Page 38 of Sinful Promise
She moves fast, lifting and squeezing me tight. Then she drops with a thud and swallows me up until my balls threaten to explode. Her tits bounce with her movements, and her throat bobs and tempts me to latch on and bite.
“Fuck. You feel good.”
“Doctor Mayet? Open the damn door!”
Stunned, she jerks to a stop and opens her eyes. The warmth in her cheeks drains to a pale white, and when the door rattles again, she twists on my cock and threatens to snap it clean off. “He can’t be seriou—”
“Minka!”
“Fucking Cato!” I pick her up and set her on the mattress—she was done with me anyway—then I charge to the closet and throw an oversize shirt at her chest before she storms out there with too few clothes on. “I’m gonna kill him.”
“He’s not…” Quickly, she shrugs my shirt on, then dashes to the drawers and takes out fresh panties while I step into jeans. “No way did he—”
“I think he fuckin’ did.” I snatch a second shirt from the closet and pull it on, catching my head in the armhole, and growling when the front door handle rattles loud enough to wake the building. “Why didn’t Steve stop visitors from coming up?”
“Because he’s not a security guard.” She takes a pair of yoga pants and pulls them up to cover her perfect ass. Then she snatches a hair tie and bunches her hair together as she races into the hall. “I’m gonna hurt your brothers, Archer Malone. Every single one of them has given me reason to bring them pain.”
“Ya think?” I look down at my cock and whimper at what was so close. The completion I wanted so badly. “I’ll hurt them first,” I grumble to myself.
Turning into the hall, I emerge in the living room just as Minka tears the front door open and reveals my baby brother’s wicked grin. He supports Micah, whose face is verging on gray and whose enthusiasm for a cross-country trip is clearly below the depths of hell.
“What are you doing?” Disappointed, frustrated, she ducks in on Micah’s other side to hold him up. “He’s not fit for travel, Cato!”
“You wouldn’t come to us.” He’s smug as he becomes a three-person-structure, struggling through the door. His smile is too big, his eyes too playful as he carries most of Micah’s weight and hobbles into the living room.
For a brief pause, our eyes meet, but when mine fire with anger, he only chuckles. “Arch. Good to see you again.”
“You’re an asshole.”
When the trio are near the couch, I step in and save Minka from blowing out her back to lower my two-hundred-pound brother onto the cushions. And since I know Cato’s here strictly because he wants attention, I search Micah’s green and gray face for answers, and wait for his eyes to flicker open.
He’s not as loud as Felix. Not as angry as Tim, but not as easygoing as Cato. He’s a middle-of-the-road kinda guy, who neither wants drama, nor creates it.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I shove a cushion under his head. “Micah?”
“Archer. Move.” Minka lowers to her knees so she and my brother are on the same level. Then conjuring a bag of medical supplies, she jams his eyelids open and flashes a penlight to make him react. “Fever?”
“Mm-mm.” He licks his lips and attempts to shake his head. He’s far too long for our couch, but he tilts to the side and lies down so his legs hang off the end and his boots droop to the side. “My hand is on fuckin’ fire, though.”
“Shit.” Quickly, she unwraps the bandaging that surrounds his new amputation. And byamputation, I mean the perfectly healthy digit another family fucking hacked off with dull scissors. “Is it warm to touch? Is that what you mean?”
“Not warm.” He lays his head back and closes his eyes to rest. “Just hurts.”
“How did you get here?” I scowl as Cato heads to the fridge and peers inside. “Commercial?”
“Fuck no.” He steals a soda and slams the fridge shut. But while he moves, casual and relaxed, he looks around our home.
It’s not at all like the estate he was raised on. The mansion he was bred to someday own.
He’s still a month or so from his eighteenth birthday, but he’s tall enough to pass as a twenty-something-year-old. Broad enough to fit in with the rest of his brothers. He’s gonna go pro someday in the basketball league, his passion proven when he strolls to the front door, opens it, steps into the hall, and comes back with a bag slung over his shoulder, and a bright orange basketball hugged in the crook of his arm. “Flew out using Cordoza’s jet.” He sets his bag on the floor and smirks. “Sweet ride.”
“You asked Cordoza for a fucking favor?” I push up to stand, while on her knees, Minka exposes Micah’s mutilated hand. The swelling still to go down, and the ugly stitches trying desperately to heal. “You asked him for something? Are you insane?”
He peeks along our internal hallway toward the bedroom. He’s nothing if not hardened enough to check his surroundings. Immature? Maybe. But bred for survival. “He offered.” Popping the seal on the soda can, he turns back our way and spins his ball on the tip of his finger. “If Micah dies, Pastore has started a war. And since Minka’s tight with Cordoza, he offered us a ride.” He looks down at my wife and smirks. “It would be kinda rude of me to ask what you did to… impress him.”
“Cato!”
Minka rolls her eyes and inspects her patient. “It’s called communication between grown adults. Mutual respect. Kindness.”
