He slaps me harder, then leans forward and whispers in my ear.
“You know why I’m last?”
I shake my head.
“Because I’m pumping all their cum out of you, Tits. That’s what the flare on the head of my dick is for. Sperm competition. I’m gonna nut in you last and you’re gonna have my baby. You’re gonna be mine.”
I can’t tell if he’s serious, or playing underhanded as always, but I don’t care. I bite his chest, pull his hair, grind up and down on his cock. He’s such an asshole and I love it. Cum runs down the curve of my ass, sweat slicks my breasts and still we fuck like beasts, the other guys watching, drinking whiskey, taking drags on a cigar.
Doc lifts me, spreading my thighs so wide that the only thing connecting us is his hands on my thighs and his cock in my flower. And when I’m so dizzy and dry-mouthed I can barely make a noise, when I’m sure I’m going to have to call for an end to this just to get my breath, Doc throws me onto all fours and hammers his way home.
“January,” he pants, eyes rolling back in his head. “January, you… Me…”
Us, I think. I look up and see Bobby, Adriano, and Eli, I smile at them as one last wave of pleasure washes over me. An orgasm as small and sweet as a strawberry. And as Doc collapses between my legs, I close my eyes, relieved and satiated, with only the beginning of worry prickling my brain.
Suppose Iampregnant, or about to be, with the Bianchi wedding in less than six days. Whatever the case…everything is about to change.
Chapter Seven
Bobby Bassilotta
“Nervous, slugger?”
I ignore Doc, folding my tie around my neck as slowly and evenly as possible. I’ve already redone it five times.
“God, I look good clean-shaven.” Doc swaggers toward the mirror. He studies his skinny tie, velvet jacket, and tight suit pants before caressing his jaw. He flings a casual elbow into my chest, and I lose my careful fold.
“Fucking asshole!” I give up on the tie, pulling it off and stuffing it into my suit pocket. I’ll do what I always do: Get Eli to start it and then pull it over my head like a little kid. Better that than fucking it up.
Black tie events always make me itchy—why can’t I just stay home with a six-pack and watch NHL?—but this one takes the fucking cake. A mafioso extravaganza that includes our first encounter with our mortal enemy in twelve months. It’ll be a miracle if nothing goes wrong, and I don’t believe in miracles.
“Where’s January?” Doc asks.
I don’t want to reply because fuck him, but part of me knows his obnoxiousness is just nerves. And in the last few days, he’s barely slept because he’s been so focused on security, checking and re-checking surveillance, guns, backup transport, and scanning the guest list for potential threats.
“She’s still in her room,” I say. “Her makeup should be almost done.”
“Good.” Doc glances at the stairs as though expecting her to come down. “This’ll be the first big event we go to together.”
At first, I think he means the two of them, but he’s grinning at me in a way that says he means all five of us, which is sweet. “Shame it can’t be something less insane,” I say.
“True. Still though.” Doc gets a dreamy look on his face. “It’ll be so great to see her sing.”
On that, we can all agree. January’s performing the song for the first dance,The Way You Look Tonightby Sinatra. Originally, Bianchi wantedMy Heart Will Go On, from the Titanic movie, but January politely asked for another song, because “Only Celine can do that one justice.”
She’s been practicing for ages, but I never get tired of hearing her slow, sweet version of Frank’s wedding clanger. I’m looking forward to seeing her stand up in front of everyone and perform, though if her family and Parker weren’t there it would be a hundred times better.
The thought of Parker sends sweat surging to my pits. I extend my arms determined not to sweat into my white shirt. I’m aware of my reputation as the scaredy cat of Velvet House and I’m determined not to bitch about the wedding.
Eli’s right, we had no choice but to attend. Snubbing Bianchi is asking to be cut out of a billion business deals. It’s only one night. We’ll be fine. Probably. Definitely.
Adriano comes clumping in, wearing one of the suits they make for NBA players. Doc whoops and cheers but I think he looks terrible. Adri’s at his best when he’s knee-deep in dirt and deer guts. Formalwear always makes him look like a caveman that got unfrozen ten seconds before he’s due in court. He seems to know it too, rolling his eyes at me and heading straight for the bar. He picks up Eli’s crystal decanter of scotch and drinks straight from it.
“Calm down,” Doc warns. “We need to stay sharp for this thing.”
But Adriano ignores him and keeps swigging from the decanter until Eli himself walks in looking like James Bond in his tux. He studies us with unsurprised irritation. “Of course, this is where I find you.”
“We’re ready, aren’t we?” Adriano shoots back. “And you can’t make us go to this thing sober.”
