Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27168 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 136(@200wpm)___ 109(@250wpm)___ 91(@300wpm)
When she's gone, I turn to Duffield. "I can't believe you did this."
"Believe it." His hands frame my face. "You saved me, Tabby. From loneliness. From hardness. From myself."
I rise on tiptoes, pressing my lips to his. "Who knew the big, bad mobster was just a kitten at heart?"
"Don't push it," he growls playfully. "I still have a reputation."
"Speaking of reputations..." I back him against the wall, my hands working at his belt. "I think this office needs christening."
His eyes darken. "Is that so? You’re the boss now?”
" Always." I drop to my knees, looking up through my lashes. "Unless you're scared Ingrid might come back?"
Challenge accepted.
In one swift motion, he lifts me, spins us, and pins me against the wall. "Let her. The whole world should know you're mine."
"And you're mine," I remind him, wrapping my legs around his waist.
He enters me in one powerful thrust that steals my breath. "Always."
We move together with familiar urgency, my nails scoring his shoulders as he drives deeper. The novelty may have faded, but the intensity hasn't—if anything, knowing each other's bodies has made this better, more precise in its pleasure.
"Harder," I demand, biting his earlobe.
He complies, hitching my legs higher, angling perfectly against my sweet spot. "Like this?"
"Yes—there—don't stop—"
A crash interrupts us as several contractors enter through the front door, oblivious to our activities in the semi-concealed office area.
"Shit," Duffield whispers, freezing mid-thrust.
I should be mortified. Instead, I feel reckless excitement surging through me. "Don't. You. Dare. Stop."
His eyes widen, then narrow with wicked understanding. He covers my mouth with one massive hand, muffling my moans as he resumes moving, slower but deeper, the danger of discovery heightening every sensation.
The voices grow closer—discussing cabinet finishes and electrical outlets—completely unaware that mere feet away, Detroit's most feared mobster is fucking his pink-haired, cat-eared girlfriend against the wall.
The forbidden thrill pushes me over the edge, my body convulsing around him as he follows, burying his face in my neck to silence his own release.
We remain locked together, trembling and suppressing laughter as the contractors move toward another area. When he finally sets me down, my legs nearly buckle.
"You're insane," he whispers, tucking himself away and straightening my skirt.
"You love it," I counter, adjusting my headband.
"I love you," he corrects, the words still new enough to make my heart skip.
I rise on tiptoes again, pressing my forehead to his. "I love you too, Big Dog."
And in that moment—disheveled in our new business venture, surrounded by evidence of his devotion and my independence—I know we've found our perfect balance. He's still the monster who rules Detroit's underworld with an iron fist. I'm still the alleycat who refuses to be tamed.
But together? Together we're home.
He’s got it bad…
He’s got it bad for his step-sister.