Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“You’re good too,” he says. “Keep me. Love me. Fuck me.”
I can’t hold back anymore either, so I pull my fingers free, lube up my cock with the oil, hold his eye contact, and push in slowly, so fucking slowly I know it’s killing us both.
“Oh God. Fuck. You’re so big. So good.”
“I’m yours,” I say. “I said you’re mine, but I’m yours too. Say it, pretty thing. I want to hear it.”
“You’re mine.”
“Again,” I order, pushing farther into him.
“You’re mine,” he says louder.
“Again.” I snap my hips forward, filling him completely.
“You’re mine!” he calls out. “You’re mine! I’m yours, but you’re mine too.”
I didn’t know I needed to hear him say it as much as I did. I thought it was just something Abbott liked, wanted, but I need to belong to him too. Need to feel wanted and possessed by this man who has turned my whole world upside down.
I grab his hips, pull back, and thrust forward again. We cry out together, over and over and over as I take him fast and hard. The table moves, and we go with it, possessing each other’s bodies, coming together in this way that he makes me need.
I lean over him, slam my mouth down, push my tongue into him, torso to torso, mouth to mouth, tongue-fucking as I own his ass.
He arches upward, and I can tell he’s close. I keep fucking into him, my balls so full and tight, and ready to unleash.
His cock is still slick from the oil, and I stroke him—fuck him and stroke him until he’s coming apart beneath me, cum spurting all over his flat stomach and muscular pecs like there’s a never-ending supply in his balls right now.
He’s still coming when it’s my turn, when colors dance in my vision and my dick twitches inside of him, balls emptying inside his body, fucking my cum deep into him, right where it belongs.
And when we’re both spent, I scoop some of his cum from his chest and rub it into mine. I lick it off my fingers, kiss him with it, and smear his load into our skin the way we do with mine.
Knowing exactly what I’m doing, Abbott says, “You’re mine too.”
“Yes.”
We kiss for a few minutes before I help him off the table. He walks awkwardly, body stiff, through the kitchen.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask.
“No. I’m glad I feel it. Feel you.”
Christ, this man will be the death of me.
We go upstairs together and climb into bed, making the sheets smell like our fucking, while we’re wrapped around each other.
“He was really okay with it?” Abbott asks.
“Yes,” I say, and tell him about my day…about my son, more about all the kids, and how Cillian and Ollie will be coming to see us soon.
“I don’t want them in danger because of me.”
I kiss the tip of his nose. “They won’t be, but remember…he’s like me. Cillian is part of my world.”
“But you love him better than my father ever loved me,” Abbott answers for me.
“I love you,” I say, and if his father hurts him, or if I find out it was his father who tried to hurt him, I’ll kill the man slowly for it, because no one hurts what belongs to me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Abbott
“Do you think the sale is going to happen?” I ask Rian, standing in the doorway of his office at the house. He found a building he wanted for his concert hall, but it wasn’t on the market. I assumed that meant we needed to keep looking—something I’ve been helping him with—but not being on the market didn’t deter Rian.
He cocks a brow, half-smile on his handsome face as though my question is ridiculous. “Sorry. I’m not used to talking to someone who is in the Mafia, and they never have to worry about being told no,” I tease before walking farther into the room. I don’t know if he did anything illegal to get what he wanted, and I’d like to keep it that way.
He doesn’t need my help on this, but I’ve taken a lot of it on as my project over the last week. I know Rian’s let me help to give me something to do…and to take my mind off the fact that they’ve been scouring the city, questioning anyone who might have information on who put a hit out on me. I’m trying not to think about that, not to imagine what they might be doing to people because of me. If I don’t think about it, none of it is happening, right?
“Come here,” Rian says, and I go, standing between where he’s sitting in his chair and the desk. “What’s wrong?”
“None of this feels right…what you’re doing for me. That someone would want me dead. I can’t stop feeling like we’re on the wrong track, and all that’s going to happen is someone is going to hurt you.”