I shake my head trying to clear the cloud of anger invading it and stand on my feet.
“Nobody, I’ve got to get to the clubhouse,” I tell her, my eyes finally finding hers and I can see the storm brewing inside them.
“I’m coming with you,” she insists, crossing her arms under her chest. Woman’s going to be my death—not a bad way to go. I take her face in my hands, her lips purse and I slam my mouth down on the perfect little ‘O’ they form, erasing it from my view. My tongue glides across her lower lip as she works her pout into a tight line, denying me her mouth until I give into her. She pushes against my chest but I hang onto her face and reel her mouth back to mine, pushing my tongue into her mouth and claiming the lightness she possesses, knowing that shit’s about to get dark for me.
She snakes her arms around my neck, leans on her tiptoes as the swell of her belly presses against mine.
“I’m coming with you, Parrish,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Those eyes of yours are raging,” she whispers, inching further away from me.
I drop my hands from her face and my fingers pinch her hips before gently sliding my palms over her stomach. I’m about to argue, tell her I need her home where she is safe, but the truth is the only place Reina is safe is in my arms.
“Fine, but we’re taking the truck,” I say sternly.
“Whatever you want, Bulldog,” she purrs, kissing my lips quickly.
First, I’ll take Kitten quick and hard against the wall or maybe the door, depending on where she is when I get home. If she’s in the kitchen, I’m getting all Godfather on her ass and flinging everything off the kitchen table and spreading her out like an Italian Sunday dinner.
The Italians are rubbing off on me.
I’m about to park my bike in front of our building and my phone buzzes inside my jacket. I throw one leg over the seat, adjust my aching balls, before reaching inside my pocket for my phone.
“Kitten, I’m coming, well, not yet but why don’t you save us some time and strip. I’m walking into the building.”
“Riggs, I’m coming down the stairs. We need to get to Anthony’s,” she says in a hurry. “Come on, baby, Mommy’s got you,” she purrs to our son, shifting the phone as she comes bounding down the stairs, holding him at her hip.
Color me stupid, but I stare at her dumbfounded as I disconnect the call.
“What? No sex?”
She blows the hair away from her face as she narrows those baby blues at me.
“Shit, did I say that out loud?”
“Yeah, yeah, you did,” she sneers. “You don’t know do you?”
“Know what?” I ask, taking Eric from her arms as she pushes her sexy as fuck glasses up the bridge of her nose. I know I’m fucking horny and if Kitten keeps taunting me with her glasses, she’s going to know too. Oh, fuck, who am I kidding? She fucking knows.
“Victor’s all over the news,” she explains, pulling open the door. “There is a riot in his prison and no one knows if he’s dead or alive,” she continues, lifting her eyes to mine. “I called my brother, Adrianna was hysterical.”
Fucking, Victor, always ruining my good time.
I take Lauren’s hand, pull her against my side as I balance Eric on my hip with my other hand and level her with a knowing look.
“And you want to go over there to see if there is anything we can do,” I surmise.
“Yes.”.
Then, let’s go, Kitten.” I press my lips to the top of her head.
Family’s important to Lauren, it’s everything to her and she is everything to me. My dick can wait. Not long, but it can wait. Here’s to hoping this shit with ‘Tony Soprano’ doesn’t drag all night.
Who was I kidding?
This shit’s just getting started.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I flick the switch, lighting up the empty clubhouse as my gaze travels around the room and lingers on the stocked shelves behind the bar. I shove my hands into my pockets and pull out the sobriety chip burning a hole against the denim. Dropping the chip from one hand into another, my boots pound against the wooden floor and drag me straight to the hell that’s taunting me. Methodically, I reach under the bar for a clean glass and a handful of ice I dump into the glass, filling it to the rim. I turn around and lean my back against the bar and stare at the shelves, my eyes travel from bottle to bottle, skipping the glimpses of my reflection that shine in-between the bottles before I settle on a bottle of Jack.
I unscrew the top and pour the amber liquid into the glass before setting the bottle back in its rightful spot. With the glass in my hand I walk around the bar, take a seat at one of the tables and lift my eyes to the empty chair across from me.