by Nora Heat
“Good. Because it’s going to happen as soon as the divorce is finalized.”
She laughs out loud and then pulls me up. I lay beside her, bringing her over so she can lay on my chest.
“I love you, Naomi,” I tell her, and I mean every word of it.
“I love you too, Dom,” she says, and before I know it she’s fallen asleep.
My sweet, sexy, beautiful Naomi.
Epilogue
Naomi
Two Years Later
Being twenty-three never felt so good. Four months ago, Dom and I got married. Fortunately, Annie made the divorce process easy. It took a few months and despite all the ups and downs, I remained patient.
Two months after I returned to school, Dominic moved closer to my campus, which is three hours away from my hometown in Siesta Keys, claiming he didn’t want to stay too far away from me. He hired a new manager for his gym, and goes twice a week to make sure it’s still running well.
Instead of staying in my dorm, I moved in with him, all while carrying his son.
When Dominic Junior – our little D.J. – was born, it was the greatest day of my life. I was filled to the brim with joy, and wasn’t sure where to pour it out. I dedicated the rest of my school year to him, ready for my graduation day to finally come so I could spend more time with him, Dom, and Hannah.
Today is my graduation party and everyone I love is here, in our home. Mom, Dad, Julia — even some of my aunts and uncles — and of course, my kids. Yes, my kids.
Annie abandoned Hannah again. The Saturday after we found out the sex of the baby, and when she noticed my tummy growing, she didn’t show up. Or the Saturday after that. Or after that.
She didn’t call. Didn’t text. She’d changed her number and didn’t even let us know. She just disappeared. But it was okay, because I became Hannah’s mother. I had no problem being that. She needed a mother who was good to her. A mother who cared. I could give her that. I wanted to give her that.
Maybe she realized Hannah is better off without her, or maybe she was trying to win Dom back, but knew me being pregnant was the deal-breaker. I don’t know how she can stay away from a beautiful soul like Hannah’s. She’s the sweetest little girl and has the softest heart. Annie is a fool to leave her behind.
I peel the wrapper off a cupcake, and just as I bite into it, Dom comes into the kitchen, carrying D.J. in his arms.
“Hey,” I sing. “What are you two up to?”
“He wants to go swimming,” Dom chuckles. “Your mom agreed to take him and Hannah out to the pool.”
“Okay. I’ll grab their swimming clothes.” I place my cupcake on the counter and walk to the laundry room, glancing back when D.J. who looks just like his father with his big brown eyes and sandy hair, rushes out of the kitchen, calling for his Papa Barry.
I open the door to the laundry room and take their swimming clothes off the hangers. Heat smothers my backside and a strong arm wraps around me. He reels me back, pressing his warm lips on my ear, while using his other hand to slide the door shut.
“Dom,” I laugh. “The party. They’re gonna know we’re missing.”
He spins me around, taking the swimwear from my hands and then picking me up to plant my ass on the dryer. He steps between my legs, and I tear at his jeans while he pushes my dress up. I can never resist a good quickie.
“I love it when you aren’t wearing panties, baby,” he murmurs in my ear, sliding me to edge of the dryer. His warm, thick cock presses on my thigh, and I grab it, adjusting him so the head is pressing on my entrance. “We’re celebrating your graduation. I want to show you how proud I am of you.”
He holds my hips, his lips pressing on mine as he slowly sinks into me. My lips part and he drops his head, holding me close, sucking on the hollow of my neck and groaning like he can’t get enough.
“I’m so damn proud of you, Naomi,” he says, dragging his lips back up and kissing me whole. I hold his face in my hands as he hauls me closer, stroking in and out, his tongue slipping through my lips. He tastes just like the sugar cookies Mom set up on the table.
We both pant heavily, our hands all over each other.
I can hear people in the kitchen, and he starts to pull away, ready to stop, but I pull him back in. “Keep going,” I beg. “I’m so close.”
My words are his ammo. He fills me back up, cupping the back of my neck. I kiss him even harder, so close, my pussy clenching around him. I feel the heat tunneling down — the fire brewing inside me — and I can’t help myself. I shatter, coming around his beautiful cock.
He comes right after me, squeezing me tight and stilling inside me, his body hard and tense.
“You are so fucking sexy when you come,” he whispers to me, grabbing my chin and placing a soft kiss on my lips. “Come on. Let’s get the kids out to the pool and get you cleaned up.”
I smile as he helps me off the dryer. He buttons his jeans while I fix my dress. He walks out first, and I step out when a minute has passed and the kitchen has cleared.
“We were just looking for you, Omi!” Mom sings holding Hannah’s hand.
“Mommy!” Hannah sings.
Hannah runs to me, wrapping her arms around my leg. D.J. starts to pout and wants out of Dad’s arms, holding his out for me.
“Oh, what? You’re just gonna abandon Papa like that?” Dad teases him, placing him on his feet.
I pick Dom up, laughing. “I’ll get them dressed.”
“I’ll help you, sweetie,” Mom insists, grabbing Hannah and swooping her up in her arms.
I turn and catch Dom standing beside Dad. Like he feels someone watching him, he looks up, meeting my eyes. When they connect, I smile, and he does the same. A full, beautiful smile that makes my insides melt.
I’m married to the man of my dreams. My parents have accepted us, and they adore the kids and love them unconditionally. And me and Dom? We aren’t perfect, but we are happy, and in the end, that’s all that matters.
I’m living in bliss. Who could ask for a better life?
Tainted Black
Want to read the beginning of a story about a girl falling in love with her best friend’s father? Keep going to read Tainted Black by Shanora Williams!
Copyright
All rights reserved. This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any form without prior written permission of the publisher, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Thank you for respecting the work of this author.
Published December 2014
Editing by Yours Truly, The Editor
Cover Art and Design by RBA Designs
Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing
Trademarks: This book identifies product names and services known to be trademarks, registered trademarks, or service marks of their respective holders. The author acknowledges the trademarked status in this work of fiction. The publication and use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Dedication
Dedicated to the people who will sacrifice pretty much anything for the ones they love. You may feel like you aren’t recognized, but you are special. You are loved, and you are appreciated. Your soul is precious and generous, and this world could always use more people like you.
Chapter One
CHLOE
I was twelve years old when I met the Blacks.
I’d just moved to Primrose Way, a suburban neighborhood in Bristle Wave County, California. Bristle Wave was right off the coast, a small, comforting area that travelers ventured to whenever they wanted to hit the pier, walk the beach, or even rent
a boat to take out to sea.
My dad had gone into early retirement, so money was far from an issue when it came to staying in our new, high-dollar neighborhood. I’d heard plenty of horror stories about Primrose. Kids from school said people like me, girls with any trace of color, didn’t fit in well. I considered it bullshit gossip. I mean, how would they know if they had never lived in Primrose? And how would they know if they had no pigment in their skin? My father, the man of color, was the one that chose the neighborhood. He didn’t care for the snobby looks or turned up noses.
“As long as you’re in a neighborhood like Primrose, you’ll be fine.” He said this when I complained about moving for the third time that year. Truthfully, all of the moving around was most likely the reason I had no one to personally call my friend. I was a loner, stuck in my house wondering how to go up to the other kids on the block and ask them if they’d like to jump rope with me.
Let’s just say my father was wrong. The girls in Primrose didn’t like me. They were afraid to play with me, and none of them believed I was actually twelve years old because I was one bra size away from being a B-cup.
My mother tried arranging sleepovers, but no one would show up, which left me alone, drowning in a puddle of tears with my face down on a pillow as my mother rubbed my back. Dad didn’t really know how to comfort me, so whenever I cried, he kept his distance.
He’d worked most of my childhood, but now that he was retired, he had no clue how to handle me—not that he didn’t try or anything. He just knew how to make things really, really awkward. Mom worked endless hours as well but, unlike Dad, she hardly managed to spend two hours a day with me. Maybe an hour or so if I was lucky or if I decided to shop with her. I suppose I could have considered myself lucky because some of my friends at Bradshaw Heights Academy only saw their parents once a month. Having busy parents sucked.
Bristle Wave was boring for the most part. My daily routine was to ride my bike through the neighborhood park, come back home and read a book, and then wake up for school. During summer, it was worse.
My parents were hardly ever home—Dad most likely working or playing golf and Mom running her new art studio—so I stayed in the house reading young adult novels by Judy Blume and J.K. Rowling. I thought surely I’d be trapped in Primrose with no friends, no life, and no entertainment until I was off to college—that is, until the day the Blacks moved in.
They happened to move right into the home across the street from me. Mr. Clark lived there only months ago but was sent to a retirement home after falling down the stairs and breaking his hip.
The rumble of a motorcycle caught my ear, and I climbed off my bed, forgetting about the needless algebra homework as I stole a peek out the window. A moving truck parked along the curb, and a black Tahoe pulled into the driveway, parking in front of the garage door.
A woman and a girl climbed out of the Tahoe, the woman fanning the humidity away. The girl looked to be around my age, her nose stuck in a book, hooked on whatever story she was devouring. Ahh, I thought. She likes to read, just like me. Check one.
They entered the house, and a few moments later, the woman came back out, telling the movers where to carry the items as she pointed towards the ash-brick house, shading her eyes with the other hand above her brow.
The men carried a large, brown sofa across the lawn. Others carried small things like dining and patio chairs, but a small, red recliner caught my eye. The woman made sure it was handled properly.
Everyone seemed to be busy—everyone except the man sitting on the loud motorcycle he rode in on. It was rare hearing the growl of a motorcycle in Primrose. Everyone in the neighborhood drove classy cars—Mercedes, BMWs, and fancy Infiniti or Cadillac SUVs. I knew Mrs. Rhodes, their next-door neighbor, wouldn’t be too pleased about that. She hated loud noises, yet she had a small Yorkie that yapped all day long until she came home.
The man sat on his motorcycle, wiping off his helmet with a brown cloth. He wore a fitted black T-shirt and dark wash jeans. His hair was a dark, beautiful, chaotic mess, a few tendrils hanging on his forehead, most likely from taking off his helmet. The haircut suited him—long in the front, short on the sides, and in the back, it parted on one side to uphold a classic yet modern appeal.
It was never like me to take full notice of anyone, but there was just something about this man that had me curious. He didn’t seem to match the woman I assumed was his wife. She ran around like a chicken with her head cut off, telling the movers right from wrong. He seemed too laid back for her, but by the way he looked at her—watched as she swished her hips to get to the door in her snazzy high heels—I could tell he loved her.
Completely.
Utterly.
From this angle, he looked tall with a chiseled face, high cheekbones, and a bone-straight smile that he revealed when his wife walked out the door. She sighed as she walked towards him and stepped between his legs, wrapping her arms around his neck. She held him close, sighed some more as she gazed into his eyes, and I could understand why. That man was absolutely breathtaking. From head to toe, he was perfection.
Curious as to where the girl went, I continued watching the little family. I assumed she was in her unfurnished bedroom, nose still buried deep in her novel. I instantly wanted to meet her. I wanted to know what she was reading. I hoped it was Judy Blume.
Collecting my house key and sliding into my favorite pair of Sperry’s, I hurried down the stairs where my mother stood in the foyer, chatting on her cellphone while she peered out of the window. I wasn’t the only one being nosey.
When she heard me coming down, she turned and asked, “Where are you going, sweetie?”
“I’m going to meet the new neighbors.”
“Oh. Tell me how they are,” she whisper-hissed as I swung the door open. I nodded and shut it behind me, standing on the porch. The family was no longer in sight. The movers were bringing in some more of their larger belongings.
I was being impatient. I wanted to meet the girl across the street first before any of the other prissy girls in Primrose got to her. Not that I needed a friend, but I wanted one. I wanted someone that had similar interests, and reading was a huge one for me. So, I walked across the street, up their driveway, and courageously knocked on the front door.
It opened right away, and to my surprise, it was the man from the motorcycle and the girl’s father, I presumed. “Well,” he said, slowly revealing a full smile. “Who do we have here?”
“Uh… hey.” My cheeks turned rosy red, my chest going hot. I wasn’t expecting him to answer the door. “I—I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Chloe Knight. I live right across the street”—I looked back and pointed to my house—“and I was wondering if I could meet the girl that went inside?”
The man raised a brow. “The girl? You mean my little Isabelle?”
“That’s her name?”
“Mmm-hmm.” One of the movers walked past him and me. The man looked down, gesturing back. “Come inside. I’ll go get her.”
My throat became thick, so I didn’t say anything. I just bobbed my head and followed the man inside. The house felt full, and they hadn’t even set up yet. Boxes were stacked in every corner, furniture piled high in the den and living room.
“Sorry about the mess,” he teased, raising his brows. “Just moved in and all.” He held his hands out, giving me a shit happens kind of shrug. I forced a smile, unsure of how to respond, and he noticed, stopping in his tracks before walking up the stairs. “I guess I should have told you who we are, huh?” He scratched the top of his head. “I’m Theo Black. My wife’s name is Janet, and I’ve already told you my daughter’s.”
“Cool.”
He pressed his lips to smile, and after informing me that he’d tell Isabelle I was downstairs, he was taking the steps by twos, calling for his daughter. I took the time to look around the home. A few tables were in place, and next to one of them was an open box of photo albums.
Glancing back briefly before
focusing on it again, I reached forward and opened the album. The first few photos were of Mr. and Mrs. Black, but as I flipped through some more, there were baby photos of the girl. She wore a lot of pink and yellow. She had rosy, chubby cheeks, and she looked like a happy baby.
I noticed, then, that Mr. and Mrs. Black were very young when they had Isabelle. They looked to be in their late teens, early twenties. It was strange because they seemed so happy and content. While her parents seemed hip, cool, and lively, mine were nearing fifty, bitter towards each other, and mostly miserable. Hell, they hardly spoke to one another. And don’t get me started on our awkward, scheduled dinners.
My parents decided to have a child once they’d established careers and traveled the world. By the time they were ready to settle, they were thirty-six. It was a decent age, but unfortunately, Mom was considered high-risk when she carried me. I figured it was the reason she never had more children.
For a while, I thought that was the key to happiness—living your life first with the one you love and then creating a tiny being that you will love unconditionally for the rest of your life. Apparently, I had the wrong mindset because as I studied the Black’s pictures, I realized I didn’t even have any of my own to compare them to. If I did, I had no clue where they were other than the few small frames on top of the fireplace and beside the sofa. All for show, of course. But through all their photos, they seemed genuinely happy.
“She’ll be down in a minute.” Mr. Black’s deep voice startled me, and I snatched my hands away from the photo album, cheeks tinged red. “Sorry,” I whispered quickly.
“Don’t be.” He walked around me, picking up the photo album I’d violated. Flipping past a few pages, he finally came across one and laughed. “This is Izzy when she was two. Completely naked, playing with her toes.” He showed me the picture, leaning towards me. His arms brushed mine. I don’t think he noticed or cared, but I did. How couldn’t I? It was almost like I’d been shocked—it was electrifying.
