That Time I Accidentally Took Over the Mafia (Accidental)

Chapter 1

I wonder if it’s socially acceptable to let a guy, who’s currently having sex with you, know that you’ve forgotten his name. For the past three minutes I’ve been staring at the ceiling, trying to remember, but—nothing. John? Jacob? Jingleheimer Schmidt? It’s something basic, like him… like the date… like this sex.

A small part of me thought he’d be a freak in bed—classy in public, then BAM! Mr. “I’ll Fuck Your Brains Out” would show up with some massive cock for me to worship all night.

But no. Not this Friday night. Not for Delaney Caputo.

Remind me to slap my bestie Stacie for setting me up with this guy. I’ll never trust her judgment again. Ever.

This is a blind date, and even though I’ve got a birth control implant, there’s no way I’m letting some random dude go bare in my “love canal.” I offered him a condom, but he declined. He brought his own… smaller ones. Great. Just great.

I give up trying to remember his name and glance at the clock. Four minutes in, and it looks like he was ready to blow his load two minutes ago. What a champ, holding on this long.

I catch sight of my brunette hair in the lamp’s reflection, and… is that a gray hair? I swear, if it is, I’ll riot. I’m only twenty-six! I’m too young for this. Too young for bad sex, too, and yet… here we are.

I should make an appointment at the salon. I’m due for a root touch-up anyway. I wonder if my regular stylist will be there. I need to update her on my next taboo stepbrother romance idea. (Hint: there are two stepbrothers. Twins. Eeek!)

His sweaty body shifts on top of me, and I remember I should be moaning at the right times, so I do. A little “uhh, yeah, right there” for motivation. I give his shoulders a small squeeze to seem like I’m into it. And of course, I’m squeezing my Kegels too. I have to get something out of this.

We all know pelvic floor strength is important for women’s health.

Finally, he finishes, flopping over like a sweaty, huffing mess.

Thank God that’s over.

Dude-man is barely able to move his arms, and his hands are floppy as he tries to form a coherent thought. He looks like a ridiculous T-rex. Just when I think he’s about to ask, “You came too, right?” —he lets out a snore.

Cross my heart and hope to die, he fell asleep no more than ten seconds after coming. And—insert green “I’m gonna be sick” emoji—he’s still wearing his tiny condom.

I sit up, the sheet draped around my chest, and cover my face with my hands. A literal face-palm.

Why me?

I sigh and check to see if Bob is available tonight. Of course, he is. My little pink battery boyfriend is always ready. “You’re the only dependable thing in my life, Bob,” I mutter, heading to the bathroom. Oh my god, I almost forgot my ear pods. That would have been tragic.

I scroll through my favorite faceless, thirst-trap creators for a good moaning audio. Thank you, Moanster23, for your service. We salute you.

I hit play with my ear buds giving me a surround-sound experience of a lubed hand sliding up, what has to be a massive cock. Bob buzzes to life, eager to serve and in 90 seconds, he does what Mr. Forgettable failed to do in five minutes. I wash my hands and face then pop in a probiotic suppository. Thinking about some titles for my next book, I go to my notes app to jot down ideas.

Just as I’m heading back to bed, I hear the little bell notification, letting me know that Moanster23 has posted a new audio. One more won’t hurt, right?

I cut my eyes around my bathroom like someone is here to judge me and I decide another wonderful orgasm is definitely what I deserve after this night.

So, getting on my knees, I crank the volume and intensity up. Bob does it again, and I bounce up and down like I’m riding the cock I deserve. Moanster and Bob are my perfect partners. I watch the scrollbar on the video, timing it so I come when Moanster does and we all crescendo together to a second glorious orgasm.

Washing my hands again, I flip off the light and pad out to the darkened bedroom, remembering dude-face is still here. I debate waking him up, but then I notice the saggy condom still on his now-shriveled penis.

I actually do gag this time.

Grabbing a few tissues, I wrap them around his penis, and remove the condom, cleaning up his– mess . I toss it into the wastebasket next to the bed. There is no way I’m letting his goop stay on my bed all night just because he couldn’t be bothered to clean himself.

I’m too tired to deal with anything else, so I settle into bed. In the morning, I can kick out Mediocre-Marvin, hit the corner bakery for a flaky croissant breakfast sandwich and call the salon.

T he sun shines bright, and the smell of bacon fills the air. I take a deep, appreciative breath before my eyes snap open. Wait a second—where’s homeboy?

The bed is empty, and I growl in irritation. I had planned to tell him to hit the road this morning, but it looks like he wants to hang around for a post-bad-sex breakfast. Well that is not happening this morning.

I throw on a knee-length, silky robe and tie it at the waist. Hmm, I’ll brush my teeth later—my morning dragon breath might help scare him off faster. I open the bedroom door, and at the same time, my bathroom door behind me opens. And there stands… Peter?

Ugh! Not even seeing him awake is helping me solve the mystery of his name. I should have looked at his ID last night. I’ll remember that next time.

What? No. Bad Delaney. Next time, remember people’s names—especially the ones you let fuck you.

“Morning!” he says, holding up his hand with a flat-lipped smile. “I was about to head out, but your— nutritionists —are here.”

“Excuse me? My who?” I pinch my brows and tighten my robe’s belt.

He points vaguely toward the stairs. “Your nutritionists. The ones cooking. They said breakfast will be ready in five.”

I narrow my eyes, grab my phone, and head downstairs. If I have to call the cops at least I can use it to throat-punch whoever is downstairs first.

Do burglars usually cook for the houses they rob? Some sort of “pay it forward” thing? Or maybe Stacie sent me a sexy-gram to make up for… Adam? No, that’s not it.

Well, if she did send me some Dick-Dash, she could have at least made sure dude-boy was gone.

I’m still thinking through possibilities when the sound of familiar voices from downstairs snaps me back to reality.

What. The. Fuck.

I freeze, my foot hovering on the stairs, hand clutching the railing as I stare with a gaping mouth into my kitchen.

I see Luca first, my long-lost stepbrother. His nearly-black hair is perfectly tousled—the most intentional mess I’ve ever seen. He doesn’t glance at me, but I know he knows I’m here. He stiffens slightly, squaring his shoulders under the gray hoodie he’s wearing.

The last time I saw him was six years ago my freshman year of college. He popped my cherry, then practically ran away with my blood still on his cock… his incredibly large cock… that I was most definitely NOT thinking about last night when I was bouncing on good-ole’ Bob.

Now, here he is, just sitting at my table, clacking away on his laptop while Enzo, my old boss, paces outside on my balcony. Fucking Enzo.

Whoever he’s chewing out should be thankful he’s here on my patio and not in front of them. I know firsthand what it’s like to deal with him when he’s pissed—it’s downright terrifying.

Enzo’s in a dark suit, with a burgundy shirt, sleeves rolled up and a tie, making his grey eyes look even more gorgeous. His dark hair is perfectly slicked, and at 6’4”, you can’t miss him. In fact, in a room filled with 6’4” suits, I still don’t think I could miss him. Gravity seems to pull toward him, and it takes effort for me to look away from his ass when he turns around.

Because Enzo is double-caked here on this fine Saturday morning. Dayum son.

Enzo holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder and puts his suit jacket back on.

You know, I think my former boss must have come out of his mother’s vagina wearing a three-piece suit. The only time I’ve seen him dressed differently was that weekend he spent filling my every hole with his giant dick, then he fired me on Monday. Cocksucker.

But it’s Jax standing at the stove that shocks me the most. Not because he’s wearing my pink apron that says, “Whip It Real Good,” but because I had no idea he’d been released from prison.

It would seem getting arrested on your wedding day for a four-year prison stint doesn’t come with a warning about your release to your abandoned bride.

I stand there gawking like a fucking idiot on the stairs. Evidently, I took too long making my presence known because Luca does it for me.

“Lenny’s awake.”

Psht. “Lenny.” He’s the only the only one that has ever called me that. I roll my eyes, hoping he feels it with his hacker spidey-senses.

Jax looks up from stirring scrambled eggs and sets his gaze on me, flashing those knee-shaking dimples. Time seems to stop as he walks up with a steaming cup of coffee. “Hey there, Peach.”