Outlaw's Baby: Devil's Edge MC

by Naomi West

  I grimaced. “You're just doing this for protection?” I asked her.

  “No,” Liv said firmly, shaking her head. She reached out a hand and placed it on my leg. “I'm doing this because I love you. But moving house is probably an added benefit.”

  And here we were, nearly a year later, signing the forms to have our own place together, right in the heart of downtown. Of course, we hadn't lived out in Liv's house for most of six months now. I had been going crazy in there, and Liv had wanted to dress up the place to show it so that she could get a better price on it anyway. We'd been staying in Damien's old apartment since he mostly lived at the national headquarters now. It had been nice, but it had been a little small for us, more of a bachelor pad than anything else.

  In our new place, Liv would have space for the art studio that she had been dying for since she quit her job as an investment analyst. And we'd still have a guest bedroom if Barry or anyone else came to visit.

  “So what do you say?” I asked Liv, leering at her a little. “Is it time for us to christen the place?”

  Liv laughed a little, pushing at my shoulder. “You're insatiable,” she said. “We don't even have furniture yet.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Is that supposed to stop us now?” I asked. “It's not like we've never had spontaneous sex on the floor before. And I remember that your goal for the year was to be more spontaneous...”

  Liv rolled her eyes a little, but she was laughing. “All right, all right,” she said, stepping into the circle of my arms and leaning up to kiss me.

  I walked her back until she was pressed against the kitchen countertops, pressing our lower bodies together so she could feel how desperately I desired her in that moment. Not that our lust for one another ever really seemed to wear off; we were practically like teenagers, even a year into our relationship.

  I caught her shirt and pulled it up and over her head, pleased to see the lacy black bra that she was wearing. She still had a tendency to dress pretty conservatively, but her style had undergone a dramatic change since I had first known her. And this bra was like a punch of lust right to my gut, hugging her breasts and molding them into the perfect shape.

  I bent down and kissed each boob before reaching around behind her and undoing the closure on the bra, flinging the garment somewhere off to another part of the kitchen, causing Liv to giggle. But she wasn't giggling anymore as I grabbed a breast in either hand, dragging the pads of my thumbs across her nipples and toying with them until each nipple stood sharply out from her mounds.

  She brought her hands up between us and began unbuttoning my shirt, pushing it back off my shoulders and then going to work on my belt. She groaned as I distracted her with a love-bite at the side of her neck, right where her collarbone and the line of her throat came together.

  She gave a little breathless laugh and pulled away from me, beginning to remove her own jeans and panties. “Come on, catch up,” she whined, eyes moving restlessly over my half-clothed form.

  “And you said that I was the insatiable one,” I said, laughing at her. But I complied with her wishes, undoing my belt and then shucking off my pants and boxers all in one go.

  My dick sprang up between us, already interested in the proceedings and curving upwards. I gave it a few rough tugs, unable to help myself, needing to take that edge off the desperation.

  Liv smiled at me and stepped back in close, curling a hand around my erection even as she resumed kissing me. She'd grown bolder over the past year, and I appreciated that about her. Where once she'd been demure and uncertain in bed, she was rapidly learning what I liked in bed and making sure that she gave as well as she got.

  “Where do you want me?” she suddenly asked, pulling away from the kiss and peering up at me.

  I considered our options. Most of the floors were hardwood, and although I knew she wouldn't complain about that in a pinch, I wanted to do something a little easier for her, especially since this was our first time in our new apartment, the one that would set the precedent for everything to come after.

  I spun her around so she was facing the counter and bent her over, pressing her hands forwards against the top of the marbled surface. I kicked her legs out to either side a little to allow me easy access to her waiting hole and then pushed slowly inside.

  She sighed, sounding pleased, and relaxed back against me, making little movements to help me hit all the right angles as I thrust into her. We moved in perfect sync with one another, both approaching our climaxes at a steady rate. Suddenly, her hand grabbed for mine, twining our fingers together against the countertop — our countertop — in our new apartment.

  I gasped and suddenly jerked against her, bliss pouring through me like molten energy. She came at nearly the same time, her silken walls milking at my penis and making my orgasm just that much more intense.

  When we broke apart, she turned around and leaned up to kiss me, giving me a shy little look that I recognized from every time she had an idea she wanted to try out. “I thought you were going to last longer than that,” she said. “But instead, I guess we're going to have to go on a sex tour and see if we can have sex in every one of these rooms before the furniture gets delivered. How does that sound?”

  I laughed a little, swatting at her arm. “I repeat, and you said that I was the insatiable one!”

  She laughed a little and shrugged unrepentantly. “Well, maybe we can wait until some of the furniture is delivered,” she said magnanimously. “If you don't think you can do it that many times before tomorrow morning.”

  I growled a little and pulled her close with a tight grip on her bottom. “Trust me, I can get it up that many times,” I told her confidently. “So unless you don't think you could handle having me thrust into you that many times...”

  Liv giggled, her eyes flashing. “I'd say that sounds like a pretty fair challenge,” she said. “Anyway, we do have to christen the place ... start things off on the right foot.”

  I shook my head and kissed her again. “I love you,” I told her.

  She grinned, a little of her former shyness coming over her again. “I love you, too.”

  THE END

  ~~~

  Thanks for reading my novel! I hope you enjoyed it. If you liked RIP ME, you’ll love some of my other books, too! Click here to check out my Amazon author page, or keep reading for another FREE bonus novel!

  [Bonus Novel #2] Hitman’s Promise: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance

  She’ll carry my baby as payment for her defiance.

  I didn’t travel five thousand g*ddamn miles just to get knocked out and tied up by a girl.

  As soon as I manage to get out, I’m going to have my revenge.

  She’ll pay for this. She’ll pay with her ripe mouth, with her flawless skin, with her obedience.

  That’s a promise.

  I’m not a murderer – not anymore, at least.

  But Rowena Davenport might make me go back to my old ways.

  I’m here to bring her father back to the Esposito crime family. Apparently, the old man owes them lots of money.

  Just before I can wrap things up, though, she gets the jump on me and chains me up.

  Mired in this sh*thole of a basement, it seems like she has the upper hand.

  But one look in my eyes and she knows that these handcuffs will not be enough to tame a beast like me.

  We make a deal.

  I’ll spare her father… in exchange for her.

  Now, the sexy scientist is mine to do with as I please.

  I drink in the sight of her naked body stretched before me and can’t help but lick my lips.

  This will be fun.

  But time is not on our side.

  The Espositos have caught wind of my little bargain, and they’re far from pleased.

  Men are coming now – men with pasts even darker than mine.

  If we’re going to make it out alive, Row will have to answer one question:

  Does she trust me?

&nb
sp; Chapter One

  Row

  “I think you would like to go dancing.”

  I sit up and brush a streak of dirt off my face. Looking up at whoever was just talking to me, I am momentarily blinded by the bright sun. I blink the glare out of my eyes and realize, goddamn it – it’s Stavros again. He stands there in a mostly unbuttoned polyester shirt, a gold chain partially hidden by his chest hair.

  I would like to go dancing. But not with Stavros. And probably not the kind of dancing he means.

  “No thanks, Stavros.” I smile up at him as sweetly as possible. His brow darkens and I cast around for a reason that won’t injure his fragile ego. Sigh. As a five foot nine curvy redhead, sometimes it seems like I have a Ph.D. in navigating fragile male egos. “We have a lot of work to do around here.”

  I motion to the dig site and realize that I’m not lying. We do have a ton of work to do. Piles of dirt are mounded all over, flags indicating layers of excavation whip along in the breeze. And rolling out, beyond, is the acre of land that has yet to be excavated. I see the heads of the other four people on the team, my father’s included, bobbing up and down in their separate pits. It’s been a month since we unearthed the single tomb. The tomb of child. We’ve been trying to keep it as quiet as possible, but we believe it to be the tomb of a very important child.

  A moment of eager anticipation rises up within me. And for a second I’m so excited I can’t breathe. All of our work, mine and my father’s, might finally be redeemed. If his calculations were right. If this is the right location. But more than redemption is my bone-deep curiosity. It’s what drove me to archaeology in the first place. I glance down at the single wrist bone I’m unearthing beneath me, at the shards of a three-thousand-year-old water urn spraying out beside it. How did that get there? Why did the pot break? What happened here? Questions burn through me. Questions that I can answer if I study the evidence for long enough.

  “You’d rather dig in dirt like child than come to dance club and be woman?” Stavros’s question is like a pin in my balloon. “I can show you how to be woman. You only need real man for that. Not these science boys.” He gestures around to the other archaeologists on my team, diligently working and cataloguing their finds.

  Ok, so archaeology is admittedly not very sexy. But come on. Show a little respect here. With that, my patience for Stavros has officially dissolved like a whisper in the wind. I plant my hands on my hips and cock my head to one side, wishing I weren’t standing three feet below him in a hole.

  “I’m actually not digging in the dirt like a child. Considering that most children don’t hold two doctorate degrees. So actually, I’m digging in the dirt like a trained archaeologist.”

  His frown deepens. But I’m not finished.

  “And for the last time, Stavros, this is a registered archaeological site, as marked by the permits and all the rope keeping civilians out. And if you’ve stepped on something important with your tacky pleather shoes, then you’re about to see me lose my mortal mind on you.”

  Apparently mentioning his shoes was going a little too far. Stavros narrows his eyes at me. “Careful who you threaten, little girl. You may be smart, but not smart enough to know how this town runs.”

  He turns on his heel, deliberately kicking over my little stand of tools on his way out. I roll my eyes at his back and pretend it doesn’t bother me to be threatened like that.

  “Would dancing have been so bad, Rowena?” My father stands in the dig site next to me, just his head poking out. He’s squirting water over his hands and face to rid them of the dust that is constantly caked on all of us. His question might sound judgmental to the untrained ear, but I know him. He’s genuinely asking me. My father is an archaeological genius, no joke, but he truly does not understand people at all. “You’ve always liked dancing.”

  “Sure, Dad. I like the old, romantic Clark Gable kind of dancing. Not letting some guy rub his halfie against my ass in a dark sweaty basement club with a strobe light and dubstep.”

  “Oh,” says my dad as he shrugs and looks around the site. I can tell he’s already stopped listening, he’s thinking about our site again. About the child, Iairos, whose remains we’re hoping to be unearthing any day now. He’s thinking about the whole reason we came to Greece.

  # # #

  Kennedy

  I haven’t murdered anybody in years. But this guy doesn’t know that. He trembles in front of me like a little girl. Actually, the image of my little sister, Mara, flashes across my mind. All tough in her softball catcher’s gear, crouching over a plate. I realize that saying that this quivering, pathetic mass in front of me is like a little girl is an insult to Mara.

  I’m pissed because this dipshit had me running all over France trying to track him down. And then he had me running all over this apartment complex, ducking and diving through the halls while I chased him down. I finally clotheslined him as he scampered past the laundry room and dragged him in here. Now I’m breathing hard, I’m sweaty, and there’s spilled laundry detergent on my new Jordans. Like I said, I’m pissed.

  He must be able to see it in my face because the whiny baby falls to his knees. “I-I know who you are. Y-you’re that h-hit man. Kennedy Squire.”

  I pistol whip the guy across the side of his face and he crumples to the cement floor. Two bloody teeth dribble out of his mouth.

  “Don’t say my name, you fucking asshole.” There’s nobody around to hear him identify me, but still, how stupid could this guy be?

  Stupid enough to skip town on Enrico Esposito, I guess. Which is why I’m currently standing over him, pointing the business end of a Ruger 1911 in his idiot face.

  “Please don’t kill me,” he moans, covering his eyes with one hand like he’s a kid playing peek-a-boo.

  I reach down and crank his head back so he has to listen to me nice and clearly. “I’m not going to kill you, dickhead.”

  His eyes flicker open with something that looks foolishly like hope.

  “But I am gonna bring you back to Esposito.”

  The hope flickers out like a flashlight with low batteries. Intense fear immediately replaces it. “You can’t. You don’t understand. I had nothing to do with all that. He wants me for the wrong reasons. He’s got me confused with somebody else.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say and smack the guy across his already bruised face. “I’ve heard it all. And you’re starting to really piss me off. Look. You can walk to the car, or I can drag you. But either way you’re coming.”

  I roll my eyes as the guy starts flailing in my arms, kicking and scratching to get away from me. These motherfuckers do the same thing every time. They all think they can get away. I slam my foot down on the guy’s chest, effectively pinning him to the floor. Reaching into my back pocket I pull out a syringe. His eyes dilate with panic as he watches me squirt a little of the liquid out.

  “No! Don’t. I’ll pay you. I’ll-“

  His voice fades into nothing as the medicine I just jammed into his thigh immediately starts to work. It really is the good shit. I sigh as I hoist his dead weight onto my shoulder.

  I lug the guy out of the apartment complex. I don’t even care if there are witnesses. I’m a ghost. Esposito makes sure that I’m a ghost. This whole thing only works if I can breeze in and out of whatever countries he needs me to.

  He hired me to be his tracer a few years ago. I used to be a hit man, and a damned good one, for a mobster named Greco. He was pretty much evil personified. He taught me everything I knew when I was just a kid. And then when I grew a conscience he started blackmailing me with my mother and my sister as collateral. He knew I would never do anything that would potentially harm them. So I took people out for years at his command.

  When he was finally dead. When I finally got out of there, I vowed I would never kill again. But then, I also had about zero marketable skills. What the fuck was I gonna do? Intern somewhere? Shit, I didn’t even have a Facebook.

  When Esposito tracked me dow
n and asked me to be his skip tracer, it didn’t take long to accept. Tracking people down used to be the only good part of being a hit man. It’s like a game. A puzzle. The longer I stare at the pieces the clearer the information becomes.

  I know that Esposito is no better than Greco. That the only reason he wants me to bring these people back alive is so that he can handle the dirty parts himself. Sick fuck. But as long as I get paid, and I don’t have to garrote anybody anymore, then I’m good.

  Even though I’m grateful that I don’t have to murder people for a living anymore, I’m still champing at the bit to get this skip off my hands. I’ve been off on a long run. Skip after skip for damn near three weeks. At this point I’m champing at the bit to go back to New York to see my mother and my sister. My dad died a long time ago, so I try to get home once a month and change the light bulbs, make sure there aren’t boys sniffing around Mara yet. And who knows, if I have the time, maybe I’ll head back to Ireland for a week or two. Spend a little time with the woman I love. Trying not to drown myself over the fact that she’s happily married to my best friend. Anyways. Old news.