Page 19 of Made Man

“Come home with me.” It’s not an invitation, and he knows it.

Wyatt smiles so wide that I get a rare show of teeth. “Okay,” he says.

He grabs my dress off the floor mat, flips it right side out, and hands it to me to wriggle on. I’m not excited about dismounting this monster cock or looking Grandpa Ray in the eye later. There is going to be a mess.

“You okay?” Wyatt asks, smoothing my dress down over my hips.

“I’m great.” I bite the bullet and slide off his lingering semi.

He does a crunch, gawking as a flood of cum gushes from my pussy onto his hairy lower belly. He grins. My cheeks catch fire.

I snatch my wadded-up panties from under the driver’s seat and wipe him up while he lounges there like he’s king of the world.

“Does this mean I’m a made man?” he asks. “Since I bagged a Volpe?”

“This means you’re full of shit, Wyatt Foster,” I say, grabbing his arms and leaning back to drag him upright. He raises an eyebrow. He’s ridiculously pleased with himself. “You said you’d never fuck me in the backseat of your car.”

“It’s not mine,” he says, letting me pull him up. He grins, so happy that he looks high. His happiness burns away every lingering scrap of hurt and loneliness inside me. Finally, after eight years, I feel like myself again.

“Where’s your shoe?” he asks, his gaze caught on my bare foot.

“I have no idea.”

Somehow, he gets us out of the car, carrying me to the passenger seat so I don’t have to step on gravel. He hunts for the lost sandal for a while until I tell him to leave it behind and take me home.

He’s as cautious as I remember all the way back to my condo, hands at ten and two, no more than five miles above the speed limit. He was always like this with me in the car, driving like he was on a suspended license until he dropped me off, and then peeling off like a race car driver. Does he still drive like that?

I can’t wait to find out.

My insides warm as he pulls up in front of my condo building. I can’t wait to drag him upstairs, strip him naked, and make him talk until I know about every last thing on his Notes list.

Annoyingly, as soon as he engages the parking brake, my phone goes off. “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads. It’s Dad.

I sigh and tap the green button, putting it on speaker out of habit.

“I’m fine,” I say immediately.

“Put the kid on,” he growls.

“Okay. Hold on. I’m handing him the phone.” I don’t. There’s no way I’m not listening in on this conversation.

Wyatt gives me a look and then clears his throat. “Sir?”

“Ray tells me your balls finally dropped, eh?”

“I did what had to be done,” he says, absolutely deadpan, not a shred of deference in his voice. My heart swells with love. I always knew he could be what I needed, but I never wanted to make him. He’s born to it, though, in his own way. Just like me.

“You got this now?” Dad asks Wyatt. “Or do I have to upset her mother and haul her out of the chaise lounge in the cabana?”

“I have this.”

“We’ll talk when I get back. I have something that I’ve been holding on to. I guess you know what to do with it now.”

Wyatt grunts, hangs up, and then exhales long and hard. Of course, he realizes what’s going on. He’s not stupid. He must’ve caught on several blocks back.

I plaster an innocent look on my face and push my tits up. I hope he’s not too mad.

“Mira?” His voice raises at the end of name. The jig is up. “Why is your condo right across from my job?”

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