Chapter 12 Noah #3
Our wet bodies grind against each other as I kiss her.
My hand holds her hip while I roll my cock along her pussy wanting her to feel what she’s doing to me.
The head slides between her folds as I rock my pelvis.
“Damn, I need to be in you so badly.” My confession is desperate, hungry.
Leaning back with one hand on the mattress, I use the other to press the tip into her slit and then slowly jerk in and out, doing my best not to nut.
My body’s burning with the need to fill her up, but she’s so tiny that I’m afraid to hurt her.
“Kiss me, Daddy,” she softly begs and that’s all the urging I need.
Bending down I crush her mouth with mine and plunge forward, sending my cock deep inside her womb, and coming inside her wet snatch.
There’s no way for me to stave off that first load.
She’s too warm, tight, and all mine to even attempt to resist.
“Do you need more, princess? Are you ready to come on my cock? Your little cunt gonna give me what we both need?”
“Yes,” she cries, sliding her hands into my hair, and dragging me down for another kiss. I’m addicted to her kisses. I’m addicted to everything Lily.
I’m still hard as fuck and nowhere near done.
I’m not going to let it end so quickly. Slowly, I drag my length out and then push back in.
Lily’s gasps go from painful to passionate.
“That’s my little girl. Give it to me.” I dip my head and take her breast into my mouth, lapping her smooth flesh before plucking at her nipple with my teeth.
Cupping her ass cheeks, I lift her hips off the bed and double down on my pace, destroying her pussy as I lose control. “You’re going to make me a daddy, right? You’re going to give this old man another reason to live besides you right?”
She nods, her nails digging into my biceps, clinging to me as her walls do the same to my cock. Suddenly she chants my name, crying out her orgasm and taking my seed with her. I roar out my release and then swiftly roll to the side, taking her with me.
“Wow. Fucking incredible.” I brush her hair out of her face and kiss her lips. She blushes and then tucks herself into me with a sigh.
My phone buzzes against the nightstand sometime after midnight, once, twice, insistent. I ease out from under Lily’s arm, careful not to wake her, and step into the hallway before I answer.
“You’ve been busy,” says a voice I haven’t heard in years, smooth and unbothered in a way that used to make my skin crawl back when I was young enough to still be intimidated by it. Sorrentino.
“You sent men after a kid,” I say, low, so it doesn’t carry back into the bedroom. “That’s a line even your father wouldn’t have crossed.”
“My father’s dead, Rickson. Different rules now.” A pause, unhurried, the sound of ice in a glass. “Word is you took out four of my men tonight over some waitress’s debt. That’s a lot of trouble for a woman who isn’t even yours.”
“She’s mine.” The words come out before I’ve decided to say them, absolute and unshakable in a way that surprises even me. “And her mother’s debt is paid. Whatever’s left, you bring it to me from now on.”
Sorrentino laughs, soft and humorless. “Careful. Sounds like you’re inviting a war you walked away from a decade ago.”
“I didn’t walk away from anything. I just stopped picking fights that weren’t mine.” I glance back toward the bedroom door, toward the sliver of lamplight underneath it. “You made this one mine the second your men put their hands on her.”
“You always were sentimental,” Sorrentino says, and I can hear the smile in it, the particular cruelty of a man who’s never once had to choose between what he wants and what’s safe.
“Your father wasn’t sentimental. That’s the difference between the two of you, Rickson, and it’s going to be the death of you eventually. ”
The line goes quiet long enough that I almost think he’s hung up.
“We’ll talk again, Rickson,” he finally says, and this time there’s something colder underneath the smoothness, something that sounds a great deal like a promise.
Then the call ends, and I’m left standing in a dark hallway with my heart still hammering from an entirely different reason twenty minutes ago, recalculating exactly how much danger I’ve just invited into a house I swore would stay quiet.
I don’t tell Lily. Not tonight. Tonight I just go back to bed and hold her a little tighter than before, and let myself pretend, for a few more hours, that a phone call is the worst thing that’s going to happen this week.
I call Matteo again before sunrise, quiet enough not to wake her, and tell him to double the men watching the perimeter and to start quietly moving pieces into place in case Sorrentino decides talk isn’t enough for him.
War isn’t something I wanted, not really, not the kind that spills out past the careful lines I’ve spent a decade drawing around my life.
But I learned a long time ago that wanting peace and being prepared for its absence aren’t contradictory positions.
My father taught me that lesson the hard way, and I intend to be a much better student of it than he ever gave me credit for being.
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