Cash

by Cassia Leo

  I can always count on her to ease my burdens when life gets hectic. I’ve told her many times before, and I’m sure I’ll continue telling her this for many years to come, Anne is as much my mother as my biological mother. I thank God for her and Jacob and Cash every day.

  “Are you looking for the meat thermometer?” Jacob asks as I rummage through a drawer of large cooking utensils. “Here you go. I used it to check Cash’s rectal temperature.”

  Anne gasps and smacks her husband’s arm. “Don’t be crude.”

  Jacob rubs his arm as he holds the thermometer out for me. “What? I promise I washed it.”

  I laugh as Anne rolls her eyes. “Thank you,” I remark, taking the thermometer and heading for the oven. “The turkey could probably use a bit of extra seasoning. Cash always complains my Thanksgiving turkey isn’t salty enough.”

  Anne casts me an are-you-kidding-me expression. “Really, you two should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket as I pull the probe out of the turkey thigh. “It needs at least another hour,” I say, setting the thermometer on the kitchen island.

  Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I see a text from Cash, who’s supposed to be giving Di a bath to wash away the fish smell.

  Cash:

  Ace is asleep. Princess is clean and wants to take a nap too. Does she have time or is dinner almost ready?

  Me:

  She has time. Food won’t be ready for at least another 90 min.

  Cash:

  90 min? That means you have time for a nap too?

  I laugh and shake my head as I turn to Anne. “Do you need anything? Cash is putting Di down for a nap, so I’m going to take one, too. Gotta get those Z’s whenever I can.”

  Jacob and Anne smile as they flash each other a knowing glance.

  “Go ahead, dear,” Anne insists, snatching the meat thermometer off the island. “I’ll give this another good scrubbing.”

  I laugh as I race up the stairs and into the second bedroom on the left. Di’s bedroom is decorated in delicate pink and ivory furnishings and every possible luxury a princess could want. When I step inside, Cash is brushing Di’s soft brown hair out of her face so he can kiss her forehead.

  “Sleep tight, princess,” he murmurs. “Mommy will wake you up when it’s time to eat, okay?”

  I shake my head as Di nods. “Sleep tight, sweetheart,” I whisper, blowing her a kiss as Cash and I exit the bedroom, leaving the door cracked open a few inches, the way she likes it.

  Cash grabs my hand and pulls me across the hallway and into the master bedroom. I close the door softly behind me and I don’t even have time to turn around before he seizes me in his arms.

  “Lock the door,” he murmurs in my ear as he pulls my ass flush against the growing erection in his jeans. “How long do you think we have? I texted Hector and Dex to tell them they can come in and eat in ninety minutes.”

  “We have maybe fifteen or twenty minutes,” I reply, gasping as his hand slides down the front of my fleece leggings and inside my panties. “I have to go down and check on the turkey in about a half an hour.”

  He slides a finger inside me to see if I’m wet, then he pulls his hand out of my pants and scoops me up in his arms to carry me to the bed. Setting me down gently, I follow his lead and undress hastily. Then, I scoot back on the bed as he eyes me like a tiger stalking its prey.

  He spreads my legs and lies down with his face between my thighs. “I’m just going to check if this turkey’s ready,” he says, sliding a finger inside me again. “Uh-oh, time to call the Butterball hotline.”

  I shake my head. “Is that a request for me to butter your balls while I check on the doneness of your meat?”

  “Okay, I think the turkey puns are getting out of hand. I just want to fuck.”

  I start to laugh, but I quickly stop when his mouth lands on my clit. “Oh, God.”

  His free hand slides up to tug my nipple as he devours me. “Damn, baby, I can taste your pregnancy hormones.”

  “We’ve already Googled this. You can’t taste hormones,” I reply.

  He slides his tongue inside me and I moan as he fucks me with it. “You definitely taste different when you’re pregnant. I don’t give a fuck what Google says.”

  “Different as in worse?” I ask tentatively.

  “Fuck no,” he replies, sliding his tongue along my slit from hole to clit. “I love the way you taste when you’re pregnant. If you let me, I’d eat this pussy three times a day. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”

  I grip the duvet beneath me as he swirls his tongue around my swollen bud. “Oh, my God. I’m gonna come.”

  He slides a finger inside me, the way he usually does whenever I’m about to come, so he can feel my walls clenching uncontrollably. As the orgasm sizzles through me and explodes between my legs, he moans enthusiastically as he licks up my cum.

  Kissing his way up my body, his mouth lingers on my swollen breasts, sucking and caressing until I’m writhing beneath him again. “You want me to fuck you hard?”

  I nod eagerly, aware that as I get further along in my pregnancy, rough sex will become more difficult.

  He turns me over abruptly and presses the side of my head into the mattress as his other hand guides his cock inside me. I whimper and he moves his hand off my head, so he can wrap his arm around me and lift me up onto all fours. I let out a high-pitched whine as he thrusts all the way into me.

  He quickly covers my mouth with one hand as he other hand tangles in my hair and yanks my head back. He slams into me from behind like a train going full speed, his skin smacking against mine as his cock pounds me so hard I think he might actually break me in half this time, and I would have zero regrets. His hand muffles my moans as his sac thumps against my sensitive clit with every thrust, bringing me full tilt toward another orgasm.

  “Harder,” I mutter through the tiny spaces between his fingers. “Fuck me harder.”

  He lets go of my mouth so he can grab my breast, but his other hand maintains a firm grasp on my hair, using it like reins to tame me. Just when I think it might be too much, he pounds me even harder and a shuddering orgasm takes hold of me. I let out a loud gasp, then I clamp my own hand over my mouth.

  He laughs out loud while slowly his pace as his cock begins to twitch and spurt hot cum inside me. “Not bad,” he says, smacking my ass as he leans over to plant a soft kiss on my shoulder. “Two orgasms in, what, ten minutes? I might have to keep you pregnant for the rest of your life.”

  “Oh, hell no,” I reply, too tired to even think about having another kid.

  He turns me over and drapes his sweaty body over mine as he runs his fingers through my hair. “I’m not going to Chad this year. I’m thinking of donating my Collectric shares to Kevin so I can start working on something else. What do you think?”

  “Really?” I reply, tracing my finger over his bottom lip. “But you love that project.”

  After the Westbrook Oil board of directors decided not to kick Cash to the curb seven years ago, he sold his stock in Westbrook Oil and invested most of it into Collectric. Since then, twice a year, he travels to Chad with Kevin Massey for a few weeks to oversee the power grid construction efforts. When the project began six years ago, more than ninety percent of Chad’s population was living without power. The new clean power grid should be fully deployed in another eight and a half years, providing power to over eleven million Chad residents, or roughly seventy-five percent of those who were living in the dark.

  He nods as he traces his finger down my chin, across the hollow of my throat, and between my breasts. “I trust Kevin to see it through to the end. I’ve done my part. I have to move onto other things. So what do you think?”

  I coil my legs and arms around him and squeeze tightly. “I think I really hope your next project doesn’t take you away from home. I miss you when you’re away. Di misses you even more.”

  He kisses my neck as his hand slides down my ribs and lands o
n the small of my back. “I told you I’m never leaving your side.”

  I smile as his hand caresses my butt. “Ride or die until we’re the retirees raiding the buffet?”

  He laughs. “Ride or die, baby.”

  THE END.

  If you enjoyed Cash, you can preorder King, another stand-alone Power Players novel releasing in 2019!

  More swoony love stories at cassialeo.com.

  Preview of Knox

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, Marco, don’t stop.”

  His blue eyes are fixed on mine as he grinds into me, penetrating me deeper with each thrust. He’s smiling at me. Oh, how I love that smile. I close my eyes and imagine the first time I saw it. Sitting in a booth in the corner of the shop. My father’s arm around his shoulders, congratulating him.

  “I’ve missed you, Marco.”

  I slide my hand behind his neck and pull his mouth against mine. It feels just like our first kiss, only better. We’re older now. Wiser. I work for the department and Marco, he….

  What does Marco do for a living?

  “I love you, Marco. Tell me you love me.”

  He smiles as he kisses the corner of my mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. I rake my fingers over his back and he doesn’t make a sound. Not a hiss of air through his teeth or a soft moan. Nothing.

  “Marco, please.”

  His cock is so thick, stretching me as he lifts my leg and pierces me slowly. I wrap my other leg around his hip, beckoning him further inside. Gasping, I throw my head back and he kisses the hollow of my throat. Ecstasy. This is pure, ethereal ecstasy. Dream-like. He slides his hand between us to caress my clit and my body quakes beneath him.

  “I’m going to come, Marco. I’m coming! I’m coming!”

  A soft chuckle wakes me and I find August next to me. The room is dark. I’m holding his hand prisoner between my thighs. A searing heat creeps up my cheeks as I realize I was dreaming about Marco again.

  “Did you come?” August says, and I can hear the smug grin in his voice.

  I push his hand back then turn around to face away from him. “Sorry.”

  He slides his arm around my waist and presses his chest against my back. “Goodnight, Becky.”

  Chapter 2

  “When was the last time you two went on a date?” Lita asks as we cross Vanderbilt.

  A jerk in a silver hatchback blares his horn at us. Aren’t hatchback drivers supposed to be stereotypically nice?

  Lita and I pause on the corner of 42nd and Vanderbilt, Grand Central Terminal. I make a move to hug her goodbye and she laughs.

  “Nuh-uh. Answer my question, Becky. When was the last time you and August went on a date?”

  Her light-brown hair is a bit frizzy and her top lip is sweating from the sticky night air. She still manages to look gorgeous, like she just stepped off a photo shoot at an exotic location. Like she’s been spritzed and primped to look exactly this way. Lita hates when people tell her she looks like a model. She actually thinks it’s an insult. She desperately wants to be taken seriously. She gets this from working on Wall Street where her model stature and smooth voice must command notice.

  “We’re not dating. We’re in a relationship. Date nights are for married couples trying to revive their relationship. There’s nothing wrong with August and me. We’re solid.”

  “Solid as the wall between you. When was the last time you went to his apartment?”

  I want to launch into my usual spiel, but I’m actually afraid of how many times I’ve said the words aloud.

  August and I have a comfortable relationship. We don’t need to cling to each other every second of every day to feel secure. August loves me. I know that because he remembers my birthday and my favorite ice cream flavor. He knows how many kids I want—two, he wants four. And the biggest plus of all: he’s not afraid to talk about marriage. He loves that I want a big wedding. And as soon as his blog is established enough that he can take more time off, we’re getting married.

  This is the part where you begin wondering if I’m actually this naïve. I’m not. I’m far from naïve. I may be a midtown girl now, but I was born and raised in Bensonhurst.

  Born and raised in Bensonhurst. Whenever someone hears this phrase, they automatically assume I must be related to a crime family. Some people are brazen enough to come right out and ask me—in a joking manner, as if that makes the question less inappropriate. I just chuckle and say something like, “Wouldn’t that be cool if I was?” That’s what people want to hear.

  People don’t want to know the truth. They don’t want to know that I left my entire family behind at the age of eighteen, except for the occasional phone call to my mother. They don’t want to know that I chose a job in law enforcement with the hopes of sending my family a message. That message: I want nothing more to do with them. They especially don’t want to know the things I’ve seen. Because people who idolize the mafia actually think that being the daughter of a crime boss is glamorous.

  They imagine me in my fur coat and diamond-encrusted fingernails. Maybe I’m dangling a designer handbag from my arm, stuffed with an adorable teacup Chihuahua. They imagine men who aren’t afraid to get their hands bloody, coming home and using those same hands to rip off my lacy panties and claim me. They imagine a sexy, sinful cocktail of glamor spiked with a large dose of unyielding power.

  For the most part, they’re right. But they still haven’t seen what I’ve seen. And what I saw in my living room, at the tender age of thirteen, was my father strangling a man I had come to know as Uncle Frank. A crime for which he was never punished, despite the many times my father has been in and out of jail for pettier crimes. The truth is that I barely know my father. I hope that never changes.

  I look into Lita’s wide gray eyes and I lie. “I was at August’s apartment last week.” I clap her arm awkwardly. She shakes her head, so I lean in to hug her goodbye. “Enjoy your trip to Poughkeepsie. I’m sure your mom will have plenty of potato salad and honey-glazed ham to fatten you up.”

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  She releases me and her fingers glance over my forearm as she walks away. As I watch her set off toward Grand Central Terminal, all I can think is that I am naïve. I am so naïve. I haven’t been to August’s apartment in four months.

  I spin around to face the street and flag down the first cab. I’m going to August’s apartment. I’m going to demand to know what is wrong with us. I’m twenty-three years old with a gorgeous twenty-five-year-old boyfriend who never takes me to his apartment. I know what he’s going to say. He’s going to say it’s because I prefer midtown to the lower east side. Avoiding his apartment is just his way of trying to be agreeable. I’m not falling for that.

  I throw my arm out angrily, determined to hail a cab and fly to August’s apartment on a wind of fury. But the first car that stops for me is not a taxi. It’s a shiny black SUV. And before I can step aside to try to hail a real cab, a man appears at my side, his fingers discreetly curling around my wrist.

  “Your car is here.” His dark eyes are locked on mine, never blinking, not even as the SUV door is flung open. “Your father needs to speak to you.”

  That’s all he has to say.

  Chapter 3

  I climb into the SUV and I’m not surprised to find that there’s another man in there waiting to receive me. Both he and the guy who met me on the curb are wearing dark suits and sunglasses. I’m sure if I could get close enough, I’d find earpieces inside their ears.

  When all three of us are settled into the backseat, the SUV pulls away from Grand Central Terminal and sets off down 42nd. The bigger guy on my left reaches behind his back and my heart stops. They wouldn’t kill me just like that, would they? I brace myself for whatever he’s about to do, my body tensed and ready to flail about. But when he pulls his hand out, he’s holding a large piece of black cloth. Upon further inspection, I notice it’s a black hood.

  I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but the fa
ct that he’s offering it to me instead of putting it on me himself seems to be some show of respect. They’re not going to kill me. They don’t even want to hurt me. They’re too afraid of my father. Which means my father is not as angry with me for abandoning the family as I had imagined. Or… he wants something.

  I huff as I snatch the black silk hood out of his hand. I quickly note my surroundings before I pull it over my head. We’re just approaching Fifth Avenue. Everything goes black and I try to keep track of the many turns the vehicle makes. But it doesn’t take long for me to realize they’re probably taking me on a winding route just to confuse me.

  When the car finally stops and the engine dies, my stomach vaults. I haven’t seen my father in four years, since the last time I visited Mom at home and he was actually there—a rare occasion. I was nineteen and terribly homesick during Spring Break at Hunter College where I was studying, of all things, creative writing. My visit home was supposed to be soothing and relaxing and familiar. Instead, my father decided to get out of jail three weeks early and I left the house without him uttering a word to me, his eyes watching me as I walked out the door, his lips unable to break a smile or silence for his only child.

  The worst part about leaving home is the conversations with my mother. She’s had to endure my father’s grief over the fact that she never gave him more than one child. She’s never admitted it, but I can imagine him calling her useless. My mother is far from useless. Without my mother, I’d probably be traipsing around town with diamond-encrusted fingernails and a designer dog. My mother taught me to want more.

  But I must admit that, as they help me out of the SUV and my heart pounds so hard I can barely breathe, it’s not just fear of my father that has me this stressed. I’m also intrigued. For my father to have me essentially kidnapped and forced to meet with him, he must be desperate.