by Angel Payne
“Which means she could show up on the damn doorstep at any time.”
And sometimes, the beast is beaten into submission with some simple words from a beautiful woman. But unlike Banner, I’m not tamed with a message of calm and comfort. I’m rendered silent at thinking what’s now our inevitability. A house call from Mistress Garand—and not in the name of peddling cosmetics or cookies. But while it’s silence, it’s not a helpless one—bolstered by facts that return to me not a second too soon.
“When she does, we’ll be ready.” The vow gets the backing of my steady baritone because I’m sure of every syllable. “Foley’s been on the horn all day long,” I explain. “As we speak, some of his most reliable badass buddies are on their way to bolster the Team Bolt forces for the next week.”
Her eyes widen and her lips lift. “The same guys who backed you two up at Teterboro?”
Teterboro. Her recall of the incident at first has me tensing. No, not an “incident.” It was much more. The first time I’d ever been truly and thoroughly terrified of losing her because we were separated by much more than a minor bump in the relationship. Faline had kidnapped her and Lydia from the back door of the RRO fundraiser in Manhattan—and thanks to Foley, Mitch, Kane, and the rest of their friends, who’d all dropped everything to help us, that night had concluded in all the right ways but one. I hadn’t killed Fa-Fa Garand when presented with the chance. But Emma was returned to my arms instead of being turned into hamburger by a jet turbine, and that was—and still is—all that matters.
Which is why I didn’t hesitate to agree when Foley offered to call as much of the “old gang” back around. I know Emma sees as much in the resolve on my face as I answer her question. “One of them is returning,” I offer. “Ethan Archer. Do you remember him?”
She nods with confidence, though her gaze grows misty with memories. “Yeah,” she says slowly. “The languages specialist. Spec Ops out of JBLM in Seattle but splits his time between there and down here. His wife is a stylist for several movie and TV stars. And he picks up minor acting gigs too…right?”
I nod. “He finished up a project today, over at the Sony lot. Depending on traffic from Culver City, he could be downstairs being briefed by Foley as we speak.”
“Good.” As she closes her eyes, the ridges across her forehead start relaxing. “That’s really, really good.”
Her blatant relief is my inspiring prod. “By tomorrow morning, we’ll have two more here. The Bommer brothers.” A short chuff.
She opens her eyes with a new smile. “Ah, yes. Lydia’s told me about them. The older one lives in Hawaii. He started out in Special Forces but apparently is on a black ops team now. His younger brother is Ethan’s brother-in-law; they married sisters.” She cocks her head, focusing harder on me. “And from the hints ’Dia’s dropped, we might share a few commonalities with the guy.”
“With Shay?” I dip my head, giving in to the weight of curiosity. “That would explain why Foley made a point of sharing the guy’s military call sign with me.”
“Which is what?”
“Ironman.”
Her lips part on a tiny laugh. “Oh, yeah. That certainly would explain it.” At once, she sobers again. “I really don’t care if their call signs are Jessie, James, and Meowth; I’m just glad they’re going to be here soon.” She wriggles closer as Lux declares it’s time for left foot yellow in the next room. “I can’t stand the thought of that witch showing up when we can’t fully protect the kids.”
With her head pressed to the center of my chest, I wonder if she can hear the uptick of my heartbeat. And the rush of happiness to my blood. Yet still, the subtle uncertainty in my voice as I echo, “The kids.” I wrap my hold all the way around her until I’m tenderly rubbing up and down her spine. “Not just ‘the kid’?”
She runs her own touch along the stretch of my collarbone. Her glowing fingers cause a soft sizzle as she strokes the worn leather. “I know exactly what I said, mister. And I know exactly what its implications are as well.”
I spread my hands and discernibly enforce my pressure. “Even if those girls might be mine and not yours?” And then press harder but for my own fortitude this time. “Even if their ‘mother’ is the most poisonous bitch to ever donate her DNA to a petri dish?”
“No.” She straightens until our faces are aligned with each other. “Not their mother,” she declares. “That half-baked hag might have parted with an egg or two to strike the spark, but no way is she their ultimate fire.” She jabs her chin higher. “No way is she their mother. And no way will she ever be.”
As she speaks, full of gorgeous husk and hellfire, all my reactions intensify. The gallop of my pulse is up to Triple Crown speed. The elation in my blood becomes a full-blown tsunami. But now more than ever, the apprehension in my mind refuses to remain at the level of baby badger chitters. This nasty-ass nag has grown up and now lunges for the pulp of my memories—in particular, one memory that won’t quit its repeat loop. It won’t back down, even after three days, because its existence blows apart the few puzzle pieces we’ve notched together so far. And the bridges we’ve finally started connecting to Mis and Ira. And the ways they already feel so much a part of us.
But the recollection keeps tormenting. Endlessly. Relentlessly.
You know, Alpha Two…we would have been beautiful together…but now you have openly admitted your insipid attachment to that blond peasant…so this is how it has to be. Shall we get on with things, then? Because the sooner you give me your liquid gold, the sooner they will be able to put it inside me. The sooner I will be the mother of a god!
She’d crooned all that while priming my balls and pumping my cock. I had no doubt what she wanted at the end of the speech, and it wasn’t my hearty applause. My jizz was going to be her key to bearing the god baby.
Except for one major glitch.
By that night, she’d already created that kid. Twice.
And the puzzle crumbles a little more.
And so does my decision about waiting until the “right moment” to relay all of that to Emma. My main deterrent has also been the most obvious: when it comes to Faline, first assumptions should never be counted as the most trustworthy. The twins may look like they were born five years ago by human standards—two and a half using mutant math—but those are only standards with which we’re familiar. For all we know, they’ve been sentient for only a month. And what about the fact that despite what Faline said in my memory, she never got anything more from me than a few drops of precome.
So how were Mis and Ira really created?
And is that really the question that matters?
Because as things stand, we can’t ignore that they exist. Yes, with the big Garand eyes and the unmistakable black curls—but also with those noble Richards noses, proud Richards shoulders, long Richards fingers…
And the connection that this Richards soul feels for them. With them…
Part of the magic I feel is from Emma’s incredible heart as she continues the lock of our stares and the resolve of her proclamation. A tenacity that sucks out my breath with its beauty. A strength that turns my whole damn system into a boulevard of brighter adoration. It all swirls and curls and twists through me before blurting out of me in an amazed, dazed rasp.
“So what are you telling me here exactly, Velvet?”
The woman dips her head and sends out a cute glance, as if she’s peering over the rims of Ray-Bans perched on her nose. “What you already know I’ll say, mind-reader guy.”
I blink hard. Get down a gulp of twice the weight. “Maybe I’m just having trouble believing it.”
“Are you serious?”
She stands up fast enough to knock the pretend shades off. At once, she’s standing in front of me with hands slammed to her waist. “Why?” Despite her casual outfit of plain leggings and a T-shirt with a smiley-faced lightning bolt on it, she evokes the same badassery as she would in her battle leathers—with the same searing effect on my coc
k.
She goes on, oblivious to my swelling physical frustration. “Do you really think I’m going to shun those girls for simply being brought into existence? For the genes that formed that existence? For the disgusting reasons they were told their lives had any significance at all? For all the things they could no more control than the breaths they took?”
Well, now that she puts it that way…
But nonetheless, I begin my reply with a callous shrug. Then an equally stern frown. “Some people would,” I supply and mean it. More than she probably wants to know about and likely refuses to. Which triples my adoration of her before she even formulates a comeback. Oh, but it’s coming. I already see it in the fires beneath her stunning blues and in the tearful shimmer that gives them such gorgeous depth.
“Well, I’m not some people.”
I spread my arms, reaching out to snare her wrists in my no-nonsense grip. “And I’m not ever going to stop being grateful for it.”
The prickles dissolve from her demeanor as I draw her closer, kissing her palms before laying them over my shoulders.
“Those girls are miracles, Reece,” she whispers as another round of excited squeals breaks out from the other room. “And they deserve to be told and shown that, each and every day. In as many ways as possible.”
I slide my hands down to her thighs. Coax her knees back up until she’s straddling me on the narrow velvet couch. “You’ve already started that magic, woman,” I whisper into the hollow of her throat. “You’re showing them by example because you’re the original miracle.” I tilt my head, angling so that I suckle the side of that elegant, creamy column…now vibrating with her shallow sighs and quickening breaths. “My miracle,” I murmur while licking along her carotid. “My superheroine. My goddess. My breath, my life…fuck.”
I surrender to the mindless word because that’s what I’ve finally become, swamped with stupidity hand-fed by my own frustration. How can so many words exist in this world, yet none to fully fit what I’m trying to tell her? To make sure she knows, beyond any doubt, that she’s never dropped a bigger bomb of beguilement on my spirit. That she’s never trapped my soul in a stronger cage of wonder. That she’s never converted me faster to the church of Emmalina or had me dropping faster to my knees at her golden altar.
“Fuck!” I repeat it because it’s still the only filler that fits—only it doesn’t. Even my go-to word isn’t sticking the damn landing here—which has me holding up the apple cart once again. Why am I fighting to make anything stick with words?
“Right hand greeeeennn!”
“Oh yeah, buddy,” I mumble to my son, happy when there’s no silent psychic volley in return. The action of the game is consuming him too fully. Thank fuck for that, because I assure fate that I’ve now gotten its subliminal message loud and clear.
Sometimes, words aren’t enough.
Especially when a guy is sitting with a soft, sweet, squirming little bunny on his lap, feeling her getting more wet and pliant by the second—and doing nothing about it but feebly dry humping her.
You say she’s your miracle?
Then show her.
Your life, your breath?
Show her.
Your ultimate goddess?
Show. Her!
Fortunately, I’m pretty good about hints once I’m clobbered over the head with them—especially when they command me to do more than grunt and rub on my wife like an eighth-grade dork during a school dance slow song.
There’s no time to lose.
Other than the minutes I’ve wasted already.
I start at once—but as soon as I do, sending a calculated pulse over the mound of decorative pillows on our bed, Emma interprets my action differently. “You particularly fond of left hand green?” She thinks I’m commenting on Lux’s shriek, but that’s fine by me. That’ll make my sexy surprise that much sweeter—for both of us.
“Hmmm. Not really.” I keep up the flow from my outstretched hands, imagining I look like a kinky Dr. Strange utilizing my mystic arts to form the wildest sex bed. I smirk. Not arguing with that one at all. As a matter of fact, the concept lends me a new stroke of genius. With a swirl of fingers and a whoosh of energy, I stretch out a flash pulse beneath her perfect body, using it to lift her through the air and across the room. Within a few seconds, she’s the centerpiece of my new bedding sculpture, with her head and knees propped up…and her legs beautifully spread.
Gorgeous.
Delectable.
Perfect.
Almost.
“Oh!” she yelps in tandem to my admiring growl. “My…my goodness.” The stammers are infused with a little laughter, turning them into music I could listen to all day, but ’Dia and Angie will only be able to amuse the kids for so long with the spinner and the plastic mat in the next room. Before long, demands for the trip to Two-Bit Circus will once more threaten to punch out the wall between us. The sorcerer needs to get busy here.
“Ohhhh, Bunny…I promise you, goodness is definitely the goal here.”
Emma peels back the restraint on more of her sweet laugh. Lifts a stare at me full of the same warmth, though now it’s dipped in sultry sensuality as well. “Well, you know how I like goals, Mr. Richards.”
“One of the things I worship the most about you, Mrs. Richards.” With steps of defined intent, I move to stand between her parted legs. My nostrils flare. My mouth waters. Even now, with her leggings still on, I catch the sexy honey of her aroused pussy on the air. “Among hundreds,” I qualify as I rake my heated gaze across that erotic juncture of her body.
I don’t stop there.
And she knows it.
With every new inch I cover with my stare, the woman’s breaths pump in and out of her faster. And then faster. By the time I reach the stunning swells beneath her tee, that air has turned into hot-as-hell husks up her throat.
Still, she manages to rasp out, “I…I worship you too.”
More magnificent music to my ears.
More mind-blowing fire to my blood.
More unbearable pressure in my cock.
But bear it I do, borrowing self-control from some inexplicable force of the cosmos, the entity gaining my lifelong loyalty simply because I get to enjoy the next awesome moment.
“Yeah? Then prove it.”
In which I get to watch her pupils dilate from my ruthless warlock’s growl.
“Take off the shirt. And anything that’s underneath it.”
And then the exquisite part of her lips before she complies with my conjurer’s command.
For a second, I grin. Her rushed obedience reminds me of Mickey Mouse from Fantasia, eagerly seeking to please the dark sorcerer overlord. I like that analogy too—only I’m pretty sure that magician was never conjuring what I’m going to do to my lithe little apprentice.
My gorgeous disciple, glowing in pleasure as she reveals more of her golden skin for me. And then the perfection of her bared tits. Their puckered rosy centers. Their erect berry points. Their sweet, heaving fullness.
“Damn,” I grate, battling the desire to lean over for some lingering tastes. Not yet. I vowed to honor her with my most profound worship, in the most perfect way I know how. That means moving on…
“So flawless,” I tell her, roaming my hot scrutiny across every creamy inch of her swollen mounds. “So fucking stunning.”
“Reece…” She licks her lips and reaches for me, but I capture her wrists and return her hands back to her breasts.
“Lie back,” I direct. “And play with them for me. Pluck them. Pull them.” For a few seconds, I demonstrate the motions with my own fingertips. “Hurt them.” Oh, yeah. And that one too.
“Ahhhh!”
“Now stay still.”
She chokes. “Seriously?”
“Stay. Still.” I slam enough thunder into the echo that she finally gets the message. I’m not asking for her feedback. I’m dictating her compliance. “Yessss.” I draw it out in conjunction with the perfect views con
suming my sights. First, as I carefully sear away the crotch and upper thighs from her leggings, exposing the succulent pink folds beneath. At the same time, she continues heeding my order for her hands, kneading and tweaking her chest until her nipples resemble twin cinnamon candies. The textures impact me like a perfect erotic dream. Pink and red…soft and hard…wet and full…
Waiting and ready.
So perfectly prepared for my worship.
I can’t wait any longer.
I crouch next to the bed and then lean in to where her legs are bolstered on the pillows I prearranged.
“Ohhhh…” Her moan corresponds to the new force of my hold, wrapped around her thighs from the outside. The grip helps me spread her wider, until her feet are dangling from the edges of the pillow hills and her ass is lifted an inch off the mattress. With her leggings cut off above her knees, she resembles a naughty schoolgirl about to be punished…and her juicy cunt the forbidden fruit she’s brought to buy mercy.
But I’m in no mood to give her any.
My discipline and my veneration come as one deviant package.
As it should be.
As she’ll be taking it from me.
“Ohhh! Ahhhh!” Emma’s keen is a perfect blend of the same duality, hiking in pitch as I deliver the first long tongue stroke to her parted, pouting sex. Her cry is as much sinner as saint, equal parts contrition and absolution as I devour her but exalt her. As I take but then give back. As I taste but ensure she gets her sustenance too. As my reward, she gushes her intimate essence across my tongue and then down my throat. I groan and swallow, treasuring every delicious drop of her creamy ambrosia.
“Ohhhh, God!” she bursts out, and I repeat an inward thanks to the Big Guy that it corresponds perfectly with a fresh round of squeals from the other room.
“No, baby,” I rumble into the tiny valley between her labia and thigh. “Not him this time.” And then kiss her there. And then again. “Just me. Your forever slave, serving you. Your eternal apostle, worshiping you.” I trail my tongue even deeper into the balmy mysteries of her feminine shadows until I’m licking the sensitive crack between her ass cheeks. “Your smitten lover…needing all of you.”
