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

His hands start to roam, kneading down the muscles of my back to cup my bum and lift me so I can straddle him.

"This suit," he groans, palming my cheeks. One of his hands slides lower, fingers dripping to tease me. "I wanted to tongue every part of your body when I first saw you in this."

The need behind his lips is devastating to my will. To my sense of self. To the space between us because we don't want any space. Want to be as connected as two people can possibly be. Moans crash loudly from me and into his mouth. He swallows my sounds as if they are his to claim, before shamelessly walking us up the bank towards the house.

I break away and, between laboured breaths, say, "Don't. Switch. Off. My phone."

His lips move to my jaw and neck, forceful in their pursuit to assert his words. "Don't overdo it!"

I hear Toni laugh as we move past him. "I guess I'll wait, like what? Twenty? Thirty minutes?"

"You're welcome to stay," Max declares just before his tongue chases my racing pulse up the length of my throat. "Settle in."

Cassidy

Toni didn't stick around, and I feel a little embarrassed, but I'm sure he was rather impressed with Max's stamina. If we'd been done in twenty minutes, he probably would have been disappointed.

"How are you home so early?" I ask and then stick my fingers in my ears and squeeze my eyes shut as one of the Butcher guards calls, "Pull." From across the yard, I watch Bronson cock the rifle and shoot at the flying target as it soars through the sky. That other worldly bang vibrates like a cymbal between my temples.

When I unplug my fingers, the sound of Max's laugh moves over me like a warm blanket - it's such a fricking amazing sound.

"Why did you close your eyes, little one?" He laughs again.

I beam at him. "It's a reflex." My cheeks bunch high above my smile. "Is that even legal?" I ask, pointing at Bronson as he drops the gun, heading over towards a tree to retrieve whatever it was he was shooting at.

"Does it matter?" he says with a smirk.

I scoot in close to him on the outdoor lounge, my legs making a pyramid over his lap. I rake in his expression while he looks out over the yard. His grin is relaxed, eyes gentle. His fingers draw little circles on my legs. He's in such a good mood and after the concern he displayed towards our blob, I feel like maybe we can try to talk about the baby again. Last time it didn't go too well. Max seemed more suspicious of our blob's presence than excited by it. But right now, he's laughing at Bronson, and loving me with his eyes every time they meet mine. Maybe today he'll handle this conversation better. "Can we talk about the baby?"

His casual demeanour remains, but his brows tighten. "Sure."

Swallowing down my hesitation, I proceed despite that tiny show of resistance. "Have you thought about names?" I ask even though I know he hasn't. I immediately feel like one of those girls who lead a conversation - manipulate one - and I hate it. I just. . . I just really want to talk about our blob. With him. I want to have this conversation with my best friend and my lover and the father of my unborn baby.

His eyes blink at the horizon and then he turns to meet my gaze. "You can name it."

It. My heart fractures, a few little pieces crumbling to the pits of my being. "I don't want to name it without you," I spit out, failing at stifling my growl. "I want us to name him."

He eyes me with uncertainty. When his narrowed stare moves to my belly, it is as if he is looking to our baby for answers on how to deal with its hormonal mother.

Max glances back at me and says, "Little one, I'm going to be here. For you. For him. But naming him is not something I . . .Fuck. It just doesn’t matter. His name changes nothing. I'm sorry. That's just not me."

I divert my eyes from his because I have to. I have to hide my deep disappointment in him. Looking down at the fabric of the lounge, I whisper, "You named Xander."

"How did you know that-"

My own words make me angry. "At some point in your life, you cared enough about a name that you named him," I cut in, grimacing up at Max.

He shifts his weight, turning his whole body to face me. "I was five."

I stand, having to leave as heat hits the back of my eyes and my mind can't form anything nice to say. It's all aggressive. It's all antagonistic. And I'm not that. My mum has often said, 'If you can’t say anything nice, don't say it at all'.

So I have to walk away while the pregnancy hormones make me want to yell at him.

Max catches my elbow, fingers clasping around me, freezing me in my tracks. "It takes imagining him to form the need to name him."

I swallow hard and he pulls me back down to the lounge. He releases my elbow and grabs my neck, forcing me to stare at him even as I try not to. My eyes reluctantly meet his. . . which are soft with that love he won't say aloud and scorching with that determination he has to show me through his actions.

"I can't afford to let my mind reach too far into the future," he says. "I've learned not to. It's dangerous in my world. I don't daydream our forever, little one. I live it. In the now. Every second. I'm here. With you. I'm always right fucking in the present."

My heart collects all the pieces, some from him and some