“Come here,” he whispered, gently grasping the back of my neck and pulling me to him. His kisses were slow and devastatingly passionate. He kept our mouths locked as he lay back on the mattress, taking me with him. His hand on my neck moved to my hip, his thumb skimming the skin just above my sweats. I tilted my head to the side and licked his lips, just like he did with mine this morning. He moaned into my mouth and I pulled back, gasping for breath. I kissed his jaw, loving the feel of his stubble stinging my lips. I tried to stay in control of the lust that had been building all day while I moved to his neck—kissing, licking, sucking, biting, just like he did. His hands gripped my waist as he pushed up and into me. I bit down on his shoulder when he did it again. And again. “Fuck, Bailey.”
A dull ache formed in the pit of my stomach, the same one I felt whenever he touched me. His large hands flattened on my back, under my top, holding me in place as he kept on with the tiny thrusts. He was panting, his hands moving lower while my lips moved higher. He met me half way, covering my mouth with his. No longer slow, our kisses became desperate, and after a moment, he pulled back, his eyes dark, unfocused. He blinked hard before saying, “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Before I could react, his phone went off. “That’s the alarm. You gotta take your meds.” But he made no effort to move.
Through the lust-filled haze in my head, I managed to get out, “I’m sure it can wait a few minutes.”
“Just a few more minutes,” he mumbled, bringing his lips back to mine. His hands moved down my back and to my thighs, lifting me higher on him and drawing them up beneath me. I was straddling his waist, his erection rubbing on my center.
Then I tensed. Flashbacks of the night invaded my mind, and I tried to push them back, but I couldn’t. A knot formed in my throat as I pulled away, looking anywhere but at him.
“Bai?” He’d never called me Bai before, but I couldn’t enjoy the moment. I couldn’t even look at him. Somehow, he knew, because he linked our fingers together and settled them on either side of his head. “Look at me, Bailey.”
Reluctantly, I did as he asked.
He squeezed both my hands. “You’re in control. We do what you want. We stop when you want. Always.”
I kissed him again. Because I couldn’t not. And when I pressed his hands into the bed, he gave in to me. When I cried into his mouth, he kissed me harder. And when my tears fell from my eyes, he kissed them away. The few more minutes we planned turned to twenty. Me on top of him, and him kissing away my pain.
19
Nate
“It’s all there,” I told Franco as he eyed the cash in the gym bag between us. “Minus the 20k from the last batch you screwed us over with.”
“Fuck you,” Louis Franco spat. “There was nothing wrong with that batch.”
Franco—he reminded me of Uncle Benny, not just because he was of Benny’s generation, but also because he was short and stocky, just like all the men in the Franco family. Generations of men failed to do what Quentin Franco had set up. Back in the day, Quentin was the most feared man in Philly. But he was stupid. He deemed his sons next in line instead of his number two. When Quentin had died, there was a bloodbath. Members of his family fought for what was theirs. Dante Franco, Louis’s brother, was one of the reasons I took over my father’s role. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer… all that shit. Fifty years later and it was the same bullshit with their family. Only the Francos’ ranking was lower, matching the quality of their supply.
I said, “It was shit, and you fuckin’ know it. A kid OD’d a couple months back, and I can guarantee if I did enough digging, it would lead back to your supply.”
He scoffed.
I crossed my arms and waited, my mask of perfect calm in place.
“You’re exactly like your fuckin’ father,” he growled, leaning back in his chair.
I sat forward, resting my forearms on the table. “See, that’s where you’re wrong, Franco. I’m better than my father, and you know why? Because I fuckin’ respect him. Unlike you. Your pops would be rolling over in his fuckin’ grave if he knew the shit you were pushing.”
His chair scraped back as he stood quickly, fists pounding on the metal table. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he shouted.
“Tiny,” I called over my shoulder. With the calm still in place and my eyes never leaving Franco, I said, “Zip up the bag. Take the cash. We’re done here.”
“I should call Benny. Tell him what an arrogant, cocky little fuck you are.” He spat every single word, emphasizing his hatred. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at me like he had the fucking right.
I arched a single eyebrow. “Go ahead. Call him. I’ll wait.”
He reached for his gun.
I did the same.
But neither of us drew our weapons.
“Take an extra ten out for this bullshit,” I ordered Tiny.
He stepped up to the table and started removing the cash with one hand, the other pointing a gun pointed at Franco, just like Franco’s man had his pointed at me.
Franco shook his head, but he didn’t speak. He’d already conceded when he didn’t touch his gun. I knew it would come to this because I knew Franco. I’d researched the fuck out of him and his family, and that was the difference between the old timers and me. They listened to on-street gossip, I read police and media reports. Believe it or not, the reports were more factual than the shit people liked to whisper about.
“Are you looking to die today?” Tiny asked when we were back in his car.
“No. I’m just looking to get home.”