Beg For Me: EPILOGUE

One year later The only thing more beautiful than the golden morning light playing over the deep blue waters of the Pacific Ocean is the woman sleeping beside me in bed.

Even unconscious, she steals my breath.

Lying on her back with one arm flung out toward the windows, her dark hair splayed over the pillow, long lashes fluttering every so often as she dreams, Sophia is silent and radiant, an angel at rest.

Every time I wake up to her, I can’t believe my good luck.

Not that waking up together happens often. Since I sold the house in Santa Monica and moved into the high rise a few months ago, she’s spent a handful of nights here with me. She won’t leave Harlow with a sitter overnight, so unless Harlow has a sleepover at a girlfriend’s or stays at her grandmother’s new apartment in Brentwood, Sophia and I sleep apart.

I hate it, but I’m also grateful for what I have. I recognize that most people don’t get this lucky.

She stirs, draws a slow breath, and turns her head toward me. Exhaling softly, she opens her eyes.

“You’re watching me sleep again.”

Her voice is scratchy. Her eyes are soft. Her smile could melt every iceberg in existence.

Tracing a finger over the elegant arch of her eyebrow, I murmur, “It’s my second favorite thing in the world.”

“Yeah? What’s the first thing?”

“Watching you come for me.”

A soft laugh escapes her lips. Closing her eyes again, she rolls over and snuggles against me, pressing her naked body to mine.

“That’s definitely in my top five, handsome.”

Propped up on my elbow, I lean over and nuzzle the skin under her ear. I love how she smells there: warm, sweet, and feminine. Distinctly her. Addicted, I sniff her like this every chance I get, gratified when she responds as always by shivering.

I pull her tighter against me and skim my lips down her neck to her shoulder, then gently press my teeth into her skin. “Only top five? What’s number one for you?”

After a moment of thought, she says quietly, “When you make Harlow laugh.”

Fuck. That makes my heart squeeze. My voice comes out gruff. “I like that too, baby.”

Though Harlow tries to act indifferent about her father’s disappearance, the hurt shows. She’s rightfully angry with him for everything he did—and failed to do—but she still misses him. Family’s family, even if they’re dicks.

And fathers are irreplaceable…though I’m doing my damndest to fill that space.

It’s a fine line, though. I’d like to be her dad, but I’m not, and I have to respect her boundaries. I’d say we have a solid friendship and mutual respect, however. I’ll keep building on that groundwork.

But at the moment, I’ve got other important matters to attend to.

I push Sophia to her back and take her nipple into my mouth, sucking firmly until it’s taut under my tongue. She sighs, arches, and threads her fingers into my hair.

When I test that hard pink bud with my teeth, she moans.

That’s my second favorite thing in the world. I need more of it.

Still sucking her nipple, I slide my hand down her belly and between her legs. I stroke her there for a moment, lazily petting her until she’s panting and squirming, then tell her to open her legs wider.

When she obeys me, I slap her smartly right on her pussy.

She yelps, jumps, and glowers at me. I smile and return to sucking and stroking.

Her breathing uneven, she says, “I see someone’s in dominant mode this morning.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it.”

“A little warning would be nice is all.”

“You just got your little warning, beautiful. You want another one?” Lifting my head, I gaze at her.

Her cheeks grow pink. She hesitantly chews the inside of her cheek for a moment, then nods.

“That’s what I thought,” I growl, and slap her pussy again, harder than before.

This time, she shudders and moans. Her eyes slide shut. She parts her legs wider.

“Who’s my sweet little slut?” I demand, fondling her.

Her cheeks grow even more ruddy until they’re a beautiful shade of red. “Me?”

“That’s right. You. And you’re all mine, aren’t you?”

She nods vigorously, making me chuckle.

I love her like this, Ms. Powerful Boss Lady all sweet and submissive. Hell, I like her all the other ways too. Over the past year, we’ve explored both our sexual comfort zones and favorite fantasies, finding a balance between dominance and yielding that feels exactly right. I’ve never talked so much about sex—before, during, and after the act—and it’s unexpectedly satisfying.

Soul satisfying in addition to physically.

I feel closer to her in a way I’ve never been with anyone else. I’ve bared my deepest desires and fears. Even my therapist doesn’t know me as well.

Our therapist, that is.

Thursday afternoons with Dr. Singer are a ritual. Not for much longer, though, because she told us last week that we’d made significant progress that shows in the way we now communicate, support each other, and handle conflict. When she said she believed we had the tools and insight to continue supporting each other outside her office, Sophia and I looked at each other and smiled.

The foundation we’ve built is solid. I have faith we can handle anything that life throws at us, no matter how bad it is.

In the meantime, I need to be inside her.

I flip her onto her belly, drag her up to her knees, take my hard dick in my hand, and shove it in deep.

She groans into the pillow, clenching the sheets in her fists.

Threading one hand into her hair and squeezing her hip with the other, I thrust into her a few times, reveling in her slick, tight heat.

“You woke up wet for me, baby,” I growl, pulling her head back so I can see her profile. Her eyes are closed, her mouth is slack, and holy fucking hell, she’s sheer perfection.

“Say my name.”

She moans it instead.

“Tell me you love me.”

She does, her voice hitching, breasts bouncing as I fuck her.

“Now take that dick like a good girl, and beg me to make you come.”

There’s not even a second of hesitation. She blurts it out, one garbled run-on sentence full of pleading so fine, I laugh in exhilaration.

“That’s my perfect little cum slut.”

It’s her turn to laugh, soft and breathlessly, her body trembling under my hands.

She stops laughing when I spank her beautiful ass.

“Don’t complain or I’ll get a wooden spoon,” I growl in answer to her cry of surprise, thrusting deeper and harder, my blood like fire in my veins. She mutters an oath but relaxes back into the blankets, burying her face in the pillow again and canting her ass up in acquiescence.

I alternate between spanking and fondling her pink ass cheeks while I fuck her until she’s moaning so loudly, I know she’s close. Then I slide my hand down from her hip to her dripping pussy and strum my fingers over her engorged clit.

Crying out, she bucks back against me. She stiffens and moans my name. Then she clenches around my dick, her pussy spasming rhythmically. It feels so goddamn good, I can’t help the guttural groan that breaks from my chest.

“Here I come baby,” I whisper, my pulse throbbing in every part of my body, my cock as hard as steel, and my balls drawing up, ready for release. “Take every drop of me.”

I spit on my thumb and slide it past the tight knot between her ass cheeks, thrusting it in just as the first wave of a violent orgasm rips through me like a bomb going off.

Our shared moans echo off the bedroom windows, mingling with the golden morning light.

We sleep again, dozing until the sun is higher in the sky and my rumbling stomach wakes me. I kiss the back of her neck, whisper good morning, then roll out of bed, stretching my neck and rolling my shoulders. Grinning, I throw on the pair of jeans I tore off in a rush last night the minute Sophia walked through my bedroom door.

I’m starting the coffee when she wanders into the kitchen, wearing my robe and rubbing a fist in her eye.

When I open my arms, she makes a beeline for me, tucking her head into the space between my neck and shoulders and winding her arms around my waist.

“Happy Saturday,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Same to you, stud.”

“Did you sleep well?”

She chuckles. “Not really. This big hard thing kept poking at me all night. I think you have a broken spring in your mattress.”

“We’ll go shopping for a new one.” Squeezing her harder, I sigh in contentment, then release her, turning my attention back to the coffee maker. “You hear from Harlow yet?”

Her tone is dry but amused. “She texted me about an hour ago. Her grandmother’s taking her shopping today. I controlled myself and didn’t ask what they were shopping for. Weapons and contraband aren’t off the table.”

“Speaking of that, I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

“Okay. What is it?”

Turning back to her, I lean against the counter and fold my arms over my chest. “Did your mother ever tell you how she and your dad came up with your name?”

She lifts her brows. “No. Why?”

“Apparently, you were named after one of her childhood friends.”

She blinks in confusion. “What?”

“Yeah. Harlow mentioned it to me last week, but I forgot to bring it up to you. She asked your mom how she decided on your name, and she told her you were named after one of her best friends when she was young. ‘A real badass,’ is how your mother described her. Woman by the surname of Caruso.”

She studies me for a moment, her brow furrowed. “Why do I get the feeling you know who that is?”

I shrug. “I do. I looked her up through inside channels.”

“And?”

“You sure you want to know?”

She threatens me with a glare.

“Okay…she’s the mother of the current head of the Cosa Nostra, a woman named Reyna Caruso.”

Sophia frowns. When her face clears with understanding, she says, “You’re telling me a woman is in charge of the Italian crime syndicate?”

“Funny, but that’s not the part I thought you’d be surprised about.”

Scrubbing her hands over her face, she sighs. “Nothing about my mother can surprise me anymore. And please, if you know she was once involved in the Mafia, don’t tell me. I’d already guessed as much, but as long as she isn’t introducing Harlow to any of her former friends, I’m staying out of it.”

“She’s not.”

Sophia drops her hands and stares at me. “Are you having her watched?”

When I respond, I keep my voice low and even. “Did you think I wouldn’t?”

She sits in a chair at the island, slowly sinking into it while holding my gaze. “Because she’s with Harlow?”

“Because my job is to protect what’s mine.”

She glances out the floor-to-ceiling windows to the view of Los Angeles spread out like glittering jewels, the Pacific shimmering in the distance.

The top floor of this building has a spectacular view.

Actually, all the floors have a spectacular view, which the homeowner’s association repeatedly reminded me when they negotiated the sale price.

When she looks back at me, her eyes are soft. “We haven’t talked about Nick in a while.”

I nod, waiting to hear what comes next.

“Is he alive?”

“Do you want him to be?”

“Carter, that’s not funny.”

I gaze at her for a beat so she knows I’m not joking, then incline my head.

I can’t tell if her small exhale is relief or disappointment, but I need to. “Talk to me.”

“I keep waiting for Harlow to ask about him, but she’s not ready to discuss him yet.”

The police have officially listed him as missing, but considering we know exactly where he is, that’s not technically true. There was a brief investigation following his disappearance and a lot of news coverage, but as of now, his case is in limbo.

If or when Harlow says she wants to see him, we can bring him back or arrange a meeting. Until then, that SOB can stay right where he is, hiding out in Dubai.

It’s for the best, as I’m not exactly sure I won’t detach his head from his body if I run into him again.

Giving Sophia space to think, I get the milk out of the fridge, a spoon from a drawer, and wait until the coffee finishes brewing. Then I pour her a cup and set it in front of her.

She takes it with a murmured word of thanks and sips thoughtfully. When she glances up at me over the rim of the mug and smiles, I breathe a little easier.

Then my heartbeat kicks up a notch, though I try not to show it.

From another drawer, I remove a small black velvet box, turning to set it silently on the island in front of her.

She freezes and stares at it with wide eyes.

I sit next to her and wait.

She moistens her lips, swallowing, then looks at me. “Is that what I think it is?”

“I told you when we first met that you were going to be my wife.”

She glances back at the little black box. “I thought you were being flippant.”

“I wasn’t.”

She takes a slow sip of coffee, her hands clutching the mug, which does nothing to hide their shaking.

“I asked permission.”

She starts, making a face of disbelief. “You asked my mother if you could marry me?”

“No,” I say gently. “I asked Harlow.”

Her wide eyes slowly fill with moisture. Her voice is small and strangled. “Really? Did she say yes?”

“She said she was glad you divorced her father before he left so there wouldn’t be anything stopping us.”

Her throat working, she looks away out to the view of the city again. She sniffles and clears her throat.

“Baby,” I say softly. “Look at me.”

When our eyes meet, it feels like a puzzle piece snapping into place. The final piece of my heart that’s always been missing.

“You’re going to be my wife. Maybe not this month, maybe not next year, maybe after Harlow graduates from college. Then when is negotiable. The if isn’t. You’re going to be mine legally in addition to every other way. We own a business together. We’ve been through a lot of therapy together. We found Brittany a job, an apartment, and the couple who’s going to adopt her baby. You’ve made me a better man, I love you more than anything in this world or out of it, and you will be my wife. Blink once for yes, but I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Her face crumples. “You’re getting more and more like your brother every day.”

“Which one?”

“The crazy one.”

That makes me smile. “Like I said, which one?”

Her shoulders shake with silent laughter. Then she drops her head, sets the mug down, covers her face with her hands, and bursts into tears.

I move to her, my heart expanding until it hurts, and bend down wrap my arms around her from behind. Squeezing her to my chest, I whisper into her ear, “At least look at the ring before you start crying. It’s probably hideous. I have terrible taste in jewelry.”

That makes her cry harder, but I know they’re not tears of sadness. They’re tears of happiness, which is a whole different thing.

When I take her mouth in a passionate kiss, she doesn’t have to say the word. Her lips and arms and muffled cries of happiness say yes in a way that’s undeniable.

Which is lucky for me, because although I said she didn’t have a choice, I was fully prepared to beg.