Page 134 of Lavish
It vibrated with every thrust, a soundtrack to how desperately I wanted her.
Her arms looped around my neck, her mouth parted in silent moans. I felt her nails dig into the back of my head as I drove into her harder, as if I could lose myself in the rhythm of our bodies colliding. “Yeah… Fuck me just like that, baby,” I rasped, my voice rough against her ear, hands roaming over her slick, trembling body.
She bit at my neck—sinful and greedy—and I nearly lost it.
“Say my name,” I growled.
“Miles,” she gasped.
Her tits pressed hard against my chest, ass grinding tight against my thighs. My hands tangled in her hair, ridding her of her shower cap. I knew she was gonna be pissed, but my fingers clutched like I needed to hold on for dear life as the rough stubble on my jaw rubbed against her face.
I was fucking her fierce and fast, my forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged and heavy.
She clawed at the back of my neck, and her squeaks and screams tore through me, making me lose every damn bit of control.
“That’s it, baby,” I whispered. “Come for me.”
And when she did, she came hard—back arching, her walls squeezing me like she never wanted to let me go. I followed with a guttural groan, pulling out of her, and spilling onto her stomach, holding her through every wave, every twitch, every aftershock.
I held her closer, going over what I was about to do today.
I was afraid of wasting my life trying to rebuild something that no longer fit who I was. I’d been running on ego, guilt, and family legacy for so long, I forgot what it felt like to make a choice just because I wanted to.
I wantedthis.
I wantedher.
I wanted peace.
A few hours and a half-assed attempt at looking presentable later, I was stepping through the back door of my parents’ house.
“There’s my favorite ladies,” I said, stepping into Ma’s kitchen, the smell of frying bacon and coffee filling the air.
Mama Teagues and Ma stood at the kitchen island, their voices rising as they argued over the colorful array of fresh produce. They both looked up when I stepped in, and Ma grinned at me, outstretching her arms.
“There’s my baby!”
Mama Teagues snorted. “That’s a grown man.”
“Hush, Rosetta. He’s my baby.”
Ma came around the island, her locs swishing in her ponytail, and I scooped her in a hug. I pressed my head into her shoulder, inhaling her sweet vanilla perfume, a scent that instantly transported me back to my childhood days.
“You spoil him too much,” Mama Teagues sniffed, her wrinkled face a picture of disapproval, before shuffling to the stove.
“What are you doing here?”
“Just came over.” I shrugged, sitting at the bar stool while I looked around. “What’s going on here?”
“Your father won’t eat.” Ma grimaced. “You know the medicine sometimes messes with his system.”
Was it the medicine? Or was he being stubborn?
Ma suffered more than she ever told anyone.
Living in that house with him—managing his moods, his silence, his sudden flashes of temper—it was like walking through a field of landmines. The medication helped sometimes, but not enough. There were days he’d sit for hours, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall like he was still doing time. Other days, he’d lash out over the smallest things—burnt toast, a news segment, a car door slamming too hard outside.
“You want me to talk with him?”
