Distraction: An underground kings novel (29 page)

“What time are they arriving?” he asks, kissing my forehead before moving away to the fridge.

“I think tomorrow sometime, but if Dad has his way, it could be late tonight,” I tell him, and he looks over his shoulder and grins.

“I’m guessing your mom is still on her ‘Kama Sutra across the US’ kick?” he asks, coming out of the fridge with eggs and a block of cheese.

“It’s so weird,” I mutter, shaking my head.

“She’s got a lot of followers.” He smiles, setting the carton of eggs on the counter. He isn’t wrong; my mom started a few social media pages and has close to forty thousand followers. When she and my dad travel, they stop along the way, and my mom teaches classes on the Kama Sutra, though she still hasn’t talked Sven into taking one. She tries every time we see her.

“It’s still weird,” I repeat, listening to him laugh.

“I still have the book she gave me on her last visit. I think we should try out a few of the positions.”

“This is kind of in the way,” I tell him, wrapping my arms around my large belly.

“I’m sure there’s something in there we could try.” He grins, and I feel the place between my legs tingle at the thought. One thing for sure—the heat between us hasn’t died down, not even a little bit, and I have no doubt it never will.

*

“Quiet, little man.
Momma’s sleeping,” I hear Sven whisper, and I keep my position in the bed but open my eyes and watch him pick up Maddox from his bassinet and carry him out of the room. Sitting up, I slip out of bed and head down the hall, making sure to stay quiet as I follow behind them. Standing in the doorway of the living room, I watch as Sven walks to the kitchen to make a bottle then walks to stand in the middle of the room with Maddox in his arms, swaying him from side-to-side as he feeds him.

Biting my lip to keep from crying, I listen as Sven tells our son the story of how we met then smile when he adds that he thought I was crazy. I have no regrets. Looking back at every single moment, the bad ones included, I have no regrets about any of it, because I know the foundation we built when we became an ‘us’ is solid; nothing will ever break us.

Moving back to the bedroom, I stop in the hall and look at one of the pictures I had framed right after Maddox was born. Sven is standing with his parents, his mom next to his father, both looking happy and smiling at their grandson. His mom will never be normal, but looking at them as a family, I know Sven needed that connection, and even more so, I know his parents needed it, and I’m just glad they all have it now.

Moving down the hall, I get back into bed and pull the blanket up over my shoulder, and I try to fight it, but I fall asleep.

*

Sven

“Shit, Mags.” I
run my fingers through the hair on either side of her head while her hand works in sync with her mouth, taking me down her throat. “Fuck, come here,” I growl, but she shakes her head with my cock still in her mouth. “Now,” I demand, raising my hips off the bed as she takes me deeper, pushing me closer to the edge. Putting my hands under her armpits, I jerk her away from my cock, flip her to her back, push her legs apart, and then slam inside her. “I come inside of you, not in your mouth,” I remind her, moving my thumb to her clit and rolling my finger over it.

“Yes, inside of me,” she whimpers, wrapping her legs around my back.

“You’re so wet, baby. Jesus, you love sucking me off, don’t you?” I ask, rolling her clit faster.

“Yes,” she hisses, and my mouth travels down her neck, nipping the skin as I go, ending on her breast. Her nails dig into my back and I pull her nipple into my mouth, biting down on the tip and feeling the walls of her pussy contract around me. “Sven!” she cries, and I lift my head to watch her come apart under me as I thrust faster, her orgasm pulling mine from me.

Planting myself against her cervix, I cover her mouth with mine and groan down her throat as I lose myself deep inside her. Feeling her limbs wrap around me, I pull my head back and run my fingers through her hair then roll us, settling her against me while I attempt to catch my breath.

“I love you,” she murmurs, kissing my chest, and I tilt my head down toward her and give her a squeeze.

“Love you too, baby,” I tell her, dragging the blanket up over us as she presses her face into my chest and tucks her hands between us. Hearing her breathing even out, I know she’s asleep. Kissing her forehead, I pull her closer still.

Looking at the TV monitor next to the bed, I watch my son’s chest rise and fall steadily for a moment, and then rest my chin on the top of my wife’s head, close my eyes, and fall asleep knowing I’m living the impossible dream.

Infatuation

Justin and Aubrey

H
earing the rattle
of an old car and the sound of squeaky breaks, I get up from my couch and go to the window and pull back the curtain, just enough to see outside without drawing attention to myself. It’s dark but the light from the street lamp in the parking lot has cast a glow on the car beneath it. The rusty beat-up powder blue Buick needed to go to the junkyard a few years ago. The bumper is hanging on by ropes someone tied around it and the trunk. The back right taillight is covered in red tape, and I know from seeing the car in daylight that there is more rust on it than there is paint.

The driver’s side door opens and my heart pounds against my rib cage, the same thing it does every time I see her.

Watching her get out of the car, I grin as she closes the door only to have it swing open again. Taking a step back, she kicks the door with so much force that the car rocks from side to side. I’m sure she just added another dent to the car, not that anyone will notice or that it will matter.

Blowing a piece of her long blonde hair out of her face, I watch it flutter in the light as she leans her head back to rest her hands on her round stomach.

She must be at least seven months pregnant if not more. Then again, I could be wrong. Her small size makes her stomach look huge. I would guess she’s around five one. She has a slim body except for her breasts, which are about a handful and her stomach, which looks like a basketball tucked under her shirt.

Watching her walk toward the building with her face free of makeup and her long blonde hair pulled over one shoulder and her simple jeans and tee, I wonder how the fuck she came to live with Shelly. She doesn’t look like Shelly’s friends, who I know because every time Shelly has a party, which is most nights, her friends and whatever men they pick up are usually outside standing around the front of the building smoking and drinking. Shelly wears too much makeup and not enough clothes, and her friends are the same. Then there’s her. She doesn’t fit, which makes her more interesting.

As she gets closer, I notice the dark circles under her eyes and the exhaustion in her features. Every time I see her, she’s either coming from work or going to work. Okay, I should say every time I spy on her, since I’ve never actually spoken to her and she has no idea I even exist. She pauses right outside her door and her head drops. Even though she’s in profile, I can see the annoyance and deflation on her face. As she opens the door, loud music streams outside and a room full of people can be seen inside.

I’m sure her roommate isn’t helping her level of exhaustion. The urge to protect her—to do something—has me moving to my computer.

Twenty minutes later, I go to the window and watch a group of ten people along with Shelly leave the apartment across from mine. Smiling, I go to the couch to sit down, put on my headphones, and start up Call of Duty.

H
eading for my
Rover, I look to the left when I hear, “You stupid piece of crap, open now.” Then I watch my neighbor pull and tug on her car door, trying to get it open as she yells at it.

“Need some help?” Startled, she jumps back. Her eyes get big and her cheeks turn a shade of dusty rose.

“Um…no…no, I got it,” she says putting one foot on the door and pulling harder than she was before.

“Let me help,” I tell her gently, ignoring her protest as I move her out of the way, then pull on the door expecting it to open for me. But then I feel like an ass when it doesn’t budge. When I pull it again, still nothing. How fucking hard did she kick it shut last night? “It’s stuck,” I mutter, and then hear giggling coming from her that rings through my ears and brings my dick to life. Turning to look at her, I pull in a swift breath. I knew she was going to be beautiful up close, but I didn’t realize how fucking gorgeous she would be. Her blonde hair is up in some kind of bun on top of her head, drawing attention to her big blue eyes, soft feminine face, and totally fucking kissable lips.

“I may have kicked it a little too hard last night,” she whispers ducking her head, but I want her eyes on me—I need her eyes on me.

“What’s your name?” Her eyes fly up to meet mine, and I’m sure my question sounded like a demand mixed with a growl, but there is nothing I can do about it now.

“Me?” she asks looking around, and I find myself smiling at her.

“You honey, what’s your name?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you that,” she mumbles and my head tilts to the side to study her.

“You don’t know if you should tell me your name?” I ask after a moment.

“Well, I don’t know you.”

Chuckling, I move away from the door toward her, then stop when her body stills and her eyes fill with fear. My jaw tics and I feel my heart squeeze. Who ever put that fear in her would answer to me, but first I wanted—no needed—to know her name.

“My name’s Justin. I live in apartment two ten.” I tilt my head toward the building hoping she’ll feel more comfortable knowing I’m her neighbor.

“Justin,” she whispers swinging her eyes from me to the building and back again.

“Justin,” I confirm.

Licking her bottom lip, she takes a step toward me then stops. “I’m Aubrey. I live with Shelly.”

“Nice to meet you, Aubrey.”

“You, too,” she mutters then takes a step back. “Shelly said you’re nice.”

That was surprising because I’ve only spoken to Shelly a hand full of times since she moved in. Then again, she probably thought I was nice, considering I didn’t call the cops on her every time she was having a party.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to go to the post office then to work.” She pulls out a cell phone from her pocket and looks at the time. “Crap, I’m totally gonna be late to work,” she mutters to herself and I notice her phone is the kind you buy at the store for twenty dollars—the kind of phone I used for a throw away when I was working a case and didn’t want anyone to track it.

“Let’s try your other doors,” I say and her cheeks get even darker. She presses her lips together and tucks her phone into her pocket.

“Your other doors don’t work either,” I guess from the look on her face.

“No, only the driver’s door. The other doors were welded shut because they kept opening on the fly.

“Jesus,” I mutter running a hand over my head. I didn’t think she would approve of me taking her car to the junkyard where it belonged and buying her a new car, at least not yet anyway.