by Yessi Smith
He grabbed my wrist to put more pressure to his lips, then pulled my hand away. “They know my life doesn’t make sense without you.”
“I would never ask you to stop playing, and I don’t want you to.”
“But you’ve been waiting for me to come back and stay,” he said, recalling my earlier words.
I smiled sadly. “I never claimed to be easy to handle.”
The corner of his mouth curled into a smirk that made my stomach heat with need. “I think I handle you just fine,” he murmured. “I also think Henley needs some time off . . . after that I can figure out the fucking long commute to L.A. from here.”
I barely had time to register his words before his mouth was on mine again.
“Are you serious?” I asked against the kiss, my tone a mixture of disbelief and pure joy.
“Rebel,” he said with a soft laugh. After brushing another kiss across my lips, he laid me back on the bed, his mouth moving across my jaw and down my throat. “I’ve always known I wanted forever with you. Just been waiting for you to get there with me.”
Our next kiss was a slow claiming. Our touches nothing more than faint, teasing brushes as we unhurriedly removed clothes. When Maxon spread my thighs at an achingly slow pace, those faint brushes became hard and demanding, our kiss rough and pleading.
I clung to his muscled forearms as he shifted his body to kneel between my legs, and tried to follow him when he pulled away from the kiss.
“From now on, you don’t leave before I wake,” he said in a low, serious tone.
My head dropped back, and my mouth opened with a whimper when he pressed his thumb to my aching clit.
“If you see something that bothers you, you ask me about it. Don’t fucking ghost me.”
I started to nod but cried out when he pushed two fingers inside me, pumping me roughly, thoroughly, exactly the way he knew I liked it. “Oh God, Maxon . . . yes.”
“The next time you tell someone you’re engaged, you’re gonna have my ring on your finger.”
My lips twitched into a smile, excitement swirling in my chest just as his mouth covered me, sucking and licking and teasing me while his fingers fucked me. I secured my fingers in his hair, pressing him closer and shuddering when he groaned against me. The heat in my belly suddenly intensified when he raked his teeth over my clit, my back arching away from the bed as my orgasm tore through me.
My mouth opened with a silent moan as wave after wave of pleasure rolled through me until I was nothing more than a trembling mess weakly attempting to cling to what I’d almost lost.
A shiver ran down my spine when he swiped his tongue against me one last time and then pushed himself up to press his mouth to my stomach.
“If they want to print about me being a dad, it’ll be because this belly is round with my child.”
Tears filled my eyes as I pulled him close and whispered, “Yes. Yes, to everything.”
“About damn time.”
A laugh rolled up my throat and turned into a whimper when his thick length pressed against my entrance. “Please,” I whispered, my fingers tightening in his hair and legs wrapping around his narrow hips. “Maxon, please.”
My head fell back when he slowly pushed into me, his mouth and teeth trailing up my neck at the same torturous pace until he was fully seated inside me, bare for the first time.
This was how it was always meant to be. Us. Together. Completing each other in a way only we could.
How I ever thought I could live without this—without him . . .
And then he moved.
Each roll of his hips was powerful and demanding. Each thrust pushed me to a high I was sure I would never come down from.
I moaned when he slanted his mouth over mine, devouring me and begging me for everything I was. Making me crave more of the intoxicating mixture on his lips and tongue of whiskey and me. A silent proclamation. A heady claim.
This man was mine.
A noise of protest sounded in my throat when he moved back to sit on his knees and pulled most of the way out. He gripped my hips and lifted me so only my upper back and head were touching the bed, a wicked grin playing on his lips when I tried to move against him and wasn’t able to. A frustrated cry fell from my lips and ended with a sharp whimper when he roughly forced me onto his cock, sending me spiraling into a bliss that pulsed from deep in my core.
“Fuck, Libby,” he growled as I trembled around him, each shudder had him tightening his possessive grip on me. Each ripple of pleasure through my body silently urging him faster and harder until he found his release inside me.
His body tensed, his muscles straining as he slowly pumped inside me once . . . twice . . . and then shakily set me on the bed and lowered his body to mine.
I laced my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer and pressing his forehead to mine as our chests moved with our ragged breaths. “I love you.”
A brilliant smile pulled at his mouth before he was brushing it across mine. “When are you gonna let me give you my last name, Rebel?”
The high I’d been on immediately dipped.
Maxon’s smile faded when he saw my expression. “Libby . . .” he began warily. “What— I thought—”
“No, no. It’s not that. It’s not what you think,” I hurried to say when he moved away from me to sit in the middle of the bed. I pulled the sheet over my chest and licked my lips as my mind raced. “If you ask me to, I will leave with you in the morning and take your last name.”
His face fell into an unreadable mask. “I’ve been waiting to hear that since we were eighteen . . . but I know there’s a but coming.”
A soft laugh fell from my lips, but there was no humor behind it. “You started calling me Rebel so long ago. That name fits me better than you realize.” I hesitated for a second, my tongue darting out to wet my lips. “I never wanted to leave my family, Maxon. I was just rebelling from what they were—what I was. But I couldn’t tell you.”
“The mafia?”
I stilled, my breath catching in my throat when Maxon said the title so casually. “How . . .?”
Maxon’s face cracked with relief, a breath of a laugh sounding in the back of his throat. “Jesus, Libby. I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. You think I wouldn’t catch on that something was going on with your family?” When I just stared at him in shock, he asked, “Is that what you were worried about me finding out? Is that the but?”
“Well, yeah . . .”
A fuller laugh left him as he pulled me to sit on his lap. His eyes searched my face, amusement dancing in them. “This?” he murmured, passing his fingers across the tattoo on the back of my neck. “You told me about it when we were in second grade. You drew it and said, ‘This is me. I’m a rebel.’” Maxon’s smile stretched wider. “You rebel against everything, Libby, but I call you Rebel because of that day.”
I automatically reached back to touch where his fingers had just been.
Four horizontal lines, each shorter than the one above it, with a vertical line slashing through, longer than the others. All centered in an outline of a circle.
It was our gang’s symbol. My family adopted it when they rebelled from a different mafia family long before I’d ever been born. Now every Borello member had it tattooed or branded on them to show who their allegiance with pride.
I’d never been proud of what we were, but the blood pounding through my veins had marked me a rebel from birth.
I just couldn’t believe I’d told Maxon.
“But I didn’t really know what you were until your dad was murdered,” he continued, his tone solemn. “No one in the town seemed to know or talk about it. Your brother immediately dropped out of school, and you acted like it wasn’t a big deal. And whenever I saw him over the next few years, he had adults straight out of a mafia movie hanging on his every word. But I’m pretty fucking positive I wasn’t supposed to see any of that since I was usually sneaking in or out of your window.”
A breath o
f a laugh escaped my lips, and my head shook in disbelief. “I just— I can’t believe you knew all this time.”
“Would it have changed our relationship before?” When I only smiled and shook my head, he shrugged. “Then what does it matter?”
“Doesn’t it matter to you?”
He placed a teasing kiss on my lips. “Is Dare gonna have me killed if I marry you?”
I tilted my head to the side and pretended to think about it before leaning in for another kiss. “No. He’d just do it himself.” My chest shook with a laugh at Maxon’s stunned expression. “He wouldn’t. Dare dissolved the gang over a year ago. He doesn’t want anything to do with that life anymore.”
“Why?”
“That’s another story, and it’s not mine to tell,” I whispered against his lips. “So after all that . . . you still want to marry me?”
He nipped my bottom lip then pressed his mouth to mine, kissing me tenderly. “Always, Rebel. I’ll always want to marry you.”
He twisted me around so I was straddling his lap, his eyes burning with need when he gripped my hips to position me over his hardening length.
My head dropped back, a low moan sounding in my throat when I sank down him. I rocked against him slowly, letting my head roll forward to hold his heated stare. “Maxon James, what do you say we change my last name?”
The End
Check out the Redemption series by Molly McAdams for more of Libby and her family.
Also by Molly McAdams
The Redemption Series
Blackbird
Firefly
Nightshade
The Thatch Series
Letting Go
To The Stars
Show Me How
The Sharing You Series
Capturing Peace (novella)
Sharing You
The Forgiving Lies Series
Forgiving Lies
Deceiving Lies
Changing Everything (novella)
The From Ashes Series
From Ashes
Needing Her (novella)
The Taking Chances Series
Taking Chances
Stealing Harper (novella)
Trusting Liam
Stand-Alone Novels
I See You
About The Author
Molly grew up in California but now lives in the oh-so-amazing state of Texas with her husband, daughter, and fur babies. When she's not diving into the world of her characters, some of her hobbies include hiking, snowboarding, traveling, and long walks on the beach … which roughly translates to being a homebody with her hubby and dishing out movie quotes. She has a weakness for crude-humored movies and fried pickles, and loves curling up in a fluffy comforter during a thunderstorm ... or under one in a bathtub if there are tornados. That way she can pretend they aren't really happening.
Connect with Molly: Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest | Goodreads | Website
Rocking the Racer
By Erin Noelle
The first time I saw Milan Barcelo, I knew I had to have a piece of that fine Argentine race-car-driver ass. Not much makes me happier than bringing a cocky playboy like him to his knees. But to be honest, I’m used to exerting the power of my pussy over high school and college-aged boys. And if I learned nothing else in the fifteen minutes I spent pinned against a wall in a storage room closet during a fancy gala, with my cocktail dress shoved up to my waist and his huge cock driving in and out of me, it’s that he’s all man—one that doesn’t beg for anything and takes whatever he wants.
I haven’t stopped thinking about him since. Three hundred and fifty-eight long-ass days and longer, unsatisfying nights. Not that I’m counting or anything.
No one has come close to making me feel the way he did—and some have had multiple hours to work with. But it always boils down to me screwing my eyes shut and imagining Milan’s rough fingers digging into my hipbones as he whispers the nastiest things in my ear in order to make me come.
“Fuck yes, mi cariño. Squeeze your tight little rich girl cunt around me. I want to feel you dripping down my cock.”
A wanton shiver snakes down my spine as heat blooms between my legs at the memory of his dirty mouth coaxing me to climax. Though it doesn’t hurt that my gaze just landed on that very man in the flesh, his slim but muscular body leaning on the bar top in the far, shadowed corner of the hotel suite, away from the crowd of the afterparty, as he flirts with the busty blonde bartender. With his inky black hair and matching dark eyes, wearing a casual, light blue button-down and a five o’clock shadow that’s begging to scrape against my inner thighs.
He looks even better than I remember.
I wasn’t expecting him to be here, and now I wish I would’ve bothered to fix my hair instead of piling it up on top of my head in a messy bun. I mean, of course he’s been the only thing I’ve thought about as this tour stop in Buenos Aires, his hometown, has drawn near. But neither my brother nor my dad made a big deal about him coming to the concert or the afterparty, and considering they’re both huge fans of his, and of Formula 1 in general, it seems odd that one of them didn’t at least mention it.
I’m almost positive Everett—my twin and the other half of the band I’m in, Singed Wings—knows something happened between me and Milan when we were here last March to perform before the Argentine Grand Prix. But my dad… he’s been too wrapped up in his own band’s—Jobu’s Rum—reunion tour the past nine months to pay much attention to who or what I’m doing. As long as I’m not getting arrested or having inappropriate photos splattered all over the tabloid websites, he doesn’t give me much shit. Plus, I’m sure he would rather just pretend his freshly-turned-nineteen-year-old daughter is sweet, pure, and innocent. Ignorance is bliss, right?
Milan still hasn’t looked my way since I came in, and I begin to make my way toward him through the throng of people as a blended buzz of English and Spanish fills the warm, smoky air. My intentions are fully set on seducing him away from here for a much-longer-than-last-time round two, but before I make it a quarter of the way there, someone grabs my elbow and tugs me off my path, completely disrupting my mission.
“Ashlynn, sweetheart, come here. Uncle Cruz needs some love from the girl who stole the entire show.” Cruz, the guitarist in my dad’s band, pulls me to his side and loops his arm around my neck, kissing me on the temple with his sticky beer lips. He’s got a few groupies hanging around him, none of whom look too thrilled that I’ve taken his attention away from them, and I can’t help myself but to linger simply to piss them off even more.
Normally, I would say thank you and give him—who I truly see as an uncle since I spent the first five years of my life on tour with Jobu’s Rum—a quick hug then be on my way. But since they want to be catty bitches, and I’m still buzzing off the adrenaline from playing in front of sixty-two thousand screaming fans, I decide to toy with them a little bit.
Sure, Singed Wings is only the opening act during this reunion tour, but that doesn’t make performing live in front of that many people any less amazing. When I step on that stage with drumsticks in my hand and a microphone at my mouth, I’m in my wheelhouse, not giving a shit about anything but the music. Then, for hours after playing a show, I feel invincible, on top of the world.
And that’s normally when I find the most trouble.
“You better not let my daddy hear you say that,” I giggle as I wrap my arms around his waist and hug him.
“You better not let your daddy see you dressed like that either.” He laughs and takes a swig from the Corona in his hand while playfully eyeing me up and down, and then adding a wink so I know he’s teasing. “You don’t tell him and I won’t either.”
I glance down at my clothes and grin a knowing grin. He’s damn right my dad won’t like this outfit. Though the neckline of the snug pastel pink sweater I’m wearing isn’t low by any means, my black bra is clearly visible through the sheer material, and the pleated black skirt… well, it covers my
ass at least. My parents often make comments about my fashion decisions, but like I tell them, if I was away at college, they’d have no idea what I was wearing every day, or what I was doing. While we’re on tour, they know where I am and what I’m up to—at least most of the time.
“Deal.” I lift up on my tiptoes and press my glossy lips to his cheek. “See you around, Uncle Cruz.”
I spin away from him and the gold-digging whores frothing at the mouth, and fix my stare back on the spot where the man who I hope to disappear with tonight was just standing… only now he’s gone. My heart skids to a stop as my neck swivels around almost a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, my eyes searching for his unmistakably gorgeous face. Please tell me he wasn’t a figment of my imagination, that I don’t want him to be here so badly that I hallucinated his presence. If so, I seriously need to see a shrink when we get back home. Or find a guy who can get me off.
“He went outside, probably to smoke, or maybe to escape the crazy-booby bartender chick,” a familiar female voice announces as she sidles up next to me and pushes a glass of champagne in my hand. “Here, have this. It’s excellent. Plus, we’re supposed to be celebrating.”
I jerk my chin down and to the right until my gaze lands on Belle, my five-foot-nothing soon-to-be sister-in-law—who, based on her glassy eyes and goofy grin, has already had several glasses of bubbly tonight.
“Who went outside what are you talking about I don’t know any crazy-booby bartender chick.” The words tumble out in a rush, sounding like a single run-on sentence. Then I pull a long drink from the crystal flute, hoping the alcohol will chill me the fuck out.
“That guy that was over there,” she slurs, pointing toward where Milan was just standing. “The one you hooked up with when we were here last year. The one who made you a bitch.”
Shocked, my jaw falls open and my eyes grow wide as I gape at her. “The one who made me a bitch?” I squawk loud enough for the group of people next to us—which includes my mom and brother—to turn and stare. I flash them my best sweet-and-innocent smile and wave like all is good and nothing important is going on, and then grab Belle’s forearm with my free hand and drag her away from the crowd, near the far wall.
