Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 79462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
She comes then, my fingers inside, my tongue on her clit. She comes with my cock in her mouth, and it drives me over the edge. Those moans, the way she’s moving, I finish at the same time, driving myself into her pretty lips.
“Good girl,” I groan as we finish up together. She licks me clean without having to be told. “Such a good fucking girl.”
She’s flushed red and breathing hard when we’re done. I lovingly clean her off with a hand towel and help get her dressed again. Once I’m together, I tilt her chin up, then take a fistful of her hair, holding it so she’s looking in my eyes while sitting on the couch.
“Hate me all you want. You don’t really know what happened in that war, and you don’t know me at all.”
“You don’t know me either.” She stares back. Defiant and flushed, her ears bright pink. Fuck, she is beautiful.
“You’re right. But each time I make you come, I feel like I know you a little bit better. I feel like I catch a glimpse of what you’re hiding from me.”
“Which is what?”
“A good girl begging to get out.” I release her and walk away. I leave my wife sitting on the couch, my body pulsing with pleasure and lust and the memory of her pussy on my mouth, the hate in her eyes, the pure physical want in her heart. All of it mixed up and confusing, an ugly wreck.
Chapter 15
Fallon
I’m even more determined to destroy my husband.
It’s not the controlling, intense, dominant sexual stuff. I can admit to myself that I like it when he pushes me, I like it when he touches me, and I like it when he gets me off—and I love it when he calls me a good girl. Something clicks inside my body, something shifts into position, when he says those words. I want to be a good girl for him, even while despising him at the very same time.
No, I want to ruin him because he lied.
Right to my face. Staring into my eyes. He lied and tried to feed me some bullshit about my family starting the war, but he’s right, I remember the timeline.
I remember his people moving onto our turf. Selling their drugs on our corners. Pushing into our businesses, stealing our clients and customers, disrupting our entire way of life. He calls it growing, but I call it war.
Still, something’s bothering me. I didn’t know about the bomb at the club. Or at least, I’d read about it online when it happened, and just figured it was some kind of terrorist thing. I never followed up, never saw anything else.
Could it have been my father? That was his modus operandi—the old man enjoyed his bombs, which is probably why it’s ironic one took him out in the end. But could he have really killed innocent people?
If the answer was an easy no, this wouldn’t bother me so damn much.
I avoid Jayson for the rest of that night, sleep in the guest room despite what we talked about, and find the condo empty the next morning.
Which gives me plenty of time to snoop.
I’ve always been good at finding stuff. Back when I was little, I’d find guns, drugs, cash, all sorts of things my father tried to keep hidden. No matter where he’d put it, I’d pull it out again. Drove him crazy, but I got good at it over the years.
I find things. Weapons and money, but also other things. Old photographs, a high school yearbook, a box of old CDs. Evidence of Jayson’s life before me. I find letters from his mother written in her tight, crawling cursive; I manage to read one before giving up on the rest. It’s all banal trivialities anyway, though it’s interesting she chose to write physical letters instead of sending emails or just calling. It gives me a little insight into his relationship with her.
But it doesn’t take long before I find the big score. It’s a locked closet in his room, a narrow one that was probably meant for linens or something, but must’ve been repurposed. “Tricky man,” I say to myself before heading back to the guest room to get my lock picks.
Another reason my father couldn’t ever keep things from me: I learned how to break into places. Helps that I had a lot of bad influences. Rian was always passing down illicit knowledge, most of it coming second-hand from older cousins and uncles. He’d learn how to break the law and how to get away with it, and I’d learn in turn.
I make short work of the door. I’m prepared for disappointment, but instead I find a small, narrow space filled with filing cabinets. Big, metal cabinets, the fireproof kind used in fancy, expensive offices. None of the drawers are locked, and I start pulling them out at random, leafing through the documents with a barely restrained glee.