Page 57 of Made in Love and Blood

“Frankie won,” he murmured. “And don’t ask against who, that is borderline condoning it.”

“You condoned it when you bought her a Supra that you let her tweak to her heart’s content after taking her to a car show, but who asked me?”

Speaking of asking things... “He asked me, you know. Before they left. Nico asked me if he could go with her.”

“He clears a lot of things with you, or so you’ve said.”

“Yeah, but—”

“You could have said no.”

“Would he listen, though?” Salvatore asked.

He felt Carina shrug. “Listen, as it is, I’m doing my best with him being around. I don’t even know what to think or feel when he’s staring at me half of the damn time. It’s easier to just hate him. Please don’t also put this onto me where he’s concerned. Either do something, say something, or let it be nothing, Sal. I’m begging you.”

“That’s not his fault. How you feel, he didn’t do that.”

“I know it isn’t,” she whispered back. “I’m trying, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

He leaned down to press a kiss into her mussed hair, and she sighed, content. It reminded him of the sounds she made while she rode him into oblivion with those stocking-covered thighs squeezing him tight and her fingernails scoring lines across his chest.

“Can’t believe I paid for those just to hurt me,” he grounded out.

“You love it. You always did.” Her laughter had tinkled above him, musical and sweet. “And by the way, that’s not all you paid for this week, baby.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“The Brazilian wax that just sat on your face and the spray tan I’m sweating off here? Think about it,” she’d taunted him, grinding circles into him the whole time.

Salvatore cleared his throat to rid the conversation from his immediate memory. Too late, he’d already grown hard.

“Mmm, I feel that,” Carina said with pleasure thick in her voice.

The phone buzzed in his hand, and he looked at it to see what Larkin had sent while Carina found her way back on top of him, thighs clenching, her center seeking.

“They got pictures,” he said in disbelief.

She stilled. “Huh?”

He turned the phone around so she could see what he just had.

A high-res, long-distance shot—taken from an overpass, according to the accompanying text from Larkin—of Nico standing up through the Supra sunroof. The joy on his face mixed with pride as Nico gestured toward whatever tailed them. Likely, the loser of the race. In the next image, he was clapping. The third, back inside the car.

“Do something, say something, or—”

“Or let it be nothing, yeah, yeah.” He let out a heavy breath, eyeing the first image Larkin had sent again. “Fuck it, you know what, I’m going to let the kids have it.”

“Have what?” she asked, breathless.

She finally sank down on him. Wet, silken, tight, and hot. Just how he liked. He couldn’t even think. He couldn’t finish the thought...

Maybe that was best.

8. — the dead mothers club...

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