Page 8 of My Dirty Father In Law
“Oh my god, that’s so insulting!” I grit through clenched teeth. “You just insulted all the women of France by implying that we’re sluts!”
Jordan Lewis holds his big hands up, although his expression is anything but apologetic.
“My apologies,” he rumbles. “That’s not what I meant at all. All I’m saying is that you’re in a bind, my sweet. You have no way to stay in the United States without my help. My son is dead. You have no job, and no way to get a work visa within sixty days. I hold all the cards, and unfortunately, I’m a man who drives a hard bargain. Either we set about conceiving my child the regular way, or bye-bye-bye,” he says, waggling his fingers at me. “Good luck, señorita.”
“Señorita is Spanish!” I grit out again. “It’s mademoiselle in French!”
Jordan smirks, so handsome that I wish I could kiss him and slap him at once.
“A thousand apologies,” he says in a light tone. “As you observed, I’m delirious from my son’s recent passing, and unable to think straight. But I assure you, Juliette, that I’ve assessed the situation correctly. You do as I say, or again – bye, bye, bye. Mademoiselle,” he adds with a smirk on those mobile lips.
Then, Jordan turns and stalks out of the room, his broad form disappearing. Meanwhile, I’m left breathless and gasping in my hospital bed. What in the world just happened? Did my dead fiancé’s dad just proposition me, with the intention of breeding an heir? Is “breeding” even what you call it these days? It’s certainly not love, nor even like because I find the man brutish, insulting, and absolutely detestable. Yet in my heart of hearts, I know I’m attracted to him too because Jordan Lewis is everything that his son wasn’t. Jordan’s dominant. He’s enthralling, passionate, and fearless. He’s an alpha male who knows what he wants, and isn’t afraid to reach for it either. Just look at what he did two minutes ago! He doesn’t care what society, or the world at large, thinks of him. The man wants a baby, and he’s willing to use my womb to get his heir.
But where does that leave me? Do I have any choice in this sordid conundrum? I suppose I could return to Paris with my tail between my legs and forget my American adventure. I suppose I could try and forget everything that’s happened in these last four years, and slowly let my English become rusty and unused. But the truth is that I don’t want to. I’ve fallen in love with the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, and I adore the blue skies and purple mountain majesties of my adopted home. I get a thrill gazing upon the skyscrapers of the Twin Cities, and visit the Walker Art Center and Como Park Conservatory whenever I can. I don’t want to leave this place, and unfortunately, the detestable Jordan Lewis may be my only option forward. Even worse, a thrill runs through my pussy when I think of the aggressive alpha male because he’s handsome and demanding. What would it like to be beneath him in bed? What would it be like to feel those big hands all over my curves, gentle and yet ravenous at once? What would it be like to stare into those blue eyes, and to see them fill with lust for my curves as he breeds me to within an inch of my life? Suddenly, I know what my answer will be ... because it’s going to be YES.
5
Jordan
Guests mill about my living room, paying their respects at Harold’s wake. I’m surprised at how many people have shown up, but then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised because my son was always sociable and friendly, and it was easy to feel comfortable around him. My heart contracts painfully. The pain of his death chokes me and makes it difficult to breathe. I wish my son were here still, warm and smiling, instead of cold and lifeless in the coffin.
Then again, Harry must have lived a full-life because there’s a definite queer component at the wake. There are young men wearing make-up, wobbling around in skirts and high heels. There are young women with cropped haircuts and not a speck of make-up on, their button downs tucked into somber black pants. But these children, too, are grieving, and it’s obvious that they cherished my son. As I watch, an androgynous young person leans over Harry’s casket, their eyes bright and dry as they place flowers on the closed coffin. Yes, Harry’s body was horrifically mangled in the accident, and the coroner warned me before the viewing. It was grisly, and I almost threw up before collapsing in the morgue. It was that bad.
But my son is gone now, and I have to deal with it. I’m the one left carrying the torch for the Lewis family, and it comes with responsibilities. Currently, our hopes and dreams lie with a certain beautiful young woman standing across the room, her cheeks pale as she stares at Harry’s coffin.
“Can I get you a drink?” I ask in a low tone as I approach Juliette. I see the heirloom engagement ring on her hand, and a surge of possession runs through my veins. That’s my family’s ring, and she’s been claimed by me. Never mind that the ring was originally given to her by my son because I’m here now, and Juliette will find solace in my arms.
Meanwhile, the young woman turns to look at me, her eyes hot and dry. At first, her grief is so profound that she doesn’t seem to recognize me. But then her pupils come into focus, and she shakes her head.
“No, I’m good,” she says in a hoarse tone, before looking back at the casket. “Thanks.”
We both stare at the dark wood of the coffin for a while longer.
“He’ll be missed,” I say.
“Yes, very much,” Juliette whispers, blinking hard as if holding back tears. Suddenly, I’m struck with shame and guilt. This is a woman who’s genuinely mourning my son’s passing, and yet all I can think about is the continuation of my line. All I want is to take her in my arms and to kiss the life out of her before filling her pussy with my sperm. Then, I want to see her belly swell as my baby grows beneath her heart, bringing us joy and contentment as we watch the child develop.
You’re such a fucking asshole, the voice in my head hisses. Juliette probably cried herself to sleep every night this week over your son’s death, and all you want is to fill her cunt with your spunk. What a motherfucker.
My subconscious is a hundred percent right, and yet I can’t control my thoughts. Hell, a man shouldn’t go to jail for what he thinks so long as he never acts upon those depraved ideas, right? After all, thought crimes aren’t the same as real crimes. But the problem is that I’m not a wallflower who waits for life to happen; I make life happen. As a result, I turn to Juliette with a smile.
“So are you ready?” I ask in a casual tone.
She’s still staring at the coffin, her gaze fixed.
“Ready for what?” she asks in a low voice.
“Do I really have to spell it out?”
The young woman swivels to look at me then, pink spots on her cheeks.
“Are you really going to ask me about that at your son’s funeral?”
I shrug, as if unconcerned.
“Yes. Time is of the essence, sweetheart,” I say, pinning her with a look. “Don’t you know? Sixty days until D-Day. Tick tock, tick tock.”
Juliette grows angry then, literally shaking a bit as the spots on her cheeks deepen to crimson.
