Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3) by Nicci Harris (digital ebook reader txt) 📗

"That wasn't a question. I will need more men." His tone is all business. The person on the other side of the phone speaks, but their words are muffled by Max's cheek. "Right." He hangs up and finishes removing his clothes.

As the last item of his drops to the floor, all I can do is tilt my head in confusion. The sequence of events that have just unfolded aren't exactly what I had imagined. They are rather weird to say the least.

"Max?" I say because what else do I say?

A physique made for destruction crawls onto the bed and up my body until I drop back to allow him to hover over me. Intense, searching grey-blue eyes bore into mine as he settles himself up on his elbows. With his hands in my hair, warm fingers stroke my face and trace my freckles.

"Yes?" he whispers, watching his fingers map my every feature.

I giggle at the absurdity of this moment. "Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes."

I swallow hard. "I'm sorry, Max."

His brows form a tight line above his penetrative stare. "For what?"

"Cause. . . um. . ." I falter. "I don't know."

He studies me as if he's unsure of what to say. Max Butcher is a man of few words. He doesn't shower ideas or confessions or inspirations around for all to enjoy. But he usually has a stance. Right now, though, he's contemplative.

He gazes at me. "I should leave. I should leave you and this baby, and you'll be safe."

My whole world shifts, and I whimper. "You won't do that though," I say, my voice panicked, my throat burning.

"No. I won't," he states definitively. "Because I'm a selfish prick and I want you."

I try not to weep with the feel of relief. "I want you too."

"You shouldn't."

"I'm not afraid of your world anymore, Max. The only thing that scares me now is not being there for you. With you."

He exhales, following his finger as it moves across my cheek, gazing at my hair winged out around his pillow. "This will be your decision then."

Air seems to thicken, so I open my mouth.

He continues, "I'm not going to let anyone make decisions for you anymore."

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

"Say, Max, let's make a baby."

And the air is now like tar - so dense I can't draw it in. "What?"

He dips his head down, his lips meeting my ear. "Say it and then I'll fuck you."

I'm actually panting now. "I - I don't-" I stammer. "I still don’t understand?"

Oh my God, what is he saying? What is he talking about? Is he okay with this?

He pushes himself up, leaning on one forearm. Grey irises nail me to the mattress, demanding, dead fricking serious.

And yet, I struggle to form words.

"I told you, Cassidy," he says, a hint of some kind of emotion knotting his voice up - anger, maybe, guilt, perhaps. "I fucking swore it. I'd never let anything happen to you again. I fucking said it and now something has. I need you to say it. Or I've failed you again."

Tears squeeze from the edges of my eyes, painting salty streams down my temples and on his pillow. "No, Max," I say, pressing my hand to his perfectly coarse cheeks. "I know you are still getting used to me being a constant in your life. This can't just be my decision-"

His face tightens. "Who said that?"

My breath catches at his suddenly fierce expression. "What?"

"Who fucking said I'm still getting used to you?"

Blinking the tears out, I shake my head once. "No one, but-"

"Have my actions not been clear?"

"Um, yes," I say because they have. I think. "I just feel like this is all a lot for you. Up until a few months ago, a girlfriend was worse than polio and now-"

The fingers in my hair twist, tethering me to his fists. "I'll spell it out then, Cassidy. I want you here. Every day. In my fucking bed. I'm not getting used to you. You are what I want. I thought I made that clear already."

He leans down and kisses a tear as it falls. This is all too much. I think he's saying he's okay with this? That this is happening? That he supports my decision? Is that what's fricking happening right now? "And the baby?"

"Just say the words."

Knowing this is his way of gaining a sense of control, claiming the situation we have found ourselves in, I slowly say, "Max, make a baby with me."

He grips my jaw, his fingers pressing into my cheeks. His lips meet mine softly, completely contradictory to the firm hold he has on my face. As his tongue touches my lip, I open my mouth and massage his with mine. Kneading. Dancing together in a collective rhythm of need and love and acceptance.

When one of his hands moves down to hook my leg over the back of his thighs, he begins to stroke his body against mine. His lips journey around my face as he releases my jaw. Careful not to lay too much of his weight on my body, he moulds me, manhandling me into position. His erection is pressed, hot and hard, between the lips of my sex. My core clenches in anticipation of being filled so fully at any moment.

He rolls his hips up and down, stroking himself between my wet lips. Groaning at the sensation, his mouth becomes more frenzied. Nipping. Licking.

I drag my fingers lightly up his back while he moves to grip his erection. Holding me stationary with one hand, his fist picks up pace, the brunt of it meeting my sex. I hold my breath, helpless against the pressure of him on top of me, caging me. And when he moves his hand away, nothing separates us.

His hips pump shallowly into me, forcing his huge pulsing erection in, spreading me wide. Letting out long, whimpering moans, I grip his biceps. Brace myself. He pushes in. Pushes further. I thought I would get used to the feel