Page 29 of Mafia Boss' Surprise Baby

I pin her down onto the couch and while she’s still coming, pounding into her, drilling deeper and faster. My entire body goes rigid, and the only thing I’m capable of is acting on theinstinct to fuck her senseless. As the white-hot surge rips down my spine and bows my back I plunge in one final time and empty inside her. As I do, I grind against her clit again and press just above her mound. She thrashes beneath me and cries out with a sob. I feel her spasm, the liquid drenching my thighs even as I fill her.

Our bodies are coated with sweat, sticky and spent. I can never describe the scalding flash of pleasure that burned through me when I make her squirt. I know by her trembling, she is in disbelief that she’s never had it happen before.

It feels like the greatest victory of my life.

“Oh Mick! I love—” she cries with abandon, the last word swallowed up by her screams. I can’t help wondering if she was saying she loves this or she loves me.

I’d be lying if I said we don’t go all night. The sky goes from black to the pearl gray before dawn but we can’t stop. We sleep a few minutes and then wake already kissing, already reaching for each other. I finally get her downstairs and into my bed around four and make love to her there all over again.

I know by the time I settle her on my chest to catch a couple of hours’ sleep that I’ve shown her every way I know how that I’ll love her till my last breath.

16

KATE

He broke my heart. I know I should’ve walked out, never looked back. That’s not how I’m made though. Mickey can’t give me what I want—an authentic relationship where I don’t have to sneak around but at the same time, he is the only man who can give me what I need.

A woman with some pride wouldn’t have stayed over after he didn’t say anything back to me, nothing substantial, nothing real. He likes spending time with me and likes going to bed with me. That’s it. Which, if we were both in college that would be fine. But I’m pushing thirty and he’s looking at forty from the wrong side. That means the expiration date for casual flings is long past.

That night I spent at his place, madly in love and half crazed with it—I thought if I really let go, if I showed him exactly how I felt about him, that he’d understand. That he’d finally get it and want to meet me halfway. Maybe he wouldn’t declare his undying love for me but at least say he wants to be exclusive or that he wishes he could claim me and tell the world I’m his. That was my dream. That I was somehow so perfect for him that he couldn’t help rising to the occasion and telling me he wants to go for it, all in, go public and tell the world we’re together.That its more than just sneaking around and fucking on every surface in the crow’s nest and his house. I’m not complaining about the fucking—it’s five-star excellence, but it’s not enough. Big talk from a woman who got rejected and still stayed over for five orgasms.

The next day, I don’t hear from him at all which is unusual. I guess I have to get used to that. It’s not Wednesday for a couple more days and we don’t have a meeting scheduled for today. If I want to find him, I know when he’ll be at the Pearl, but part of me is ashamed to chase him down like that. I had to have some scrap of dignity or self-worth left. I woke up in his arms feeling lit from within just from the remnants of all that pleasure we shared. But it came back to me in episodes, complimented by the things he didn’t say and the time and silence I gave him in case it was just a need to gather his thoughts.

No, he’s a straight shooter, right? If he loves me, he’d have said so by now. We were adults, weren’t we? It makes me want to get on the first bus out of Boston and ride till I see the Pacific Ocean again. It still wouldn’t be far enough. The memory of him will follow me everywhere. The way I feel when he kisses me, the glory of triumph in his eyes when I reach for him again and again always wanting more. I got into this thinking I was strong, practical, that I could handle some casual hooking up with my teenage crush. I was just lying to myself and I didn’t think about the consequences, the fact that I’m going to walk around the rest of my life haunted by the weeks I spent with Mickey O’Halloran.

I delve into my prep course review materials and force myself to block out any distractions. This is what I can control. Living my life, pursuing my goals, and getting the hell out of Southie. I have to stick to the plan because deviating from the plan and having an affair with my brother’s best friend was dumb and self-destructive. My impulsive tip over the edge from desire into reckless abandon looks like some high-level self-sabotage or apitiful cry for help when I think about it objectively. I wanted attention and connection. I felt bad about failing in LA. So the obvious answer was to move back home, get a job to save money for my CPA, and get distracted by the sexy, off-limits boss.

For a couple of days I keep a strict schedule of work, studying, and blaming myself for how miserable I am. When Wednesday comes around, I argue with myself all night, barely sleeping. He messages me once after three days, saying he’ll see me in the crow’s nest. I debate whether to go and treat it as a business meeting, communicating only the bare minimum of work-focused information and resist any attempts he might make to touch me or even speak on a personal level.

I abandon that idea because I know I’m not going to be able to resist him. I could cancel and say I’m busy. It might get me in trouble at my job by refusing a meeting with the boss, a meeting that was my stupid idea. Or option three, the choice the craven part of me begs for. Go to the Pearl, lock the door, take my pleasure and let him have me for an hour. Then walk out until the next week like I’ve had enough to hold me. Like I don’t feel my body scream for him every second of the day, like I don’t miss him to my core and wish I could call him like six times a day to hear his voice and tell him whatever boring thing I’m doing in the office. Missing him, mostly.

An hour before the meeting, I change into a soft pink sundress that hugs my curves and has a flared skirt that reminds me of vintage dresses that girls wore to dances in the fifties. It’s sweet looking and my reflection convinces me to leave my hair down. It’s a little cold to wear the sundress but I’m doing it anyway. I put a jacket on and head out.

At the Pearl I freeze up for a moment, thinking I look like I’m in costume, neither buttoned up in work appropriate clothes nor wearing something chic and expensive like the gamblers at the roulette table on the main floor. I wonder why I wore this.Because you want him to see you in it. As a grown woman in her favorite dress. Not as an accountant or stripped down as a secret lover on his couch. For once in your life, you want him to look at you and take notice.

I ride the elevator, scan my thumbprint and swing open the door. For an instant I’m scared he won’t be here. That I’ll be stood up and sitting here in my sad pink dress like a wallflower past her expiration date. I’ll wait ten minutes and leave, I decide.

But Mickey’s here, and there’s a tablecloth on the table we usually use for computers and paperwork. Dishes sit beneath silver domes and there are candles lit, a bouquet of pink stargazer lilies in a vase. He stands up and comes to take my hands, kissing my cheek.

“I was hoping you’d come. I thought I’d better make it worth your time,” he says.

He’s so handsome standing there, and he’s ordered dinner and gotten my favorite flowers. I take off my jacket and hang it on the back of my chair. It feels formal and weird but I’m the one who wanted to set a weekly date to see him and presumably hook up. I sit down, smooth my dress and when he pours wine in my glass, I put my hand on his wrist.

“You didn’t have to set up a lavish dinner,” I say. I like that he did it, and it’s romantic. I’m not sure why I object to it. Maybe it just feels feigned. This is something a lover would do for their other half. And by no means were we in anything that could be labeled as a real relationship, so why pretend to do things like we are?

“Look at you in that dress,” he says. “I love your hair down. You never wear it like that.”

Where is his swagger?I wonder. The most confident man I ever met is almost hesitating.

“Wearing it down looks right with this dress. I know it’s old-fashioned looking but I love it,” I say.

“I love it, too. I—” he goes to a drawer and takes something out, brings it to me. It’s a velvet box. “Open it.”

I feel my heart thump as I lift the lid. On a bed of creamy satin there’s a stunning diamond necklace. It’s delicate and gleams with a bluish fire under the candlelight. I touch the stones with my fingertips, a row of round diamonds with narrow baguette diamonds between them. I look up at him again, a question in my eyes.

“According to the jeweler it’s a vintage midcentury riviere necklace,” he says. He takes it from the case and places it at my throat, fastens it. I feel the coolness and weight settle against my skin. It feels strange and awe-inspiring.

“My dress is from the fifties,” I tell him “So they go together. When did you—”

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