“Oh, God, baby face. You're gonna make me come.”

Words can't express how much I hate it when she calls me that. Especially during sex.

She throws her head back and I grab her hips and slide into her again.

On instinct, my eyes drift from her ginormous tits down to her now visible belly.

I look away quickly, though. Last time we had sex and she caught me staring at it, she went crazy, and not in a good way.

Instead of enjoying myself, I spent the next ten minutes explaining that I wasn't staring because she had gained weight, but that the sight of her carrying my child, although still overwhelming, was beautiful.

It's like she didn't even hear me, because she went on and on, blaming the baby for making her look like a whale. My only option was to stick my head between her legs and get her off, because at least then she was too distracted to keep bitching.

I watch as she rides out the rest of her climax, and right when I'm preparing to take over—she arches her back and starts fucking me into oblivion, screaming a slew of dirty things that would make a porn star blush.

Usually, I'd be into it, but this performance of hers reeks of disingenuity.

I rest my head on the couch, letting the waves of pleasure take over as I try like hell to ignore the little nagging voice in the back of my mind.

She's only fucking you so good because you get the paternity results next week.

When she first told me she was pregnant, I demanded the test, but I dropped it after she said that having an amniocentesis would be harmful to the baby.

But the more time that passed, and the more attached I became, the more the need to know the truth gnawed at me.

Even though she swears up and down that it's mine, I just want to know for sure.

My head has been so fucked up over this lately; I started placing bets with underground bookies that I know better than to ever mess with.

I tried to stop, but I can't.

I need the distraction. I need the rush.

But most of all? I need something to make me feel invincible and level me out—because whenever I stop and think about how much it will crush my entire world if the little boy I've spent the last few months loving and calling my son turns out not to be mine...the deeper into the spiral I go.

It's gotten to the point where I'm starting to lose bets. It's nothing major and nothing I don't recoup with my next bet...but still.

I'm starting to lose. And if this baby isn't mine...I'll lose that too.

If all that wasn't stressful enough, things with Becca and me have gone from tolerable to horrible.

A few days ago she brought up getting married for the millionth time, and everything came to a head between us. I flat out told her that was off the table until after our son was born and I had a guarantee he was mine.

Of course, she argued and tried to convince me getting married after she gave birth was the wrong thing to do, but I was relentless.

No paternity test. No marriage.

She yelled and threw things, begged and pleaded. And when none of it worked—she reminded me once again I was a shitty person and a bad father for even considering the dangerous procedure. But unbeknownst to her, I've been doing research and there's a non-invasive paternity test that won't harm the baby.

When I told her, she tried to deflect it again, which only made the boulder of anxiety sitting in the pit of my stomach grow bigger, but I knew how to convince her.

I put a ring on her finger and promised once I got the results we would get hitched.

The next day we had an appointment for the blood test.

I shift as she continues to ride me, acid rising in my stomach like a volcano.

I have to believe she's telling the truth at this point. Becca knows how much I love this kid already. She knows how much it would fucking kill me if it weren’t mine.

However, what she doesn't know? Is how much I'd be risking by coming clean to my father about her being pregnant.

If things don't go as planned, the roles will be reversed once more and he'll have the ultimate leverage against me.

Because then everyone will know.

But I have no choice—I'll do whatever it takes to make sure my son is taken care of and protected.

“Harder,” I demand because these thoughts are enough to turn my dick limp and if I don't get my release soon, I'll end up puking my goddamn guts out all over her and this couch.

When she doesn't alter her pace, I motion for her to change positions.

As soon as she's lying on her back, I pump inside her again, focusing on the way her pussy grips me and the way her tits bounce, drowning everything else out.

I reach between us and play with her clit, bringing her closer to the brink.

“Becca,” I say, my voice strangled as I take the bud between my fingers. “I'm gonna need you to come for me again.”

She loves it when I beg her to come, and I know she gets off on it...but then again, she doesn't realize it has nothing to do with her pleasure and everything to do with mine.

I need to hear her moans. I need to watch her body lose control as it writhes underneath me.

I need all those things to remind myself that I'm in this moment...and this moment only.

She bucks her hips but remains silent with a smug smile on her face.

I thrust harder, trying not to go to that place, but I'm slipping, falling, and if I'm not careful...pretty soon I'll be there.

I pinch her clit and slam into her. “Either stop the bullshit and cream my dick like a good girl, or I'll never fuck this cunt again.”

“Oh, God,” she gasps. Seconds later, her eyes roll back and she convulses as her moans fill the living room of our apartment.

I focus on the sounds, the scent of sex in the air, and the sight of her heavy breasts jiggling.

My balls draw tight and I slip out of her. “I want to come all over your tits.”

Her gaze turns smoky and I rip the condom off and quickly stroke out my release, watching as she swirls it around her nipples.

When the last drop hits her skin, she sighs and looks at her engagement ring. “Just think how much hotter our sex life will be once we're married.”

The calm state my body was easing into is long gone with those words.

Thankfully, she's not expecting a response because she shoves me away and rises from the couch. “I'm gonna go clean up. But when I get back, you better be ready for round two.” Her gaze travels to my cock and she licks her lips suggestively before she skips off.

Yeah, she's pulling out all the stops this weekend.

With a curse, I yank up my sweatpants.

A moment later there's a knock on the front door. I wasn't expecting company, but I answer it anyway.

Only to come face to face with the last person I ever expected to see.

“Sorry,” Kit starts before I can get a word in. “I know this is weird...me coming here and all. I—um.” She motions to the small box she's holding. “My lease is up on my apartment soon and when I was packing, I came across some of Becca's stuff.”

She looks down. “Actually, that's not right. A few months ago I packed up her stuff, but I've only recently mustered the guts to give it to her. I mean, I suppose I could have just waited until after winter recess is over and the new semester starts, but I have no clue what her new schedule is, so I figured this would be easier and—”

I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. “You're babbling.”

She stops for air and her eyes land on my bare chest before she averts her gaze. “You're not wearing a shirt.”

“I was working out.”

It's not exactly a lie.

The pink of her cheeks matches the ends of her hair. “I knew this was a bad idea. I should have just mailed it.” She shoves the box in my direction. “Sorry for bothering you.”

“Kit.” I put the box down on the floor. “You didn't bother me.”

Her eyes dart around the hallway, looking anywhere but in my vicinity. “I should go.”

“You look tan.”

I fight the urge to kick myself. Not only because of the strange look she gives me, but because it's not even close to what I really want to tell the girl standing in front of me.

Instead, I swallow the words that are slowly burrowing a hole in the center of my chest whenever I think about her.

Which is far too often for a man in my situation.

“It's January,” I mumble. “Most people aren't so tan in the winter.”

“I just got back from the Caribbean.” She frowns. “My Nanna insists that we go every year for the holidays. She thinks it's honoring my parents' memory to take the trip they never got to go on.”

“That's—”

“A bit morbid? Yeah, I know.” She shakes her head. “I hate going.”

“So why do you?”

“I don't have a choice. At least not until I'm twenty-five.” She lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I only turned twenty-one last month.”

I know. “Lucky thirteen.”

“Right.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth. “Look, I doubt it will happen, but if you run into Breslin would you mind keeping the fact that you saw me tonight to yourself?”

I raise a brow. “Why? Is she controlling who you can talk to now?”

She shoots me that angry scowl. “No, not at all. It's just...I was supposed to come back from my vacation tomorrow. And if she finds out I came back early, she's going to want to know why, but she has her own stuff going on and I don't want to—”

“Why did you come back early?” I interject because I don't give a shit about Breslin's issues.

She looks like a deer caught in headlights. “It doesn't matter. I'd just really appreciate you not saying anything to her, or your brother.”

“Kit.” I hold her gaze, refusing to let this go. “What happened?”

A mixture of sadness and animosity crosses over her face. “My Nanna and I got into an argument. I—” Something behind me catches her attention and she freezes.

Since the door is open, there's only one person it could be. Shit.

When I turn around, it's even worse than I anticipated.

Because there's Becca...standing there in some red lingerie getup.

I look back at Kit, but she's solely focused on Becca. “I came here to drop off some of your stuff.”

Becca's face twists. “You could have mailed it, you know.”

I open my mouth to tell Becca to cut the attitude and remind her that she's the one who hurt Kit, but Becca snarls and says, “Now if you don't mind, my fiancé and I were in the middle of something.”

That's when Kit's gaze drops to her belly and the diamond ring on her hand.

“Sorry. Have a nice night,” Kit mumbles as she turns around, stopping to give me a look of disdain before she's gone in a flash.

Something tugs inside my chest and I can't help but feel like I betrayed her in some way. Which makes absolutely no sense, but nothing I feel makes sense when it comes to her.

“I can't believe she showed up here,” Becca says, but I ignore her because my feet are moving quicker than it takes to process the action or tell myself not to.

I run down the staircase and out the lobby doors, hoping to catch her before she makes it out to her car.

When I see a flash of pink running toward the parking lot, I surge forward and reach for her arm. “Becca was a bitch to you.”

She twists out of my grasp. “What the hell are you doing?”

I ignore the bone-chilling winter wind as I stand there barefoot and shirtless. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”

She balls her hands into fists. “I knew I shouldn't have come here. I don't even know why I did.”

“Do you still think about that night on the bridge?”

Her jaw nearly hits the ground. “What?”

“The night on the bridge,” I repeat. “Do you still think about it?”

My heartbeat drums in my ears as I wait for her answer.

It's an answer I don't receive because she says, “I think you should go back up to your apartment.”

I disregard that statement. “I've never talked to anyone the way I talked to you that night. In fact, I hate most people and think they're shit. But that—”

“God, just stop.” She gestures between us, her gaze turning hard. “We aren't friends, Preston.”

“We could be.”

“No, we can't.”

She starts walking to her car again, but I grab her wrist where I can feel her own heart beating a mile a minute. “You could have mailed the box, but you didn't. You could have given it to her when you saw her on campus, but you didn't. Hell, you could have given it to Breslin to give to Asher to give to me, but you didn't. You didn't choose any of those options. Instead, you chose the one that led directly to me.”

She tries to wrench out of my grasp. “You're certifiable, you know that?”

I tighten my hold. “Maybe, but you're a liar because we both know the reason you came here.”

She shoves me with her free arm. “Let me go.”

“Give me one good reason and I will.”

“Aside from the glaringly obvious one? Fine, how about three?” She gets close to my face and it's all I can do not to close the distance. “Reason one—the girl you should be worried about is upstairs. Reason two—she has your ring on her finger.” Her lower lip trembles. “And reason three—she's pregnant with your goddamn baby.”

The truth punctures me and I release her, only for her to shove me again. “You're chasing the wrong girl.”

I'm silent as she gets into her car and speeds off, waiting until she's nothing but a tiny dot in the distance to trek my way back to Becca.

“What the hell is going on?” Becca screeches when I open the front door.

Closing it behind me, I side-step her. “Nothing.”

She follows me as I enter the kitchen. “Did you fuck her?”

I reach for a bottle of whiskey, but the sting from her hand across my cheek directs my attention back to her. “I'm not exactly her type.”

My response makes her seethe. “How could you do this to me?”

I open a cabinet and take out a glass. “I didn't do anything.” Ripping a page out of her favorite playbook of deflection I add, “I'm not you, remember?”

She looks sheepish. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to accuse you of cheating. I'm just trying to figure out why you ran after her.”

“Because I wanted to,” I tell her honestly.

Turns out I don't care enough about Becca's feelings to conjure up a lie and pacify her after all.

“That doesn't make any sense. Not unless—” She gasps. “Oh my God. Are you in love with Kit?”

“I'm not in love with anyone.”

My words hang in the air between us like a terrible secret that was just brought to light.

Her hand flies over her face. “You're such an asshole.”

I bring the glass to my mouth, letting the amber liquid coat my throat before I speak. “Come on, Becca. It's not like you're in love with me, either. Don't act like you were burned when you were the one who lit the match.”

She sucks in a breath. “What if I told you I did love you?”

I down my glass and slam it on the counter. “I'd ask you why.”

She takes my hand and places it on her belly. “Because of this. Don't you think you owe it to our son to make this work? To try and love the mother of your child and give him a real family?”

It's like she's swimming in my subconscious and adding more weight to the bricks that have been slowly sinking me over the last three months.

I step back, stopping when my spine hits the wall behind me and there's nowhere else to go. I'm starting to feel like I'm in prison and Becca's the warden.

But I have no choice but to do my time and serve my sentence, because my son deserves that. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

Relief flashes across her face...and then her lips are on mine and she's kissing me frantically.

Part of me wants to tell her to stop, and yet I can't because I know I need to be doing everything I can to make this work.

Tentacles wrap around my lungs; their grip is so tight I'm certain I'm being suffocated.

Oblivious to my body locking up, Becca continues her ambush and wraps her fingers around my dick through my sweatpants.

I tell myself to keep my head in the game and go with it, but it's like telling a deaf person to enjoy a song that's playing on the radio.

When she starts to drop to her knees, I halt her. “You don't...I don't...” I stall, trying to get the words out. I've never turned down sex from her before and that alone is cause for alarm. “This isn't a good idea.”

Her face scrunches. “Why?”

Because nothing feels right between us anymore.

Because you're not the girl I can't get out of my system—the one my thoughts have relentlessly drifted to for the last three months.

But I don't tell her any of that. Instead, I say, “You're over six months pregnant. Letting you kneel down on a cold kitchen floor to give me head isn't great for my conscience.”

Her jaw works as she stands back up. “Since when do you give a shit about that?”

She's right, I rarely do. I don't go out of my way to hurt others, but I don't go out of my way to comfort or help them either.

Apart from my older brother Asher on occasion, I generally don't give a shit about anyone or anything unless it impacts me directly.

I'm well aware of who I inherited that particular quality from.

I open my mouth, but a familiar hunger hits me full force, a compulsion so strong it's almost instinctual.

Cutting the conversation short, I barge past her and head for the bedroom to get dressed.

I didn't intend on placing any bets tonight, but then again, it's never really something that I plan.

It's more like a craving I can't ignore.

I hear her footsteps coming down the hall before she enters the bedroom, looking beyond pissed. “You're wasting your time pining over her, Preston. I highly doubt Kit will ever give you the time of day...let alone know how to please you.”

I reach for my suit jacket and she takes a step forward. “I know you're smart enough to realize anything she does with you, will only be to get back at me, given she's clearly still obsessed with my mere existence. The girl has issues. She's a train-wreck waiting to happen. Trust me on this.”

I stop mid-button and glare at her. “I'm not going to see her.”

When she visibly relaxes I say, “But if I were you, I'd watch your step.”

“Why is that?”

“Because it's one hell of a fall from your ivory tower.”

Her mouth drops open and I elbow past her. “I'll be home later.”

I'm halfway to the door when a ceramic figurine flies by my head before shattering against the wall.

“You know, I've tried to be patient with you, Preston. But now, you give me no choice.”

I turn and face her. “I beg your pardon?”

“This isn't working.”

Relief hits me and I'm glad she realizes it. Until she says, “And so help me God, you're going to regret not trying.”

The hairs on the back of my neck raise. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She doesn't answer me. Instead, she opens the closet and starts tossing clothes into a suitcase. “What it means, is that you won't be allowed to see him.”

My stomach drops, and I can feel the color drain from my face. “Look, you're angry and hormonal—”

She slams the top of her suitcase down. “You don't want to marry me and have a family? Well, congratulations...you no longer have one.”

I knew Becca was manipulative but threatening me with not seeing the baby unless I marry her is a whole other level of fucked up.

She played her cards right though, because she has me right where she wants me. My balls are officially clamped by her metaphorical vise.

I punch the wall out of frustration. “Why are you doing this?”

Her mouth tightens. “You've never looked at me the way you looked at her tonight.” She points to her stomach. “Here I am pregnant and wearing your ring...but you looked at her like she was your entire world.”

My teeth clench. “So because you're jealous of the way I looked at the girl who you cheated on me with...you think it's okay to threaten me with not seeing the baby? Children aren't bartering tools.”

Her lip turns up in a snarl. “Don't you dare make me out to be the bad guy. I've done everything to try and make this relationship work.”

If by everything she means using my credit card and distracting me with sex, then sure, I'll give her that.

“Becca—”

“You won't even tell your parents that I'm pregnant.”

“I'll tell them when I'm ready.”

She zips up her suitcase. “Not good enough. This baby deserves a father who will take care of him. One who will never hurt him.”

The knife she's driven into my chest twists. “You know I'd never hurt him.”

She straightens her spine. “Then prove it. Prove it by believing me when I tell you he's yours. Prove it by marrying me and becoming a family, because that's what our son needs.”

I close my eyes, fighting the panic lodging in my throat, because once I do this, that's it. There's no coming back. “We'll go to the courthouse this week.”

Her entire face lights up. “Really?”

When I nod, she wraps her arms around me and I exhale heavily. “No more bullshit, okay? No more threatening to take him away from me.”

“No more bullshit,” she agrees. “Promise.”

I drop a kiss to her forehead. “You should get some rest.”

“Are you still leaving?”

The impact of what I'm about to do feels like a cinder block on my chest. “No, not anymore.”

Because I'm about to make the ultimate gamble all on my own.

 

Clutching my third glass of whiskey, I inhale deeply and glance at the clock on the wall.

It's a futile attempt at procrastination, because I know that just like me, the man hardly sleeps.

Demons will do that to a person.

With a heavy heart and just enough liquid courage to see this shit through, I get off the couch and make my way to the balcony out back. It's cold as hell outside, and I remember the weatherman saying something about an impending snow storm as I bring the phone to my ear.

He answers on the third ring. “What?”

My jaw locks as the bitter wind ripples, numbing me just like I wanted. “Is that any way to greet your son?”

“It is when he's a vile, no-good, parasite.”

A laugh escapes me, and it sounds every bit as menacing as I feel. “Well, you know what they say. The apple doesn't fall far, now does it?”

There's a long sigh on the other line and I revel in his annoyance. “Let's cut to the chase, Preston. How much is this phone call going to cost me this time?”

About as much as you cost me, you piece of shit.

My heart thumps against my chest like a drum. This is it. The moment that's been building like a volcano for as long as I can remember. “How about every fucking dime you have, for starters.”

“Very funny,” he says, unfazed by my request.

Ice flows through my veins. “Do you hear me laughing, old man?”

He clears his throat. “What the hell is going on with you?”

My head spins and I close my eyes, trying my hardest to keep the monsters at bay. “That's really none of your concern. The only thing you should be worried about is making sure that I get what I'm asking for.”

The football game he was listening to in the background mutes. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

The familiar feeling of being weak and defenseless makes my stomach knot and I nearly choke on the bile crawling up my throat.

Gripping the railing until my knuckles turn white, I remind myself that the only way to win against a demon...is to be crueler than they are. “Damn right you should be scared.”

“Son, you're either drunk, high, or just plain fucking stupid. I don't know who you think you're trying to blackmail, or what kind of stunt you think you're pulling, but you've got nothing on me, you teenage punk.”

“That's where you're wrong.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

It's no longer bile choking me; it’s the deep dark secret laced with so much shame and fear that I've never been able to tell another soul. The one swept so far under the rug—it's easier to pretend it never happened, just like he does.

“I'll tell everyone the truth about you. I'll tell the world exactly who and what you are.”

Because I've never forgotten. Even though you have.

He's quiet for what feels like an eternity before he whispers, “This is extortion.”

I snort. “Bravo. Nothing gets by you.”

His breathing becomes shaky and I smile. There's a sick satisfaction in being able to rip the control right out from under him.

For as long as I can remember, the unspoken event of that night has been my key to getting whatever I wanted out of him. And while that pretty much qualifies me as a warped individual, because any normal child would have told someone instead of turning to blackmail—he's used it to his own advantage by enabling me into silence via feeding my gambling issues.

This whole charade has been going on for so long, I barely remember life before it. And every time I tried to tell my brother the truth about that night...I couldn't.

It used to be the shame that held me back. The horror of what Asher would think about me. Of what others would think if they knew.

But somewhere down the road, it became the shame of what I was doing—blackmailing my father instead of turning him in—that prevented me from uttering the truth.

In other words, the stone-cold reality that I'm not a good person, and odds are I'll never be.

But having a child changes everything because I have someone other than myself to think about and protect. Which means it's game over.

Before I cut ties with the bastard altogether, though, I'm taking every penny of his. This way he knows what it's like to feel powerless, if only for a short while.

“You have no proof. What you're insinuating is nothing more than an unsubstantiated allegation,” he croaks. “No one will believe you.”

No one will believe you. Even now that statement causes a visceral reaction in me because they're the very same words that kept me silent all these years.

But I'm not a little kid anymore, and that means I get to do the threatening.

“You really want to take that chance? Because I'm pretty sure the media will have a field day with this allegation.” I pause because what I'm going to say next is completely fucked up. However, it will put the final nail in the coffin and make him realize just how serious I am about this. “And let's not forget about the recent scandal regarding your other son. Because I'm willing to bet that once the truth is out, people will speculate if it was your doing. Everyone will wonder if your perversions are responsible for Asher's—as you like to call it—sickness. You fucking hypocrite.”

“Goddammit, I made a mistake. Is that what you need to hear?” he shouts before his voice drops. “It was so long ago. I was angry and drunk. I didn't know what I was doing. I—”

“I'm not interested in your bullshit excuses,” I say sharply. “I don't think anyone else will be either.”

“Preston, please. I'm not some kind of monster, son. I know deep down you know that. It was a one-time transgression, one that I hardly remember because I was so impaired. One that I've done everything to make up for since it happened. I thought assisting you financially over the years and aiding your gambling pastime was helping you cope and you had forgiven me, but evidently not. I see how much I hurt you now, and I'm willing to sincerely apologize so you can move on from this for good. I'll even pay for therapy if that's what you want. But I can't—”

We're far past the point of therapy and apologies. “You can, and you will. You have forty-eight hours, or I go public.”

“How about we work out a new arrangement? A payment plan that will be very lucrative for you.”

He doesn't get it. It's not about the money; it's about me having the upper hand. Me calling the shots.

Me flipping the script and taking back my life...by taking everything from him.

“I'm not interested in anything other than what I asked for.”

I look up at the night sky and the bilious feeling in the pit of my gut intensifies when he remains silent. “Okay then, have fun in jail. I'm sure they're really going to love you in there.”

He makes a strangled sound and I know he's about to crumble like a house of cards. “I can't transfer millions to you in a mere two days. I'm going to need more time.”

He has a point. “You have seven days.”

Now seven can be your unlucky number too, motherfucker.

“Fine.”

I stop him right before he hangs up. “One more thing.”

“What?”

Whatever composure I was clinging to snaps. “If you ever go near my son, you sick son of a bitch. I will fucking kill you.”

A moment later the line goes dead and I empty the contents of my stomach over the balcony, wishing I could expel every despicable memory of him along with it.