by Penny Wylder
I don’t know if they see me, or hear my cries of pleasure, or see the SUV rocking because Chaucer uses me like a Barbie doll, bending and positioning me in different ways. One minute I’m being rammed from behind, the next we’re in the sixty-nine position and his massive cock is down my throat and his tongue is up my pussy. He slurps and sucks my clit until my eyes start to roll in the back of my head. Then suddenly, I’m being flipped around again, and now he’s lying on his back and I’m on top of him facing the opposite direction with my ass toward him, reverse cowgirl style.
“Ride my fat cock with that tight pussy,” he says.
His dirty words spur me on and I continue to bounce on his dick until I feel that familiar rumble of an impending orgasm roaring toward me.
“Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum,” I tell him.
“Me too,” he says, his voice strained.
I start to pull off of him, but he holds me tight against his body. I guess I assumed that because he wants to date me, he wouldn’t want to come inside of me right now. We haven’t discussed what me getting pregnant with his child would mean if we pursue this relationship. Maybe he hasn’t thought that far either and is just doing what we’re used to doing with each other. I don’t try to stop him. And when I feel the warmth of his semen filling my insides, I close my eyes and let it sink in.
He stays inside of me, and together we lie down in a spooning position. I don’t know how he manages to stay hard after that—or maybe he’s only semi hard and he’s so big I still feel full of him.
“What if I get pregnant now?” I ask him as he caresses my hard nipples with the tips of his fingers. It sends a shiver through me. I’m still turned on. Still ready to go at a moment’s notice. If he made a move, I’d be ready to go again.
“Do you want to get pregnant now?” he asks.
“Well, yes. I want a baby more than anything.”
“My baby?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then let’s make a baby.”
“But what do you want? Are you ready to be a father?”
He kisses my shoulder and starts to move his hips. I can feel him growing bigger inside of me as he slowly moves in and out. “I am. I’ve just been waiting for the right woman to come along, and now that you have, I want nothing more than to have a child with you. But now we can take our time and do it on our own terms.”
I gasp as he pushes all the way into me, the head of his cock buried so deep inside me it knocks against my cervix. He starts to fuck me again, but this time is less frenzied and far more sensual and loving. He takes his time, reaches around to rub my clit. I twist my body so that I can see his face, land a kiss on his lips as he fucks me from behind. I moan into his mouth as I’m engulfed in pleasure.
I can’t believe this is actually happening. I’ve fallen for a man who loves me back and is ready to start a family. I was starting to think there wasn’t such a thing. A man like that in Los Angeles is a unicorn, a yeti, something found in a fairytale that doesn’t actually exist. But he’s here, inside of me, and I have no intention of ever letting go, no matter his past.
He pulls out and rolls me onto my back and climbs on top of me. Brushing the sweaty hair off my face, he stares into my eyes and lays delicate kisses on my lips, nose, and chin as he sinks deep into me again. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck.
His lips brush against my throat, and he sucks at my skin. There will probably be a hickey there the next morning, but I don’t care. It can be covered up with makeup. I like the way it feels and I like the possessive inclination of what it means. He’s marking his territory. I’m his. He’s mine. No one else is allowed.
As he digs deep into me, my thighs clinch against his sides, and I thrust my hips up to meet his. Our skin slaps against each other. Aggressively, passionately, forcefully, like two rams beating our horns together for territory.
The muscles in my stomach and ass start to contract and quiver. He slows down, knowing that if we keep this up we’ll both be done. I can feel him start to tense up as well and neither of us can stop or slow down what’s about to happen. He comes with a roar that can probably be heard from inside the building. My own orgasm screams out of me as well and my legs start to shake and cramp.
Chaucer, tired and smiling from his orgasm, lies next to me, his hands folded on his chest, looking up at the moon roof that spans the entire length of the car.
“You wore me out,” he says, reaching over and taking my hand in his.
I’m panting, trying to catch my breath. “I wore myself out,” I say, even though he did most of the work.
We lay here in amicable silence, touching each other’s skin, breathing each other’s air. Normally I’d be content to just lie here with him in silence, but I have to know: “Why do people think you cheated them out of their money? It seems so unlike you, it’s hard for me to imagine anyone thinking of you as the kind of person who would do something like that.”
He looks at me with a sad smile. “Most people didn’t believe it, not until I told them that I did.”
“Wait, you told people you stole their money?” He sighs and nods. I don’t understand, so I keep pressing. “Why would you do that?”
I prop myself up on my elbows, curious. I can’t imagine why he would do such a thing.
He hesitates. I can tell he doesn’t want to tell this story, but I need to know.
“Tell me what happened. I won’t judge you, and it won’t change my feelings for you. I just need to know the truth,” I say.
“I’ll never lie to you,” he says.
“Good.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story, but first, let’s eat. I’m starving.”
I smile. “Me too.”
9
Chaucer takes me to a nice restaurant. The SUV still smells of sex, and I wonder if the valet can smell it when he takes the car to park it.
Neither of us are dressed appropriately for this kind of restaurant, but it doesn’t seem to matter to the hostess who knows him by name and seats us right away. For someone accused of criminal acts, he sure does get the VIP treatment. Now I’m even more curious about his story. I figured he wouldn’t have much in the way of money after being accused of cheating people. Clearly that’s not the case.
We sit and order our food. While we wait, we order drinks. Once the waiter is gone, Chaucer reaches toward me and takes his hand in mine. “Are you sure you want to know about my complicated past?” He looks worried, which makes me worried as well.
I look him right in the eye. “I want to know everything about you.”
He sighs. “Okay. It all started when I went into business with my brother …”
He goes on to tell me that he started a financial investing business with his brother, his best-friend’s brother, as well as his best-friend—the guy he was with at the bar when I saw him last night. His brother had been in trouble with the law and had done some time, but Chaucer thought he’d turned his life around. While in prison, he had gotten his GED, and when he was out, he went to school for finance, the same way Chaucer had. Even though he had some reservations about his brother’s 180 degree personality change from crook to good guy, he wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Chaucer kept a nestegg just in case things went bad, and so did his best friend. But still, even though they had plenty of money, when he found out his brother was cheating their investors, he was devastated.
As he’s telling the story, I see the pain it causes him to say the words out loud. His hands ball into fists and there’s a twitch in his eye the whole time he speaks. I feel guilty for making him relive this ordeal, but I hope once I understand his past, I can help him come to terms with it.
“I knew it would break my mother’s heart if she knew my brother hadn’t changed after all, so I took the heat for him. It would’ve been his third strike and he was looking at serious prison time.”
“But you have to deal with the fallout now. That’s not fair.
”
He smiles sadly. “It’s not, but I still have my family. And even better, I have you. If none of that happened, I wouldn’t have signed up for the baby-making club, and I wouldn’t have met you.”
My chest tightens, and I feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I can tell he’s being honest with me. I reach toward him and put my hands on top of his. He releases his fists and weaves his fingers through mine.
“What will you do now?” I ask. How does someone recover after financial ruin? I know he said he had a nest egg, but still.
“Bradly—my best friend and I—opened up a chain of trendy coffee shops that are doing great. I’m getting back on my feet. I’m still dealing with a bunch of legal messes, but it will clear up soon enough.”
“Are some of those messes the reason why you looked so upset at the bar?”
“Yeah, I’ll admit, it’s a lot to deal with. One thing after another. I have to pay the clients back with interest, but at least I’m not looking at jail time.”
One last question—the one that has been bugging me the most—won’t get out of my head. Even though I believe everything he says, I have to know. “What happened with Bradly’s brother? The article hinted that he was murdered.”
Chaucer shakes his head and an angry scowl darkens his typically bright eyes. “I didn’t kill anyone. Aaron helped skim money off the top with my brother. He knew what he was doing would destroy Bradly, but for him, the cars and women that came along with the money was too tempting to pass up. But when they were caught and he thought he would go to prison, he took his own life.”
“I’m so sorry that happened to you, and that you still have to deal with it. But I’ll stand by your side, no matter what. We’ll get through this together.”
He leans over and kisses me. Even though it’s the kind of kiss appropriate for a restaurant like this, it still makes me light headed. “I know being with you will get me through this. Since I met you, I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. I can actually imagine a future.”
Our food comes and we fall into lighter conversation after that. We sit here for hours, learning about each other’s lives. After all the patrons have left, he takes me on a tour around the city to look at the chain of coffee shops he owns. The coffee is amazing and we have several cups as we get to know each other on a deeper level. The more I learn about him, the more I love everything about him. I can’t wait to start our future together.
10
Two months have passed since Chaucer and I first met in that room at the baby-making club. I moved in with him at his high-rise downtown, and I am now the financial manager at his and Bradly’s coffee shops—no skimming money off the top here. My life is bliss. I never imagined I could be this happy.
Even my friends love him. Chaucer has grown close to Megan’s husband, and Chaucer, Bradly, and Nathan have regular poker nights together. Megan had her baby several days ago, and since the baby arrived before the baby shower, we decided to throw an after party instead.
Everyone passes the baby around. Chaucer holds her and his eyes and smile sparkle, lit up like the Hollywood sign.
“Look at her, isn’t she perfect?” he says as he gazes into her wrinkly little face.
“She’s an angel.”
It’s not long before someone comes over and steals the baby away. People can’t keep their hands off of her.
“I can’t wait to have one of our own,” he says.
He opens his arms to me and I sit on his lap. “You won’t have to wait too much longer, because in eight months, we’ll be having one of our own.”
He practically launches out of his chair, taking me with him. He scoops me up into his arms. “Are you serious? You’re pregnant?”
I laugh as he spins me around. His eyes and mouth open in wide circles. “You’re going to be a dad.”
“Did you hear that, everyone? I’m going to be a dad!”
Everyone cheers. Megan the loudest of all. She’s just as excited for us to raise our children together.
As Chaucer spins me around, I still can’t believe this is my life. I’m with the man I love and we’re about to have our first baby. Life couldn’t get any better than it is right now.
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Chapter One
Sasha Bluebell
The letter arrives at the worst possible time.
I’m currently between clients, juggling freelance jobs from my last company, where I was their head paralegal consultant until I had enough of their bullshit pseudo-assignments and quit to pursue my own thing. But it’s been slow-going in the freelance world, and it’s taken me a while to build up a private client base. Originally I took on a couple of gigs for my old firm on a case-by-case basis. Now they’ve flooded me with so many that it feels like I’m full-time again, minus the healthcare benefits.
Not that I can complain about the money. That, at least, has been more than decent.
Still, my schedule is a wreck. So much a wreck, that when the letter first arrives, I don’t even notice it in my inbox for a week straight. When I do, I take one glance at the cover letter and find myself wincing, wanting to shove it straight back under the stack of unread incoming mail that awaits me on my desk. The longer I can prolong this, the better. Because I don’t want to confront any of the emotions that rise up when I read that first line.
In the Matter of the Estate of Maryanne Bluebell…
No, thank you. I spent a year after Mama died being heartbroken. I don’t need to relive that again, thank you very much. Besides, it took her estate that whole year and an extra 8 months to even get this letter to me. How important could it be?
But eventually, after a week of ignoring that half-opened letter on my desk while I sorted through my current freelance projects, I ran out of excuses. I couldn’t prolong the inevitable anymore. I had to face the music.
I unfolded the full letter over a hefty pour of Cabernet one Friday night, with my favorite cheesy TV reality show on in the background, and a long-overdue weekend off ahead of me. I figured that might mitigate the blow, knowing that for once I had some free time to myself coming up. I’d worked overtime for the last month and a half straight to carve myself this little slice of freedom.
And this is how I decided to reward myself? I really am a masochist in disguise.
By the time I reach the third line of the letter, I’ve already downed my whole glass of Cab. I need to refill to finish reading. Because this one, I didn’t see coming.
I didn’t expect the middle block of text, written by my mother herself, years before her death.
I didn’t expect the plea to resonate so deeply.
I didn’t expect to feel it in my bones when I read her words on the page, ink long-dried, words she asked her lawyer to add to this case file long before the breast cancer stole her from me.
Sasha,
You are my only legacy. I don’t say this because I’m ashamed of it—you are the best thing that ever happened to me. My dearest dream in life was to raise you right, and I am so proud of the woman you have become.
I know how much you love your life in the city, and I’m happy that you’ve found your place. But I hope you recognize the history and importance of our home back here, too. Your great-great grandfather built this house with his own hands. For generations, your family has tilled the soil, lived off what this land produced. I hope that when I am gone, you will respect the legacy we’ve both been entrusted with and do what is right for this place.
If you’re reading this letter, it all belongs to you now, my love. I trust you with it, as I trust you with everything in my life.
Your loving mother
She left it unsigned. That, somehow, makes it sting even worse.
I just keep rereading the words this place and our home. She means the family farm back in
Nowheresville. That place and I haven’t been on speaking terms for fifteen years. Not since I applied to the farthest college away that would take me, packed up my bags and got the fuck out of dodge.
I’ve spent the last fifteen years right here in New York City. I can’t imagine going back. Hell, I barely even visited, not until two years ago, right at the end, when things were so bad Mama couldn’t make it on a plane out here. She visited me in the city as often as she liked because I couldn’t stand to visit her.
I visited that one time. The last time. I held her hand as she closed her eyes and breathed her last. I barely stayed long enough to sign the estate over to my more-than-capable legal team and then I high-tailed it out of dodge.
I never thought I’d need to go back. I never planned to set foot in that tiny town ever again.
But here are her words, staring up at me in black-and-white, asking the impossible. Asking me to return.
I can’t, is my immediate gut reaction.
You have to, is what my frontal cortex yells at my monkey brain.
Because how can I ignore this letter? How can I disregard the last wishes of my mother when I’m her only child, her only heir, the only one she ever had to lay all her hopes and dreams on?
I fold the letter back up, for tonight. For tonight, I concentrate on my shitty reality TV show and my bottle of Cabernet, which I’m definitely going to polish off by myself, propriety be damned.
For tonight, I let myself enjoy the first day off I’d managed to carve in my schedule since as long as I can remember. Life here in the city is hectic, but it’s what I love. There’s always something going on, always a new project to focus on, always something to occupy my attention. Much better than country life. Much better than that stifling hometown I escaped the first minute I could.
For tonight, I enjoy the life I built myself, on my own sweat and blood and tears and exhaustion.
Then the next morning, hung-over and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, I unfold the letter one more time and dial the number at the bottom.
