Craving Redemption (45 page)

“Oh yeah, what else?” he asked seriously, his hand stopping right above where I needed him.

“My ass, my thighs, my waist,” I answered in annoyance, moving my hips against his hand.

He leaned back on his heels between my legs, and I almost screamed in frustration at the break in contact.

“Don’t look any different here,” he murmured, running his fingers over my belly, “Except for these little marks that prove you carried my son.”

He scooted back even further as I watched his face go soft.

“These too?” he asked, wrapping his hands around my thighs. He glanced up at me, and at my nod, gave them a squeeze. “Can still almost wrap my hands around them, Sugar. And they’re unbelievable, because they point to my favorite place. You know where that is, yeah?”

I nodded again, my eyes blurry with tears as he catalogued my body with gentle hands and softer words. His hand ran up the inside of my thigh until his fingers were rubbing gently over my clit. “Favorite place,” he murmured again. “Where were we? Right, your ass.”

He pulled my leg over his lap and flipped me over before running his hands over my ass.

“Nah. You could never be too fat there,” he told me with a chuckle.

I pushed up on my hands, ready for battle, but paused when he pulled me up so my ass was resting against his hips. “Look at how much cushion I have there, Sugar. Big enough to fit my hands, soft enough that I can grab you like this—” he placed his hands on both cheeks, “and pull you apart if I need to.”

I moaned and dropped my head into his pillows, inhaling deeply as I smelled him there.

“You’re so fuckin’ sexy, Calliope.”

“I’m paying attention,” I muttered, pushing my hips against him.

“Yeah, baby, you are,” he groaned, running his fingers through the wetness between my thighs. “Wanna see your face, though.”

He turned me again, letting me bounce against the bed for a minute before coming back down until he was covering me completely.

“Wrap your legs around me, Callie.”

I did as he ordered, but the moment he started to push inside me, I stopped him.

“I need to know that you’ll put Will and me first,” I told him quietly. “I need to know that I can count on you to do what’s best for our family.”

He growled deep in his throat and plunged inside me, making me arch off the bed as his teeth clamped down on the side of my throat, and he began sucking hard. He pulled out slowly and slammed back in over and over, until both our bodies were covered in sweat and I had three different hickeys peppering my torso and neck, and then suddenly, he stopped.

“Nothing’s more important than you, Calliope. Don’t you see that yet?”

I looked into his eyes, but I already knew what I’d find.

“Yeah, baby. I see it.”

And there in his bed, with my fingers in his hair and his mouth at my neck, no guilt or blame between us, he loved me and redeemed us both.

Epilogue

Callie

We were lying in his bed, sweaty and exhausted, when my mind returned to the main reason for my visit.

“Where’s Cody?” I asked, leaning up on my elbow so I could look down into Asa’s face. “I haven’t seen him in months!”

“On his way to Sacramento, I imagine,” he answered distractedly, staring at my breasts as he ran a finger over one of my nipples.

“Why didn’t he say anything?” I griped, smacking his hand away lightly and flopping back onto the bed in exasperation. “I’ve been begging him to come down for-freaking-ever and now he’s there and I’m here!”

“Don’t think he was going to see you, Sugar,” he replied with a smirk.

“No!” I gasped. “Gram?”

“Nope. I doubt she’ll even know he’s there.”

“Well holy shit, little brother,” I whispered to myself.

“Gettin' shot can change a man’s priorities, yeah? I’m pretty sure he’s done letting her push him away,” he mumbled, rolling on top of me. “Now stop worrying about your brother and his issues with your idiot best friend and fuckin’ kiss me.”

Acknowledgements

No one reads these things do they?

My girlies: You are two of the kindest, smartest, most considerate kids on the planet. I’m not sure what I did to deserve you, but whatever it was must have been awesome. You’ll forever be my greatest accomplishment. I love you like crazy.

Mom and Dad: I love you! I can’t believe I’m writing the acknowledgements for my second book. Thank you for the coffee, shoulders to lean on, and taking care of the girls so I could have an hour of silence. Let’s do this again soon, okay?

Sisters and Brothers: Thanks for listening to me complain, talking me down, and boosting me up.

Betas: Gina, Kimberly and Kenna- Craving Redemption wouldn’t be what it is without you. Thank you for your patience, your insights, and your love for Callie and Asa.

Kara Reavis and Sommer Stein: Once again, you’ve taken an idea and made it into a beautiful cover. You two rocked it beyond my wildest imaginings.

Toni and Lisa: Dudes. I think we’re built to last. Three girls from completely different parts of the country, with three different accents (though, mine is more of a non-accent), and three completely different personalities… but somehow we fit together. Like peas and carrots...and broccoli. I’m not going to write something mushy—that’s Toni’s domain. Love you guys.

Madeline: You’ve helped me from the beginning and I wouldn’t be where I am without you. You listen to me complain, commiserate when I’m having a hard time, and kick me in the ass when I need it. I would have lost my mind writing CR if it wasn’t for you. Thank you.

Cindy: Our late night chats kept me from losing my mind. I thank God daily that you’re three hours behind me so I can text you at 3am and you don’t think I’m crazy.

Scandal: I know your real name and use it on a daily basis… but you’ll always be Scandal to me—the blogger who agreed to pick up a book from an author that no one knew and give it a try. You opened so many doors for me—I don’t know how I’ll never be able to repay you… maybe I’ll send you a fruit basket or something. Thank you a million times. 

Natasha: You came through for me in a BIG way. I’ll never forget that. Thank you so much.

Mia and Elle: Thank you SO much for saving my bacon.

Bloggers: Your excitement and support has blown my mind. I could have never imagined that there would be so many of you itching to get your fingers on this baby. Thank you so much for spreading the word and caring about what happens to my characters.

Babes: You know who you are. Thank you for the memories… for research purposes, of course.

Man with the beard sleeping on my couch: I couldn’t have done this without you. Literally. Not only did you pretend to pay attention while I read scenes to you out loud, you also woke up with the kids, cleaned the house and made sure we all had clothes to wear when I was in the middle of my writing madness. Also—thank you for sleeping on the couch so I could write in my writing spot undisturbed…I’d feel bad about that if the couch wasn’t so much more comfortable than the bed.

Readers: Craving Redemption would still be an idea in my head if you hadn’t been asking for more. I’m able to do this crazy author thing because of you. Thank you. Don’t worry—Casper’s story is next.

Undeniable

by

Madeline Sheehan

Copyright © 2012 by Madeline Sheehan

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Dedication

Dedicated to undeniable love.

PROLOGUE

There will always be a reason why you meet people. Either you need them to change your life or you’re the one that will change theirs.

—Angel Flonis Harefa

Mark Twain said, “The two most important days in your life are the day you were born and the day you find out why.”

I don’t remember the day I was born, but I remember the day I found out why.

His name was Deuce.

He was my “why.”

And this is our story.

It is not a pretty one.

Some parts of it are downright ugly.

But it’s ours.

And because I believe everything happens for a reason, I wouldn’t change a thing.

CHAPTER ONE

I was five years old when I met Deuce. He was twenty-three, and it was visiting day at Rikers Island. My father, Damon Fox or “Preacher”—the president of the infamous Silver Demons motorcycle club (mother chapter) in East Village, New York City—was doing a five-year stint for aggravated assault and battery with a deadly weapon. It was not the first time my father had been in prison, and it wouldn’t be the last. The Silver Demons MC was a notorious group of criminals who lived by the code of the road and gave modern society and all it entailed a great big fuck-you.

My father was a powerful and dangerous man who ruled over all Silver Demons worldwide and was highly respected but mostly feared by other MCs. He had government connections and ties to the mafia, but what made him the most dangerous and most feared was his many connections to average, everyday people. People who didn’t run in his circle. People who were off the grid. People who could get things done quietly.

His way with words and his killer smile made him friends everywhere he went—and considering he’d been riding since he was in my grandmother’s womb, when I say everywhere, I mean everywhere.

My father’s shortcomings, the constant crime, and the club lifestyle weren’t strange to me; it was all I knew.

I was holding my uncle “One-Eyed” Joe’s hand as we walked through Rikers’ family visiting room. Since my father was my only parent, my uncle Joe and aunt Sylvia had been given temporary custody of me. My mother, Deborah “Darling” Reynolds, had split a few weeks after I was born. Many men would have crumpled under the responsibility of a newborn baby, especially a biker who couldn’t handle more than a few weeks without needing the open road.

But not Preacher.

Aside from going to prison every once in a while, my father was a good dad, and I’d never wanted for a thing.

Dressed in an orange jumpsuit with his long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail at his nape, Preacher spotted us immediately and jumped up. He was hindered slightly by the handcuffs around his wrists, ankles looped together by a chain, and the prison guard standing behind him who shoved him back down.

“Eva,” he said softly, smiling down at me as I climbed into an uncomfortable plastic chair. My sneaker-clad feet didn’t reach the floor, and my chin barely cleared the table. Uncle Joe slid into the chair beside me and put his arm around me, pulling my chair close to his.

“Daddy,” I whispered, trying so hard not to cry. “I want to hug you. Uncle Joe says I can’t. Why can’t I?”

My father blinked. Then he blinked again. I didn’t know at the time, but my big, strong, rough-and-tough father was trying not to cry.

Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder. “Baby girl,” he said gruffly, “tell Daddy ’bout the spellin’ bee.”

Excitement battled my tears and won. “I won the spelling bee, Daddy! My teacher, Mrs. Fredericks, says even though I’m only in kindergarten, I can spell as good as a third grader!”

My father grinned.

Seeing this grin and not wanting to lose it, I kept going.

“Do you know how old third graders are, Daddy?”

“How old, baby?” my father asked, laughing.

“They are eight,” I whispered excitedly. “Or sometimes nine!”

“Proud of you, baby girl,” my father said, his eyes shining.

I beamed. When you are young, your parents are your entire world. My father was my world. If he was happy, I was happy.

Uncle Joe squeezed my shoulder again. “Eva, honey, why don’t you go get somethin’ from the snack machines so Daddy and I can have a word.”

This was typical. At the club everyone was always “having a word”—words I wasn’t allowed to hear. Most times, I didn’t really care since all the boys loved me, gave me lots of hugs, let me ride on their shoulders, and bought me presents all the time. To a five-year-old biker brat, an MC full of surrogate big brothers and daddies is the equivalent to a normal child being able to celebrate Christmas every day.

I took my uncle Joe’s money and skipped off to the snack machines. Two people were in line ahead of me, so I did what I always did when I was bored—I started singing. Unlike most children my age who were listening to New Kids on the Block or Debbie Gibson, I was listening to the music played around the club. A particular favorite of mine was “Summertime” by Janis Joplin. So there I was, shaking my butt and singing “Summertime” way, way out of tune, waiting in line for stale potato chips in the Rikers Island family visiting room, when I heard, “You like Hendrix, too, kid?”

I swiveled around and was met with a pair of denim-clad legs with the knees worn clean through. I looked up, and my eyes widened in delight. He was tall and tan. His arms and legs were thickly muscled, and his waist was trim. His forehead was wide, and his jaw was strong and square. His head was shaved, only a fuzz of blond hair showing, and his forearms were heavily tattooed with different depictions of elaborate dragons. I’d never seen a more beautiful man.

There are three different types of men in this world: There are weak men—men who run and hide when life slaps them in the ass. Then there are men—men who have a backbone, yet occasionally, when life slaps them in the ass, will rely on others. And then there are real men—men who don’t cry or complain, who don’t just have a backbone, they are the backbone. Men who make their own decisions and live with the consequences and who accept responsibility for their actions or words. Men who, when life slaps them in the ass, slap back and move on. Men who live hard and die even harder.