Page 48 of The Reaper
Family. Real family.
The word hit different now, a mix of warmth and wariness.
Dad’s double life—husband in Montana, father to us, but building another world here.
Stolen billions, Ryker had said, enemies fleeced, a fortune built in shadows.
I wasn’t mad. I was intrigued.
Meghan’s text burned in my mind, pulling me back.
Tomorrow night.
I smiled, imagining her.
On her knees, mouth wrapped around my cock, dark hair falling, eyes looking up with that challenge, lips tight as she sucked slow, then fast, her moan vibrating through me. I’d grip her hair, thrust deep, feeling her throat tighten, her tongue swirling, teasing the tip until I groaned, pre-come slick on her lips. Then flip her, bend her over the counter again, pants yanked down, ass up, red from my hand as I spank her, sharp and deliberate, her gasping “harder,” driving me wild. I’d pound deep, her walls clenching like a vice, my fingers on her clit, stroking fast, making her scream my name, her body shaking as she came, pulling me with her.
I’d bury my face between her legs after, tasting her release, licking slow until she begged, then fuck her again—slow, possessive, whispering “mine” as she came, nails digging into my back, her thighs trembling around me.
Vivid.
Hot.
She was mine, whether she knew it or not.
My cock hardened just thinking about it, hand stroking as I pictured her pinned, legs wrapped, taking every inch, her moans filling the kitchen, her fire consuming me.
Come-inducing, that fantasy—her demands, her surrender, her everything. Tomorrow. I’d make it real.
I closed my eyes, the steel card’s weight in my wallet a reminder of possibilities.
Family. Power. Meghan.
Charleston wasn’t just a detour anymore—it was fate, twisted and hot, pulling me deeper.
13
MEGHAN
Iheard the knock before I saw the car.
It was barely past ten. I hadn’t been expecting a delivery, a guest, or anything at all, really—except maybe my sanity, returning from whatever nocturnal wanderings it had indulged in the night before.
I pulled the door open with a sigh, only to find a pair of familiar sunglasses and a smile that could charm the coat off a banker in January.
“Uncle Dean,” I said, my voice flat but not unfriendly.
He lifted his arms like a man who expected applause. “Meggie! You look like you’ve been up all night writing sonnets to your knives.”
“Close,” I muttered, stepping aside. “Sketching dishes by candlelight like a lunatic. What are you doing here?”
He stepped inside with that practiced grace of someone who knew how to fill a space. “Passing through. Thought I’d check on my favorite niece.”
Dean lived in Savannah now—had for years. He claimed it was the only place with enough charm to rival Charleston,though we never agreed on which coastal Carolina city reigned supreme. Our debates were long-running and mostly ridiculous, built on jabs about oysters and architecture and whose historic district had more "soul." He always argued that Savannah had better light, more magic in the air. I said Charleston had better food, which—coming from me—should have ended the argument.
I arched a brow. “I’m your only niece.”
“Exactly.”
