Cosa Nostra: A Steamy Mafia Romance (Kids of The District Book 3) by Nicci Harris (new books to read .TXT) 📕

I just need to hear that because people are going to speculate. I know how they will view our situation, gossiping to no end about how I've snagged Max Butcher by getting knocked up. But what worries me most of all is. . . will he think that too? I pushed him into wanting this - me. Frick. That truth hurts even though it shouldn’t. I should accept my truths and yet, they are often overlooked - purposely overlooked. Had I not pursued him, he might have lost interest in me. He said as much himself a few nights ago. I made him want this. I don't want to make him do anything. . .

As the light glows through the thin sheath of skin over my irises, my eyes flutter open. The dawn peeks above the roof tops of Connolly. I'm on my side, his warm body curled around me. I wriggle against him, feeling his legs shuffle to accommodate my movements.

"Don't move," he groans sleepily.

I still and watch the horizon as it explodes in colours so vivid they almost seem unnatural. I think about my new future. Think about the baby in my belly.

The light moves into our room, creeping across the floor and onto the tattooed arm slung over my waist. He breathes rhythmically behind me, asleep once more, leaving me to watch the sun fully rise.

Taking a big breath in for courage, I shake his tight hold enough to spin towards him. I burrow my face in his chest, my nose twitching against soft hairs, my cheek vibrating in time with his beating heart. And that smell, frick. It's enough to make any girl drop to their knees. Pressing my chin to his rising chest, I peer up at him. His eyes are closed, but his brows are furrowed as if the light has invaded his slumber too.

"Good morning," I whisper.

Warm hands move up the length of my spine and into my hair. With his eyes still closed, he strokes me from my crown to my neck, and I watch his face as he does. His sigh rumbles against me. A knot rolls down his throat as he grips my hair, squeezing his fingers into his palm to lock the strands in tight.

When a soft whimper leaves me, he relaxes his hands. "Cassidy."

I stroke my fingertips softly down his cheeks and wriggle up the mattress until my lips meet his. The edge of his pillow supports my head as I kiss him. Lazy kisses that slowly draw him from his sleepy state. His tongue moves across my lips and he releases a longing groan. The hand hooked over me slides down to cup my backside, lifting me up against his erection, before pulling me on top of him.

"Wait," I breathe into his mouth. But while he stops the direction of his hand, his hips still roll as if he can't control them.

"I'm going to fuck you, little one," he growls, opening his eyes, and oh my gawd, his eyes. They're so blue right now. Usually, they are clouded with shades of grey, but in the direct sunlight of dawn, they are piercing.

At the feel of his erection tapping against me, my eyes nearly roll into the back of my head with lust. "I need. . . to talk to you."

His nose meets mine. "Talk."

Frick. So, Max, I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant. Stop doing that with your hips. We are having a baby. Ugh, stop touching me like that. There is something you need to know; I'm pregnant. I somehow got pregnant. . .

"I'm" –the words expand as I force them through my larynx– "pregnant."

Oh.

My.

God.

He stills.

The fingers spanning my hips freeze. Nose to nose, the increase in his breathing is palpable on my cheek and against my chest. But at least he's breathing; he's not paralysed by the idea.

My throat tightens, an involuntary response that often precedes tears. Heat hits the back of my eyes, but I ignore it, not wanting my tears to fall down on his face. He continues to breathe deeply.

Finally, after what feels like the longest few moments of my life, he clears his throat and speaks against my lips. "What about ballet?"

What?

Slowly sliding me off him, he sets me down on the mattress. Within seconds, he's on his feet and moving across his room, pulling his clothes on.

I breathe in fast and hold it.

As he walks from the room, I watch the door shut behind him. Hot tears squeeze from the corners of my eyes. He's just processing, right? Like I had. Just taking a few moments to organise his thoughts.

Did I do this wrong?

I knew I had to tell him before he went downstairs because Bronson would have expected as much. But now that I have, I'm alone. And his absence makes my heart sting.

I stare at the closed door as if my answers lie there.

I finally breathe out hard.

After several minutes, I lie down and curl in on myself, clutching my knees to my chest. Blinking tears from between my lashes, I wait for him to come back. Not over analysing this is the key to remaining calm, to not completely breakdown into a sob - the threat of which stokes my ragged breaths. I just need to take his sudden absence for what it is - processing time.

Remain calm, Cassidy.

I will my heart to stop burning.

The door swings open and Max strides in with a phone clutched to his ear. As I sit up, the sheets drop to expose my naked torso. The cold air tweaks my nipples. Max's demeanour, hot and powerful like a live wire, causes my heart to beat in an erratic cadence.

But he is far too preoccupied with the gruff voice on the other side of the phone to notice me. He stops by the bed and, with one hand, begins to remove his