2. 3
“Russians?” Grandpa Ray asks me.
“Yeah.”
“Where are your men?”
“Bought off.”
Grandpa Ray shakes his head as he stops several feet from Wyatt, who is still aiming the Beretta at his chest.
“Hey, kid. It’s been a minute,” Grandpa Ray says to him. “This your work?” He raises his thick gray eyebrows.
Wyatt nods jerkily, finally lowering his gun.
“You learn to shoot like that at college?” Grandpa Ray asks.
Wyatt nods again. “Yeah. I’ve been in sports shooting since then. I won bronze in the twenty-five-meter rapid fire pistol in Tokyo.”
“Oh, yeah? Only bronze?” Grandpa Ray sniffs and smirks, nudging a body with the toe of his wingtip. “I guess it was less than twenty-five meters.”
Wyatt looks at him like he’s speaking Greek. He’s in shock.
“What’s the plan, Ray?” I ask.
“I’ve got backup less than a minute out. You two need to get out of here. Now.” Grandpa Ray digs his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to me.
Somehow, despite how numb he’s acting, Wyatt snatches them from mid-air. He grabs my upper arm and drags me toward the town car.
“Hold up,” I pant, scrunching my toes to keep my busted sandal on my foot.
Wyatt drags me faster. Behind us, Grandpa Ray chuckles and then grunts as he bends over to pat down a corpse. He acts like he hasn’t slowed down any in his old age, but he’s going to wait for the younger guys to do the heavy lifting. A rush of fondness warms my heart. I’m not surprised he appeared unexpectedly to bail me out. He’s been double-checking locked doors and going over my mechanic’s work and doing surprise inspections on my bodyguards my whole life.
Now, Wyatt, on the other hand—that was a surprise. I have no idea what he’s going to do next. My heart beats faster. I wouldn’t have thought that was possible. I’ve been in a few sticky situations over the years, but I’m by no means accustomed to it.
Grim-faced, Wyatt shoves me into the passenger seat, circles the vehicle, and slides behind the wheel. He’s breathing like he’s run a race. He stares for a second at the console like it’s alien technology before he shakes himself off, shifts into reverse, and backs up the twenty yards down the alley and out to the street in a perfectly straight line. He always could drive.
I sink into the leather upholstery and flashback to Wyatt’s car in high school, his dad’s old BMW with the window that wouldn’t roll all the way down and the french fry smell that never went away, even after Wyatt had it detailed.
I glance over at his cute little stomach. Maybe the smell never went away because he was always replenishing it. My mouth curves, and my heart somehow melts and aches at the same time.
He didn’t let me go. He saved me.
“A bronze medal, eh?”
He grunts. I’m surprised I didn’t hear about it, but I guess shooting isn’t as big as gymnastics or swimming or track.
“And now you direct analytics, strategically?”
“Shut up, Mira.” Wyatt is holding the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles are as white as his face is gray. At least it’s not green. The first time I killed a man, I puked my guts out.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer; he just keeps driving the speed limit, hunched forward in his seat, scrupulously obeying all traffic laws until we’re out of downtown and entering the neighborhood where we grew up.
“My dad’s not home. He and Mom are in Greece.”
“I’m not taking you there.” He doesn’t elaborate.
I cross my arms and settle back, watching the familiar homes and their meticulous, landscaped yards go by. When he turns onto Canterbury Lane, I figure out where he’s taking us. Homestead Park. It’s a Revolutionary War-era property that they’ve turned into the county’s historic society. The wooded acres around the old house and barn are a public park with hiking trails and a tractor tire playground. My mother brought me here all the time when I was little.
Wyatt would bring me here, too, when I convinced him to take me for a drive. He was never fully comfortable taking me away from the neighborhood. I told him that Mom would cover for me, but he was always intimidated by my dad. Who wasn’t?
I guess that’s why I could never really blame Wyatt. At the end of the day, my dad is Dario Volpe, consigliere of the Corso syndicate, and more to the point, a genuine psychopath. Wyatt would never have been a match for him, and I didn’t see then what I can see clearly now—Wyatt doesn’t need to be as hard as Dad. I am .
I sneak a glance over at him as he hops the curb onto the grass to weave around the boom gate blocking the entrance. He pulls into a spot in the dark, empty parking lot, his expression grave as hell.
He yanks up the emergency brake, and for a minute, he stews in silence. I wait. Wyatt never would talk before he was ready.
Finally, he glares over, his brown eyes gone black. “Why would you go out there alone with him, Mira? Jesus!”
He loses it and pounds the wheel with his fists. Good thing it’s an older model.
When he’s done, his shoulders heave as he drags in a ragged breath. “You could’ve been killed, Mira. Fuck!” He slams the steering wheel again, open palmed.
I stare at him, scrunched motionless against the passenger door. I’m not worried about getting hit—Wyatt would never hurt me—but I want to memorize every second of freakout as his brain pieces together what could have happened. I don’t care that it’s not healthy, well-adjusted love. What use would I have for that with who and what I am?
The feelings playing out on Wyatt’s stubborn, honest face are tormented and more instinct than anything, but it’s love, too, all the same. And it’s identical to the love I carry inside me for him. Still. Always.
“Wyatt,” I say softly and reach for him.
He’s quicker than me. He grabs me first, digging his fingers into the flesh of my upper arms as he hauls me over the middle console and out the driver’s side door.
“Wyatt?”
“Shut up, Mira,” he growls, flinging the back door open and throwing me in. I land on the bench seat and bounce. Yet again, I lose my broken sandal.
He follows me in, trapping me on my back.
I try to help him, but he won’t let me. I reach for his fly, but he’s already tearing my dress over my head, leaving it bunched around my elbows, pinning my arms above my head.
“What are you doing, Wyatt?”
“What I should have done a long time ago.” He shoves my bra up to my neck and latches onto my tit with his hot mouth, suckling hard, while he wrestles my panties off. I whimper, arching my back to free my nipple. It hurts. He’s not being gentle. He knows I like to start off gentle.
“Wyatt,” I whine and wriggle.
“Shut up, Mira. You’ve said enough. No more.” He’s not making sense, but he let go of my tit to speak, so it’s all good.
He grunts and keeps going, finally untangling my panties from my ankles, shoving my leg up so it’s wedged like a chicken wing between his solid torso and the seat. I couldn’t stop him if I wanted to, and that sets the heat swirling low in my belly ablaze.
“Don’t you ever do something that stupid again, Mira. Never—” He pants, struggling with his zipper. “Ever—” He gets it down. “ Again .”
He slams his hips forward, ramming his cock into me, splitting me in half. I scream, with surprise more than anything, jerking my head up since I can’t throw a punch with my arms trapped in my bunched dress. Our skulls crack. My ears ring. Immediately, his nose swells.
He freezes.
“Goddamn it, Wyatt!” Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, he’s thick . I’m spit roasted. Stuffed like a turkey. It’s been a while, and he’s way girthier than my toys, and there are no fun bumps and ridges, just freaking meat . Did he tear something? I was wet, but I was not prepared.
“Mira?” Wyatt pushes himself up on his arms, gazing down at me with such absolute terror and regret that my heart melts. His biceps bulge. They’re crazy huge for a Director of Strategic Analytics. “What’s happening, Mira?”
He shifts his hips, not much, but it’s too much. I whimper and try to relax my pussy muscles, but they’re stretched to the limit.
Horror dawns across his face. The bridge of his nose is swelling fast. Did I break it?
“Oh, shit, Mira. Tell me you’ve done this before.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m twenty-six. What do you think?”
He blushes, and my stuffed belly warms. He’s adorable. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, hanging his head, but I notice he makes no move to pull out.
“For what?” I lift my knees and tilt my hips, experimenting. He slips impossibly deeper, putting pressure on a certain spot in a particular way that I’ve never felt before. I groan, letting the knee that isn’t trapped fall open.
“For leaving. Blocking you. Staying away. For everything.”
“But not for stuffing my poor, little, innocent pussy with that overstuffed beef sausage you’re packing with no warning at all? I can taste it in the back of my throat, Wyatt.”
That stops his spiraling. I’ve always been able to get him off track with my dirty mouth. I don’t want him to be sorry anymore. I want him to prove that he missed me—my shampoo, my toes, everything.
“Do you want me to pull out?” he says.
I do a Kegel. “Why are you always trying to bail on me, Wyatt Foster?” I tease.
His eyes darken, and something blows his self-control out of the water again. He falls on me, devouring my mouth, careless with his teeth, his weight pressing me into the upholstery and driving his cock even deeper. It rubs that spot he found, and yummy, hungry, greedy bursts of goodness make my belly quiver and my thighs shake.
I pulse my hips, chasing the high, and he groans. “Mira,” he says as he lifts himself to gaze down at me, bemused, and at the same time, so very, very serious. He begins to rock his hips, exactly like I want, as he gently guides my arms free of my wadded-up dress.
“Wyatt,” I say back to him, cradling his precious face, gently prodding the bump on his nose to assess the damage. He hisses and ducks his head away.
“Leave it alone,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“Okay,” I say, wrapping a leg around his waist so I can kick his butt cheek to urge him on. I’m good now. I want him to go faster. Harder.
He frowns at me and smooths my hair, tucking it behind my ears. “Are you okay?”
I smile up at him. “So okay. You can fuck me now like you want to.”
“You know what I want?” he asks, his eyes lighting up.
“Yeah.” I crane my neck so I can kiss him. “Me,” I whisper in his ear.
“Always you,” he agrees, and he gathers me to him with an arm under my shoulders, hoists my thigh higher, and begins to fuck me like he means it.
I roll my hips as much as I can while getting jackhammered to see if I can rub my clit against something—a pubic bone, that big, hard belly—but I can’t reach, and he’s still dressed. I want skin, and I want to see him. Us. Together.
“Take your shirt off,” I gasp.
He immediately rips off his vest and shirt together, and then braces his forearms by my head. I glance toward our feet. He’s sucking in his gut. He’s so freaking cute. He’s obviously built; he’s just got a little layer of beer chub over the muscle.
I sneak my hand between us, tracing his happy trail. It’s thicker now. I like how it rasps against the soft skin of my stomach. I experiment with lifting my hips so I can feel the hair tickle my bare belly. I love it.
“Oh, shit.” That did more than I intended. The angle is somehow even more perfect.
“What do you need, baby?” he asks. His face is turning red. From the plank he’s doing on top of me or from trying not to come?
“I can’t reach my clit,” I whine.
“Okay,” he grunts and shifts, trying to hold his weight on one hand and reach between my legs with the other, but this is the backseat of a Lincoln, and we’re both grown-ass adults. He’s strong, but not Hulk strong. He collapses on me with an oof. “Hold up. Hang on.”
Somehow, with brute strength and grunts and curses, he manages to flip us so he’s on his back, and I’m on top, hunched over, still stuffed full of his twenty-five-ounce-tall-beer-can cock.
He grins at me, and all of a sudden, he’s eighteen again— the poor little rich boy, bitter, jaded, and mad at everyone in the world except me, his princess, the only person who can make him smile, who knows what his silences mean.
Tears pool in my eyes.
“Hey, hey,” he says, reaching to hug me to his chest. I stop him, bracing my hands on his stomach. I was right. Under the pudge, he’s hard as rock. “What’s wrong? Do you want to stop? We can stop.”
“No, I don’t want to stop.” I sniffle. “I just want the time back, you know?”
“I know,” he says, covering my hands with his, curling his fingers around mine, his eyes trained on my face like I’m a miracle or a revelation, like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. I arch my back and smile.
I haven’t felt beautiful for years. I know I am, in a conventional beauty standards kind of way, but I’ve never felt it except for when I see myself reflected in Wyatt Foster’s eyes.
“You can’t leave me again,” I tell him.
“I won’t.”
“I won’t let you,” I warn him.
“Okay.” He smiles, and the emptiness that I learned to live with fills with warmth. I begin to rock.
Sweat beads Wyatt’s forehead.
“I love you,” I tell him, grinning.
“I’ve loved you longer,” he says.
I tug one of my hands free so I can play with my clit. His eyes track the movement, watching greedily. I toss my hair and ride him, chasing down my orgasm, knowing in my soul that’s all he wants—to see me come. To see me happy.
It comes on quick and powerful, crashing through me, cramping my insides so tight that Wyatt shouts and comes too, even though he was holding it together with that Lamaze breathing he always did to make sure he lasted when I sucked him off back in the day.
I fold forward and land on his chest, wobbling like a Jell-O mold. He immediately strokes my spine, exactly how I like.
“You remember,” I mumble.
“I remember everything,” he says.
I try to nestle closer, but there’s no distance between us, and there’s never going to be again. Back when we were kids, I was a princess, but not anymore. I’m a dangerous woman. Nothing and no one is ever going to take this man away from me again.
“Come home with me.” It’s not an invitation, and he knows it.
Wyatt smiles so wide that I get a rare show of teeth. “Okay,” he says.
He grabs my dress off the floor mat, flips it right side out, and hands it to me to wriggle on. I’m not excited about dismounting this monster cock or looking Grandpa Ray in the eye later. There is going to be a mess.
“You okay?” Wyatt asks, smoothing my dress down over my hips.
“I’m great.” I bite the bullet and slide off his lingering semi.
He does a crunch, gawking as a flood of cum gushes from my pussy onto his hairy lower belly. He grins. My cheeks catch fire.
I snatch my wadded-up panties from under the driver’s seat and wipe him up while he lounges there like he’s king of the world.
“Does this mean I’m a made man?” he asks. “Since I bagged a Volpe?”
“This means you’re full of shit, Wyatt Foster,” I say, grabbing his arms and leaning back to drag him upright. He raises an eyebrow. He’s ridiculously pleased with himself. “You said you’d never fuck me in the backseat of your car.”
“It’s not mine,” he says, letting me pull him up. He grins, so happy that he looks high. His happiness burns away every lingering scrap of hurt and loneliness inside me. Finally, after eight years, I feel like myself again.
“Where’s your shoe?” he asks, his gaze caught on my bare foot.
“I have no idea.”
Somehow, he gets us out of the car, carrying me to the passenger seat so I don’t have to step on gravel. He hunts for the lost sandal for a while until I tell him to leave it behind and take me home.
He’s as cautious as I remember all the way back to my condo, hands at ten and two, no more than five miles above the speed limit. He was always like this with me in the car, driving like he was on a suspended license until he dropped me off, and then peeling off like a race car driver. Does he still drive like that?
I can’t wait to find out.
My insides warm as he pulls up in front of my condo building. I can’t wait to drag him upstairs, strip him naked, and make him talk until I know about every last thing on his Notes list.
Annoyingly, as soon as he engages the parking brake, my phone goes off. “Psycho Killer” by the Talking Heads. It’s Dad.
I sigh and tap the green button, putting it on speaker out of habit.
“I’m fine,” I say immediately.
“Put the kid on,” he growls.
“Okay. Hold on. I’m handing him the phone.” I don’t. There’s no way I’m not listening in on this conversation.
Wyatt gives me a look and then clears his throat. “Sir?”
“Ray tells me your balls finally dropped, eh?”
“I did what had to be done,” he says, absolutely deadpan, not a shred of deference in his voice. My heart swells with love. I always knew he could be what I needed, but I never wanted to make him. He’s born to it, though, in his own way. Just like me.
“You got this now?” Dad asks Wyatt. “Or do I have to upset her mother and haul her out of the chaise lounge in the cabana?”
“I have this.”
“We’ll talk when I get back. I have something that I’ve been holding on to. I guess you know what to do with it now.”
Wyatt grunts, hangs up, and then exhales long and hard. Of course, he realizes what’s going on. He’s not stupid. He must’ve caught on several blocks back.
I plaster an innocent look on my face and push my tits up. I hope he’s not too mad.
“Mira?” His voice raises at the end of name. The jig is up. “Why is your condo right across from my job?”
“Is it?” I widen my eyes and blink.
“Mira,” he growls.
I huff and fold my arms so my tits lift even higher. His gaze darts down. I hide my smile.
“I might, possibly, kind of own S & E Logistics.”
“You own my company?”
“Well, yeah. Since the takeover. That was me.”
“You just bought it?”
“Well, I bought a majority of the shares. And it wasn’t me, per se. It was S & E International. My shell corporation.”
“Your shell corporation?”
“Well, one of my shell corporations.” I cross my legs so my dress rides up, flashing a little thigh to distract him. His gaze darts again, and his jaw tightens. “I named it after the dogs. Sheldon and Eustace. S & E.”
“How come I never saw you?”
“I park in the garage in the basement.”
He rests an elbow on the steering wheel and lets his head fall into his hand. “And you just bought my company.” He narrows his eyes. “Is that why I’m the Director of Strategic Analytics? Did you make them promote me?”
“Oh, no. That wasn’t the plan. I bought the company so I could bankrupt it and ruin your life anytime I wanted.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “It made me feel better. Knowing that I could.”
The corners of his mouth sneak up. “You are your father’s daughter,” he says.
“And my mother’s.” I lift my shoulders. “I didn’t actually do it.”
He glances over, smiling ruefully. “What else of mine do you own, Don Mira?”
I fold my arms and hike my chin. “Not much. Your apartment building. The bank that holds the lease on your car.”
He snorts. “That all?”
“Your heart,” I mumble, my cheeks burning, glancing at him from the side of my eye, shy and hopeful and scared as hell.
“My heart,” he agrees, very simply, like it’s nothing more or less than obvious truth. “Hey, after you clean up, want to go to my place and say hi to Sheldon?”
“You’ve still got him?” I squeal.
“Yeah. His muzzle’s pretty gray now, but he’s good. Just slower.”
I’m out of the car in a flash, and Wyatt is at my side in seconds. He grabs my hand as we walk together up the sidewalk.
Like he’ll never let go.
Like, in a way, he never did.
Read the story of Mira’s parents in the dark romance Run Posy Run .