by Holly Hart
He looked down at the object of my amusement – a small white gate, about 2 feet high. "Um, a baby gate?" He replied, furrowing his brow. "Why?"
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Okay, sure. Second question. How old do you think Tim is?"
He stared at me like I was stark raving crazy. "Seven months. Why?"
I broke my eyes away from the gate and did a slow pirouette on the spot, casting my eyes about the huge penthouse. Not for the first time, my jaw dropped open with astonishment. Every single electricity socket was plugged with a protective white cap. Every sharp edge encased in protective foam padding. And every door and corridor protected by identical, two foot tall baby gates. I span around again, and took it all in again. It was almost too much to handle. The entire penthouse was like a baby Fort Knox. It must have taken hours, days even, to finish.
"Did you do this yourself?" I croaked, tongue dry with shock.
"The proofing?" Roman grinned happily. "Every bit. You like it?"
I nodded dumbly. "Uh-huh, no kidding I like it. But Roman," I repeated myself, "how old do you think Tim is?"
"I told you already," he protested, throwing his hands in the air. "Seven months!"
I rolled my eyes. "Exactly! And is Tim walking yet?"
Brow, furrowed. "No…"
"Can he crawl?"
"Well, no… Oh." He stopped in his tracks, and realization dawned on his face, cresting his cheeks and settling in his eyes.
I leaned forward, strained on my tiptoes and pecked him on the cheek. "At least we won't have to do it when he's a toddler, then."
The master bedroom was beautiful, glorious, majestic, and a full dictionary turned on its side's worth of adjectives besides. I felt like Beyoncé on tour, so far from the girl who'd spent the last month and a half in a 12' x 6' concrete cell, with an iron bunk bed and a cellmate who thought she was a gang leader that it wasn't even funny.
And I didn't care about any of it.
All that was left inside me was a single-minded, burning desire to jump Roman, to straddle him, to undress him and then to feel him inside me – in that order. And funnily enough, he didn't seem to have a problem with it. I pushed him backwards onto the bed, and he fell, arms out, without complaint. The firm mattress whooshed slightly as his massive, muscular bulk pressed the air out of it, but didn't make a sound when I leapt on top of him.
And then my mouth was on his, devouring him, gently scratching my chin against his messy stubble, and pairing with delight. And my hands were all over him, tearing at that white shirt that outlined his chest so perfectly, ripping at the buttons and throwing it on the floor. My top joined it, though I didn't remember tearing it off my head in my excitement, and tossing it to the floor.
Roman growled, a throaty hum that seemed to throb throughout his entire body, like his chest was a barrel drum. It vibrated through me, entering at my legs and ending up tickling the very tip top of my scalp. He grabbed my sides, huge hands making their way up my burning skin, and roughly pawing at my breasts. The jail hadn't bothered to save my bra…
I wrestled with Roman's brown leather belt, tore at the buttons that kept his jeans so stubbornly tight, and dived in, layering his hard, powerful stomach with kisses. He interlaced his fingers through my hair, stroking, scraping with his nails and pushed me down, and I pulled back his boxer shorts and his cock sprang free. I licked it, kissed the tip, and took it in my mouth. Roman purred like a cat.
But he couldn't take it. Not after six weeks without. He grabbed a hold of my hair more firmly, pulled me up his body and kicked the black denim off his legs. "Jesus," Ellie," he groaned. "I can't take that, not yet. I want you, now."
It was music to my ears.
He grabbed at the button that held my own jeans flush with my waist, groped at it and finally succeeded in wresting it loose.
He looped the tips of his fingers into the material, and pulled every scrap of fabric off my legs, so I was as naked as he in one fluid movement that I never saw coming.
He flipped me onto my back, and jumped on top of me, his cock standing at attention, and pressed his mouth against mine and kissed me.
He scraped his fingernails down my body, from the crease where my chest met my head, down my right breast, down my stomach, and circled my pussy, leaving fiery streaks of pleasure in its wake, and nipples that stood taught and tight like stakes.
He pressed his thick, long fingers to the soaking wet slit between my legs, rubbed it it, tasted my scent, and growled with satisfaction.
He entered me. I yelped, my toes curled, and before his cock was buried to the hilt, I was already in ecstasy. I bit my lip, scratched my fingers against his back and pulled him into me, until his pelvis met mine, until I felt his heat radiating inside me like the sun. I threw my head back as he began to thrust, saw the memories of forty-two lonely nights in my cell flash in front of my eyes, forty-two nights where I had only my imagination and my fingers for company. And after all that, it didn't compare.
It barely scratched the surface of the gift that Roman was capable of giving me, barely broke a sweat – and right now he was sweating hard, his body glistening with an ethereal, glittering glow.
Roman grazed his stubble against my neck, nibbled my ear and rammed into me, filling me up, stretching me to my very limits. And as he nibbled, I crashed over the edge, out of control, with stars exploding in front of my vision, firecrackers going off at the tips of my toes and on top of my fingernails, and a star was born between my legs.
I cried out, and so did he, and I felt a heat bloom within me, and my head dropped back, and his body dropped down to his elbows, and we collapsed on top of each other.
Together.
By the time my eyes refocused, and my toes stopped tingling, and my belly stopped clenching with pleasure, it felt like hours had passed. My head lolled off the side of the gigantic queen-sized bed, and I purred as Roman stroked my bare leg in one long, spiral, never-ending motion that left goosebumps in its wake.
When my eyes did refocus, they came to rest on an elegant, antique white bedside table. My eyes drank it in, from bottom to top, gliding over perfectly carved, almost naval-looking lines, like the gentle swell of a wave in mid ocean, until they reached the top.
"What's that?"
"What's what? Roman grunted, not bothering to move his head from the huge, soft, duck-feather stuffed pillow underneath it.
"The envelope."
"Oh, it was hand-delivered earlier. It's for you. Well," he said, correcting himself, "us. But I didn't want to open it before you got here."
I reached out and grabbed it. It was surprisingly heavy – creamy and textured. The kind of paper wedding invitations get sent in. "That's sweet. Well, I'm here now…"
Roman roused himself onto his elbows and nodded. "Go on then."
I gently prised it open, strangely careful not to damage the lovely paper, and started to read.
Dear Ellie and Roman,
A little birdie told us earlier on that the state doesn't plan on bringing a case against you for trespassing. As they shouldn't! So hopefully, by the time you're reading this, you should be in your lovely new apartment together. Ellie – Roman showed us around, it's gorgeous, isn't it? We both think you two will be very happy there.
I know neither of you need the money, especially if that lawsuit against Victor that Roman was talking about happens, but we have a suggestion… No need to let us know anytime soon, because, Mister and Missus, you two have got a hell of a lot of catching up and getting to know each other to do, but we wanted to tell you about it anyway. Like we said in the back of the limo, we are trying to make Alexandria the city it used to be – a place where people feel safe bringing up children, with jobs, and parks, and a city government that isn't as corrupt as a banana republic down south.
Roman – Conor's been talking about getting the CFL, the Champion's Fighting League, the city's MMA promotion up and running again. We've been meaning to do it for a while, but there's been a lot
on our plate… We own the rights, so we can get it going any time we want.. If you want it, there's a job for you there – a good one.
Ellie – we've been thinking. What this city really needs is a crusader. It's all well and good us two doing what we can, but when you run an offshoot of the Russian mafia, you kind of have to do it from the shadows. Alexandria needs a defender, someone brave enough to shine a spotlight on all the evil that lies beneath the surface. And if that ever meant us, we'd expect you to show us no favors. Again, if you want it, there's a job for you. A new, online newspaper, with you at the head. Think about it.
But for now, have fun. We'll see you soon.
Yours,
Maya and Conor.
I couldn’t change my past, and I didn’t want to. It had shaped me, molded me, given me the gift of life, and I wouldn’t change that for all the money in the world.
What Maya’s letter gave me was something else, something far greater – a future.
42
THE END
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“Jack Corra is dead.
This isn't his story. This is the story of the man he became, not the man he could have been.
Still, there are things you need to know about him. They'll help you understand. He was a good man once. A son, before his parents died. A brother, before his sister disappeared. A lover, before grief took that away from him too.
He was a goddamn success story. He graduated MIT the day after his eighteenth birthday. He made the cover of Forbes Top Ten in Tech at twenty years old. You know how many people manage to get their face plastered on every news stand in America before they can even buy a beer? Not many.
Jack Corra wrote software. Not too exciting, huh? It gets worse. It was productivity software, you know – managing teams, replacing email, that sort of thing. Boring as hell, really. But you know what's not boring?
A billion dollars.
That's three commas behind your name. Just think about that for a second. Think about what you would do with that kind of money. Anything at all. But I guarantee – whatever you're thinking of right now, Jack did it differently. It was the same when he passed two billion, then three. He was just that kind of guy.
Jack Corra was set. And then, everything went wrong.
But like I said, this isn't Jack's story. Not really. It's hers.”
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