouth.
“I love you.”
He wipes my tears with a sweep of his thumbs. His voice is low and only for me. “You’re everything to me. Everything! Do you understand?”
I slide my arms around his neck and nuzzle beneath his ear. Everything we’ve been through has culminated to this one, incredible moment. I understand perfectly. And I can’t wait to see what the future brings with my loved ones by my side.
“Say it.” He demands with a playful pinch on my ass.
I’ll always say it. Until my last breath.
“Yes, Sir.”
~THE END~
Enjoy a bonus selection: Sweet Spot
Enjoy the beginning of my next book, Sweet Spot. Are you in the mood for insta-love, a bad boy baseball player, smokin’ hot sex, and an HEA? (Friend, I’ve got you covered!)
“If I do this for you, it’s the last time. Here is how you will prove to me that it’s the last time. No more flings. No more parties. No more absolutely anything. You live for two things–practice and games. Give me your word.”
With those words, Coach Halstead bailed me out one final time. I guess I can’t help it if I’m baseball’s favorite bad boy. Until I meet young, innocent, sexy-as-hell and pure-as-sunshine Ally.
“You gonna score a run for me?�
� she asks. And because I just. Cannot. Resist. A pretty face. I say yes.
Am I about to lose coach’s trust, my career, and this girl?
Or can I hit the sweet spot?
1
“Hey!”
In the hierarchy of shitty situations to stumble into, I appear to have hit a home run.
If, you know, I get points for fucking up. Again.
I never liked being benched. It’s hard, uncomfortable, and all the action is somewhere else. I like being in the center of the action. Excitement is brewing all around you, but you’re just left to dwell on your mistakes and shitty batting average and that time you back-talked Coach when you were wearing your hangover sunglasses and reeking of Jack Daniels.
This bench, though, with the cold metal and accompanying bars, is far worse than being benched at a game.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.”
I look over at the guy I’m sharing a cell with. He’s as bulky as a tank with tattoo sleeves and a shaved head. I don’t want to talk, but this guy looks like he can break my kneecaps and there is still a lot of season left.
“Yeah?”
His face splits into a grin. “I know you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”
“No, I definitely know you.”
“Just have one of those faces.”
The guy sits down next to me. “I’m Shank.”
“Hi, Shank.”
“I was at Kauffman stadium just last week. You’re a maniac with the bat.”
I grin back. Can’t help it. Call me a prideful bastard. “Thanks. But I think you’re thinking of someone else.”
He laughs and whacks me on the shoulder with the back of his hand. I’m a sturdy guy, but it hurts like a sumbitch. “That double you hit in the sixth was out-fucking-standing. I mean, scared the shit out of the Angels, know what I mean? Hit that sweet spot out there and BOOM!”
“It was a triple.” I can’t help myself. God, I’m such an asshole.
He grins wider. “I knew it was you.”
“Nah, man. I just saw the game, too.”
Shank squints at me for a minute. “You sure?”
“Sure.”
“Well shit. I thought my luck took off, sharing a holding cell with Kemper Fife! Probably still going to tell my crew I did anyway. Drunk tank lockup isn’t the most exciting story unless you’re sharing a holding cell with a fucking baseball all-star.”
“Be my guest. You won’t be the first.”
“So what did they pop you for? Figured looking like him woulda got you out of anything.”
“Yeah, you woulda thought.”
What did I not do to get in here? It was a long list of terrible-slash-awesome decisions full of girls and booze and more girls and more booze. The brunette with Angelina Jolie lips who bet I couldn’t guess her bra size. Spoiler: she was a D, but tried to pull off a DD. Can’t fool me, though. Then there was the blonde with the butterfly tramp stamp who moved her hips like Shakira and could shoot whiskey like a badass. The blonde and brunette made out with each other for a pair of drinks and a shot at my bed. They almost had me, too.
Jamie told me to stop there, but of the many four letter words in my vocabulary, “stop” is not one of them.
Then there was the redhead I ditched the first two with. I’m a sucker for redheads. And she has a motorcycle. Or she said she has a motorcycle. It was sexy enough for me not to give a damn if she lied or not. Lie to me and forget me the next morning.
What happened next was sort of a blur. One too many Fireball shots. The blonde and brunette found us, pissed to hell that I’d found someone else. We had to take off running through the bar. The redhead has a killer ass when she runs. I suppose it wasn’t technically her car that we fled in. I suppose technically she hotwired it. Technically, it was sexy as hell, watching her work those wires. My dick was running the show, I couldn’t help it.
Then there was the impromptu bonfire that maybe shouldn’t have been started with our clothes as kindling. We drank more whiskey and howled at the moon and were about to get it on under a blanket of stars before the flashing lights showed up. Apparently, the lake closes at sundown.
“How are you going to close the lake?” I argued. At least, in my mind I argued. It probably came out as a slurred mess.
Now I have a massive headache and get to wear this stupid jumpsuit, which won’t really play well in any pictures of me leaving. Of which there are bound to be many.
Fucked, I believe, is the legal term to describe my current situation. Coach is going to murder me in my sleep. He’ll chop me up into a million pieces and feed me to his pigs.
“Street racing.”
Shank interrupts my thoughts, which rapidly shoot from sexy redhead to the death of my career quicker than I could blink. “Say what?”
“They nailed me for street racing. I blew a tire and they caught me. My boys got away. Not too bad, though. We’ve all taken the hit. Goes with the territory.”
“What do you drive?”
“2013 GT-R. Cherry red and dead sexy. She’s too good to slum it in the impound, but what are you gonna do?”
“Not street race?” I flash a grin. Shank scowls at me for a minute and I’m back to fearing he’ll demonstrate where he got his nickname, but he slaps me on the back and laughs.
“I like you. What’s your name?”
“Jamie.” I always use my buddy’s name, though he may not know that. I mean, I want the girls that come along with being Kemper Fife without the scandal that comes along with girls selling their stories. So I go with the look-alike-named-Jamie bit. That’s what best friends are for, right?
“So what are you in here for, Jamie?”
“Fight.”
“You must have fucked up the other guy. You don’t have a scratch on you!”
“Used a bat.” I flash another smile and a wink. Shank eyes me warily, but laughs good naturedly and goes on about racing and some other business I don’t particularly care about. Instead, I’m trying to remember if I got the redhead’s number.
If I live to see another day, I’d like to give her a call. Just maybe not as many Fireball shots next time. I can’t end up back in here or I’ll really be shot dead in the locker room.
Hey, if Lamar Odom can be arrested fifty-seven times and still make it out okay, why can’t the second baseman for the Royals?
“Fife.” A burly police officer comes up to the holding cell, keys in hand. “You made bail.”
Shank stops mid-sentence and stares at me. “Fife? I thought you said you weren’t—“
“No relation.” I stand up quickly and head for the bars, eager to get out of here, praying it’s my aunt and not Coach. I hate calling my aunt to bail me out, but it’s better than Coach. Anyone is better than Coach.
If it’s my aunt, she’ll bring my clothes and I can throw on a hoodie and everyone will be none the wiser that I was ever here. She’ll take me to breakfast, slap me on the wrist a little, and take me home to sleep off this massive hangover building. If it’s my aunt, I’m golden. I can already picture my bed, all comfy and waiting for me back home.
But it’s not my aunt signing paperwork and scowling. Of course, it’s fucking Coach Holstead, looking madder than that time the Yankees came from behind to win with three unearned runs.
The last time my aunt bailed me out, she swore she wouldn’t do it again. But she’s my aunt. Aunts are supposed to always be there for you. That old bat sold me out.
I rally the brightest smile I can. “Hey Coach.”
He doesn’t look at me, just signs the paperwork and takes my things from the discharge officer.
“Come here often?”
He cuts me a look, his face drawn up in a frown. He’s deadly when he’s silent. I swallow down the lump in my throat and keep a bright smile on my face, trying to sneak a glance outside. No paps. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
I follow him to the door, but he stops there and turns around, fury in his eyes. �
�Listen good, Kemper.” His voice is like venom. I swallow it down and lean forward. “This is the last time. You got me? Absolute last time I ever see you in here. Here is how you prove to me it’s the last time. No more flings. No more parties. No more absolutely anything. You live for two things, and two things only: practice and games. You will eat, breathe, and sleep baseball. There is no more room in your life for anything else. If you aren’t sleeping, eating, or shitting, your ass is on the field. Give me your word.”
Good-bye, redhead. As much as I would have loved to bone you good, I’ve got a contract worth more than your fake tits and a real shot at a championship ring. And a coach who will literally end it all. “I swear on my life, Coach.”
“No more one night stands.”
“Done.”
“No more parties.”
“Had my last.”
“No more running around, butt-ass naked on the goddamn lakefront.”
“It’s struck from my bucket list.”
“I’m not fucking around, Fife. I own you. You got me?”
I give him my most serious look and hold out my hand. “I’m done, Coach. My ass is owned by the Kansas City Royals and no one else.”
Coach takes my hand and grips it firmly. “You’re out of chances.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as we open the doors, the world explodes in light and color. The press were waiting for this, probably tipped off before I’d even been booked. I can barely walk without being blinded. Coach grabs my shoulder and hauls me through them, grumbling and scowling and telling everyone exactly where they can ram their cameras.
Coach Holstead is kind of a badass. I admire him, truly. Tonight, this morning, whatever, though, I’m terrified of him. If these maggots know what’s good for them, they’ll get the fuck out of the way.
He throws me in his car and slams the door. I cover my face with my hands, knowing the whole while that it’s fruitless because they’ve already got me red-handed, and silently wish I was anywhere but here.
Real talk: no piece of ass or bottle of whiskey is worth this shit. If I was a normal guy, this would be a non-issue. No one would give a fuck about what I was doing or where I was going or who I was doing it with.
Boss: Complete Box Set: A Mob BDSM Romance Page 24