Athica Lane: The Carpino Series (36 page)

“Want you to come on my cock before I take you, baby.”

“Okay,” I breathe. I’m good with that, too.

He doesn’t move, but his hand works my clit as he moves down, his fingers surrounding our connection.  His other arm is angled up, holding my breast, lightly twisting my nipple. 

“So sweet,” he murmurs and I turn my head, my face pressed to the side of his neck.  “You give me everything, don’t you?”

“Everything,” I whisper, breathing him in.  “Anything, Cam.”

“Love you,” he murmurs against my forehead, but I can’t give him that back.  I can only pant as I feel it and start to tense in his arms.  I grasp him tighter and have to bring one hand around to hang onto his forearm when he says in a low voice, “Fuck, I feel you inside and out.”

He lowers me, gently pushing me down with my cheek to the bed.  Keeping hold of my hips, he starts to move.  And the harder he moves, my orgasm keeps on, lingering, making me reach for it.  I thrust onto him and feel his hand light on my spine, trailing down my back and over my bottom.  I love this, but over the years, Cam’s taught me to love everything with him. 

His movements become harder, using all his bulk and muscles to take me.  I hear him breathe the way he does when he’s about to come, and then two more delicious thrusts, he stays planted to the root.  I let my knees slip and feel his body come over mine, but he doesn’t give me his bulk.  Staying deep inside me, he breathes hard as he comes down quietly into the back of my neck.  I love it when he’s spent from taking me.

“I like quiet sex,” I whisper.

He presses into me and says in my ear, “I don’t.  I get off on hearing you moan.  My family leaves tomorrow, back to normal.”

“I like that, too.  But I like hearing you breathe.  It’s sexy.”

He doesn’t say a word but I feel the goatee smile in the side of my face. 

I open my eyes and turn to look at him while whispering, “You had me where I couldn’t talk, but I love you, too.”

The goatee grins and he whispers back, “Give me your sweet, baby.”

I give my man a small smile before turning my head enough to put my lips to his.  When I do, he takes over and without knowing it, he gives me sweeter than I could ever give him back.  I never knew life could be this sweet.  But here, on Athica Lane, it is.

Because Paige loves her music, I thought I’d share some songs that inspired me while giving Cam and Paige the happily ever after they so deserve.  I hope you enjoy it and think of Athica Lane when you hear them.  I do.

Smoke
– A Thousand Horses

Lay Your Hands On Me
– Bon Jovi

Stereo Hearts
(feat Adam Levine) – Gym Class Heroes

Highway to Hell
– AC/DC

Say Something
– A Great Big World

The One That Got Away
– The Civil Wars

Piece of My Heart
– Janis Joplin**

Won’t Go Home Without You
– Maroon 5

Sail
- AWOLNATION

Love Is Your Name
– Steven Tyler

Come to Me
– The Goo Goo Dolls

**There’s an iTunes Session of
Piece of My Heart
by Train.  I prefer anything by Train, but I had to give creds to Janis Joplin. 

About the Author

Brynne Asher grew up in the Midwest and now lives in Northern Virginia with her husband, three children and her perfect dog.  When she isn’t creating pretend people and relationships in her head, she’s running her kids around and doing laundry.  She enjoys cooking, decorating, shopping at outlet malls and online, always seeking the best deal.  A perfect day in “Brynne World” ends in front of an outdoor fire with family, friends, s’mores and a delicious cocktail.

Prologue

“All rise,” the bailiff announces as the judge enters the courtroom.  The defendant lazily pulls himself to his feet, throws his public defender a menacing glare then turns his deep set brownish-yellow eyes to the floor in front of his table.  He’s of medium stature, not big, not small, but hate and venom have set in his face.  His mousy light brown hair is slightly dirty and slicked back on his head with a few strands falling forward.  The darkness around his sunken eyes are evidence of the life he’s chosen to lead, those choices leading to him standing where he is today.

The courtroom, now standing is silent and stagnant, the only thing to be heard are papers rustling as the judge settles to read the verdict handed over by the bailiff.  The breath released audibly by the judge cuts through the courtroom like a knife, as he tosses his reading glasses to the desk.  He hands the papers containing the judgment of the jury back to the bailiff. 

“Foreman of the jury,” the bailiff starts. “On the count of First Degree Murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

The Foreman clears his throat and answers, “Not guilty.”

Immediately a mummer hovers over the room forcing the judge to slam his gavel and demand, “Quiet!  There will be no speaking while court is in session.” 

The media have assembled, crammed into the standing room only courtroom and are scratching notes, preparing for breaking news of the verdict for this high profile crime.

The bailiff continues, “On the count of Second Degree Murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” the foreman repeats.

“On the count of Second Degree Murder with Aggravating Circumstance, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”

The foreman takes a beat to pull in a breath, then answers, “Guilty.”

Disregarding the judge’s demand for quiet, the courtroom becomes a mass of energy as those from the media hastily exit the room, doors banging behind them, in hopes to be the first to report the verdict for the heinous crime that has shaken their community.  The victims’ family can be heard shedding tears.  Finally, the defendant’s brothers become wired and irate.  These aren’t the kind of brothers one is born to.  These are the kind of brothers one acquires through a life of crime and malevolence, requiring each other to survive.  

As the judge and the bailiff go through the intricacies of the court proceedings, polling the jury, setting a date for sentencing and other such details, the defendant doesn’t hear a word.  Instead, in his ill-fitting cheap suit the public defender provided for him, he glares across the aisle through evil eyes and immediately starts planning vengeance. 

Chapter 1 - The Laundry Room Goddess

Almost twenty five years later……..

I cannot believe my eyes when I see a big bulky body in black carrying a shield looking through a little window at the top with a gun trained on us.  Yep.  That’s right.  A gun trained on us.  The shield reads POLICE in white letters across the front and the big person yells, “Stop.  Get your hands up where we can see them!”

Megan stops immediately letting out a high scream and I walk right into the back of her bumping her forward.  We teeter on our heels, finally find our feet, but strangely enough we don’t put our hands up.  Rounding the corner charge more big bodies in black wearing helmets, vests scribed with POLICE, donning black and gray camo pants with big black boots.  But most importantly, I should note once again, they all have guns.  Pointed.  At.  Us!

“Put your hands up.” the guy in front screams again, even more impatiently.  Seemingly our hands finally listen to our brains because we both put our hands up, me still somewhat in back of Megan.  “Move, hands to the wall, now,” he bellows.  Our bodies finally wake up and we both shuffle to the wall. 

“What is going on?” Megan screams, at the same time I ask no one in particular, “What the hell?”

“FBI and ATF,” a loud voice says, coming from behind us.  “We have a warrant to search the premises.”

Megan, finally finding her bitch from within and I’m thinking she didn’t have to dig deep, replies, “You can’t just barge into my house.” 

“Ma’am, we have a Federal Warrant to search your home so settle down, we’re gonna be here a while,” he replies with an irritating tone.

“How did you get in?” Megan demands.

“Lady with the vacuum,” was the big guy’s only answer.

“I can’t believe it.  I’m firing them all!” Megan says, turning her face to the wall.

Ohmygoodness. 

My heart is beating through my chest.  I mean, I’m an interior decorator for heaven’s sake!  How does this happen, standing in the hallway of my high school friend’s house with my hands against the wall?  The past few years I’ve gone out of my way to make sure my life is mundane, if not seriously boring.  I’ve lived through some not fun times and believe you me, I’ll take mundane any day of week. 

“We’ve gotta secure the area,” the voice informs us.  “But first I’ve gotta ask, do either of you have any weapons?”

“Of course not,”  Megan throws her answer over her shoulder with a dirty look.  “I have three small children, do I look like I would carry a weapon?” 

“Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I drop my head between my arms.

“What?  You have a weapon?” Megan screeches at the same time the air in the room goes tense.

“Um,” I open my eyes to look up at her shocked face and then over my shoulder, “I have a permit?” I say, but my answer comes out as a question to the big group of men dressed in black.  “It’s in my purse, here I’ll get it for you,” I take my hand away from the wall to go to my silver and cream purse still hanging from my shoulder.  When all of a sudden, my wrist is in a vice grip pulled tight behind my back and I can’t help but let out a surprised scream. 

“Don’t move,” a new, deep and raspy voice comes from in back of me.  I find myself pressed flat with my chest against the wall, my other wrist joining the vice grip of the first, forcing my head to the side with my cheek to the wall.  “Why are you carryin’?”

“Ah…well,” at a loss for words, trying to take in my new precarious position.  “I always have my gun with me, I have a Conceal and Carry Permit, it’s in my purse with my gun.  Look for yourself.” 

My purse is roughly yanked down my shoulder, the vice grip barely loses hold to get it off my arm.  I can see him toss it to someone in back of us before I hear the clanking of metal when suddenly I sense them, cold and hard on my wrists.  I suck in a breath and feel the metal biting into my skin, only to realize I’ve been handcuffed.

“What?” my panicked voice whispers in a high pitch.

“I cannot believe you have a gun,” Megan enunciating every syllable using all the drama she can muster, I’m sure.  “You brought a gun into my house.  You are crazy Gabrielle Carpino!  Cra-zee!”

I can’t concentrate on Megan’s drama.  This is because all of the sudden I feel big, warm hands on my shoulders, sliding slowly down the sides of my cream silk tank, dipping under my breasts pressing just hard enough to make me shiver.  The big hands hesitate slightly before pressing down my torso, rounding my waist, over my hips and down the front of my thighs covering my gold pencil skirt with the cute little kick pleats along the back.  I pull in a lung full of air when those hands glide over my ass and I feel warm hands come up my bare legs, one at a time, under my skirt on the inside of my thighs, causing an even deeper, very audible gasp.

“She’s clear,” the deep voice drawls. 

I am yanked around, the big hand now tight but not quite painful, on my bicep and starts pulling-pushing me down the hall.  I looked up and to my right to the profile of the man dragging me through Megan’s house.  He’s tall, he has a good five inches on me in my heels.  He’s taken off his helmet so I can appreciate his very dark hair, almost black, cut short but left a little longish on the top with a wave making it messy, I’m guessing from his helmet. 

I can’t help but think he looks good with helmet hair. 

My eyes move down to his jaw, strong and square, even from the side.  His complexion is dark, but not like he’s spent time in the sun.  No, it was more like he has a hint of Latin or Hispanic in him, but like me, not fully ethnic.  All of this, coupled with a day or two of stubble is such an appealing concoction that I can’t pull my eyes from him. 

Since I’m gawking at the man dragging me through Megan’s house, I’m not paying attention to where he’s steering me so when my heel catches on an area rug, I stumble forward.  I feel myself yanked back up and righted on my feet by the big guy as he mutters, “Careful.”

I look back up and he is glaring down at me now, with eyes so brown they look like melted dark chocolate.  His dark heavy brows are frowning, but I can’t take my eyes off the ultra-dark lashes framing those melty eyes, thinking most women would kill for those lashes.  Still not fully paying attention, I find myself yanked around,
a-freaking-gain
and pushed slash tossed with my ass landing on a sofa in Megan’s formal living room.  As he stalks away, I try to pull myself up straight with my hands still cuffed behind my back and find myself breathing hard.  

Only Megan Harper would get me into such a ridiculous state of affairs.  I mean, just fifteen minutes ago I was standing in her new laundry room (which I designed, by the way), watching a whole different version of ridiculousness play out in front of me.  Thinking back over my morning as I sit here in cuffs for the first time in my life, I cannot believe I am where I am right now.

My morning started with Megan squealing, “It’s amazing.  Perfect.  I cannot believe how much I love it!” 

My eyes move to the right to see my outrageous high school friend squealing, bouncing on her Manolo Blahnik hot pink, sling back strappy heels relishing the finishing touches of her new and absolutely ostentatious laundry room.  I exhale, praying for patience as my head turns to follow the path of my eyes to fully take in Megan Harper, still bouncing on the newly installed tumbled marble travertine floors.  Standing in a laundry room that would rival some of the most amazing kitchens, I scrutinize my handy work,
months
of handy work, look back over to my friend and with a small smile reply, “I’m so glad you’re happy, Megs.” 

“Happy? Happy?” she bursts.  “I don’t know how we ever made do with the old one.” 

Seriously? 

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes. 

You see, Megan Harper and I went to high school together back in the day.  She was from a fun, happy, middle class family and we always ran in the same circles though we were never BFFs.  Now she exaggerates our friendship, stating I was the BFF she couldn’t have managed her high school years without, but whatever.  That’s Megan.  Dramatic.  She always has been and it escalated to epic proportions when she married into money.  We went our separate ways for college, her going to the University of Kansas, me staying close to home. 

At KU, she caught the eye of her husband, Trevor Harper, who to this day creeps me way the hell out.  He comes from money, apparently lots of it.  He majored in partying and loose girls, but Megan was “in love” the minute she met him and caught his eye. 

He’s not bad looking, taller than average but not tall, ashy blonde hair that is borderline over styled and his body is nothing to sneeze at, either.  He and Megan work out with a trainer three times a week, so he stays fit and she stays boney thin which she says he
likes
and she tells me how much he
likes
it way more than I
like
it.  He never graduated from KU, or anywhere else for the matter, but apparently does well enough at whatever he does to set his wife and three little kids up in what you can only call for the size of my hometown of Omaha, a “McMansion”. 

They reside in a 7,300 square foot home (Megan told me) just outside of town, sitting on 15 acres with a tennis court and pool.  Although it is almost thirty years old, it was mostly renovated when they purchased it 3 years ago.  The Tudor style home, faced with light stone and dark heavy trim is sprawling and inset in a mass of trees so far off the road, you would never know it’s there.  It’s late August, so the English Ivy is still in full bloom creeping up one side of the house where the long winding lane leads you to a side load four car garage, with an additional two detached from the house.  I have no idea what Trevor does to support such a lifestyle.  All Megan ever says is, “…investments, side businesses, ya know, stuff like that.” 

Like I said, what-e-ver.

Megan is a couple inches shorter than me, I’m five-seven but my four inch snake skin print heels boost me close to five eleven (they’re no Manolo’s, but I still think they kick sexy shoe ass).  She’s also way skinnier than me.  I’m not blind to the fact I have lots of great curves, but with those curves comes a body that doesn’t like carbs and needs exercised routinely to keep my curves in the right places, if you know what I mean.  Megan has very blonde hair with roots that always look perfect.  I, on the other hand, have embraced my natural dark blonde thick locks for what they are and seem to make it work in a Jennifer Aniston kind of way.  Well, when she has dark blonde hair, that is.  It seems to work with my olive skin tone that I get from the Italian side of my family, so I go with it. 

Megan looks up with a face full of mock-shock, “You rock Gabrielle Carpino.  You’re going to be listed in the ‘Laundry Rooms Hall of Fame,’ known as the ‘The Laundry Room Goddess,’ and when people Google laundry rooms, nothing will come up besides ‘Gabrielle Carpino, Laundry Room Legend!’”  At this point, her hands were on her hips with full on Laundry Room Attitude and her very bleached blonde hair was seriously being tossed around. 

Trying not to be snarky while laughing at the absurdity of it all, I try to throw a genuine smile her way and elect to go with, “Meg, girlie, it means a lot to me you’re this happy.”

I mean, the room does rock, if I do say so myself.  The lightly distressed cream cabinets that cover the perimeter of two walls are custom made, with the above counter cabinets going clear to the twelve foot ceiling, all dressed with heavy iron knobs and pulls.  The top rows of square cabinets have inlayed iron and seeded glass for display.  I know, I know, display in a laundry room is a little OTT, but these cabinets are sweet and deserve to be shown off.  Currently, they are displaying silver service trays, muted crockery in sages, yellows, reds, blues, plums with bits of brown and black showcasing designs of everything from sunflowers, fruits and even a rooster. 

Because the space is so large, I added a four foot by eight foot island in the middle of the room made with matching cabinetry, but instead of cream they are stained a brown so dark they appear to be streaked with ebony.   Over the island hangs a huge, oblong chandelier.  It.  Is. Awesome!  It’s crafted of dark heavy iron with scrolls and swirls, tons of little lights woven in with just enough crystals hanging to soften the edges to balance out the heaviness of the iron for an almost feminine feel.  The chandelier, which is just for show is an amazing center piece, but the halogens inset in the ceiling give off the real light of room.  

The third wall houses a bank of six locker style cubbies crafted out of the dark stained wood, one for each member of the family with one extra just in case Megan decides she “needs another baby”.  At six feet tall, each locker is wide enough for three hooks, a bench to sit on to slip shoes on and off with a cubby underneath for storage.  Above the hooks is another shallow cubby, each with electrical outlet for charging devices or other small incidentals.  Next to the bank of lockers are two dark stained cabinets built to look like armoires with doors that open to the floor.  One houses sweepers, vacuums, ironing essentials, rods for hanging damp clothes and other such household items that I am sure Megan has never used herself!   She has her house professionally cleaned once a week with a girl coming an additional time for “touch ups,” Megan’s description.  The second armoire is stocked to the gills with decadent gift wrap, ribbon, bows and boxes of crafts for the kids.