Motown Breakdown (Motown Down #4) (21 page)

Wrapping her legs around me and carrying her to bed, I lie her down and whisper, “Nothing, mama.” Hours later while she snored beautifully on my chest, I traced her arm with my fingers. Satisfied she was truly out; I began to draw above both tattoos on her wrist. Because I never wanted her to doubt how I felt and I wanted to make sure she never forgot. The next time I was at the store I’d buy pens in bulk so I could do this every night.

That following morning she stretched out, looked up at me and noticed me watching her and smiles. Then shifting to her side she turns her arm facing us both and traces the words with her finger.

Crews loves Luna

“Wow,” she whispers in awe.

“Talk to me, mama,” I prompt her.

Curling into me, she cups my face and says, “I should get this inked, so it’s permanent.”

“Don’t do that,” I say inhaling her. “If you did, I wouldn’t be able to wake every morning and draw it again.”

“You want to draw it over and over?”

“To show you that I love you? Absolutely.”

“Crews,” she smiles sweetly. “Is this an old age thing?”

“No,” I growl rolling her on top of me. “It’s a Luna thing.”

Lifting her wrist to look at it again, she gives me a huge grin before placing the skin over my lips. Pressing my kiss there she asks, “What can I do to show you how Luna loves Crews?”

“You can start by taking my cock,” I smirk.

“Then what?” she asks in the sexiest voice.

“Then you can marry me.”

“Do I get a big ring?” she asks grinding on me.

“The biggest.”

“Do I get to have cheesy vows?” she asks cupping her tits.

“As many as you want.”

“Do I get to boss you around?” she asks taking a hand to fist me.

“Keep that up and you can have whatever you want.”

Lifting herself up and then sliding down, we both moan at the bliss of it. Balancing herself on my chest she whispers, “Can we have kids?”

“At least a dozen.”

“Can we drive them around in a bus?” she asks working me over.

“Mama,” I say pulling her down to me. “I want you to have it all.”

With the softest look in her eyes she kisses my nose and whispers, “I already do.”

Reversing our positions, I torture us both by thrusting slowly. Luna meant it when she said she didn’t need much. Material things meant nothing to her but I meant the world. All her life all she wanted was a choice and it was my job to make sure she always had one. Close to coming, totally fucking maxed out on happiness, I gave her what I promised, a choice. Especially when it came to sex. “How do you want it, mama?”

With beautiful sparkling eyes full of love for me she says, “For as long as we both shall live.”

“I meant…”

“I know what you meant,” she says digging her nails in. “Do what feels right, Crews, and I’ll love it.”

“I want you to have a choice,” I remind her and my balls about to explode reminded me I needed to come.

“You are my choice,” she says arching up. “Plus, I like all flavors of ice cream, you can’t go wrong with me right now.”

“Ice cream?”

Slapping my ass extremely hard she growls, “Fuck me, Crews.”

“Luna…”

“Now.”

“You asked for it.”

For the next several minutes I fucked her in every possible way I knew. Fast, slow, hard, gentle, sideways and even hanging off the mattress. After we both came while she purred in my ear I asked her, “What’s with the ice cream?”

“You’re better than Baskin Robbins,” she giggles into my neck. “You’re my favorite flavor.”

“Yeah?” I ask proud of my prowess. “What do I taste like?”

“Home.”

Squeezing her a little tighter, I silently thanked Evie for making this possible for me. I’ll miss my sister and though her methods were shitty, she wanted something bad enough to risk it all to obtain it. I think back to courting death, doing anything I could to have Luna and in this my sister and I were a lot alike. If it weren’t for her leaving, I wouldn’t have the woman in my arms, I wouldn’t be content. Kissing her shoulder, I remind her again, “Crews loves Luna,” and when I felt her tears of happiness dripping on my skin, I decided that if Evie had even a fraction of this I got why she did it.

The end, but not really…

https://open.spotify.com/user/1298632431/playlist/7deCtA7sU4dPvJHzBXgxBE

Adrenalize by In this moment

Blood by In this Moment

Bitch Don't Kill My Vibe by Kendrick Lamar

Love on top by Beyonce

Turn the page to get Shade’s story in the bonus book, Sun & Shade…

30 days is nothing…

This could totally work.

If I didn’t get shot for trespassing or locked in a cellar, it was a solid plan.

My muse had a drinking problem. She was rarely sober, never listened, always nude and was quite reckless. Me? Well, I was practically a model fucking citizen. Because of my dual personas, an idea formed. Likely my most dangerous to date. Here’s another problem, I had lots of ideas. As an author, ideas were my thing, right? I didn’t just write stories, I lived them. Okay yeah, so I had to exaggerate them for the sake of literature, but still! When an idea formed, I went all in and haven’t been arrested once. Although, I feel it prudent to mention the cops are avidly looking. To date, I’ve tried mixed martial arts (had a tooth capped from it), drifting (it still counts if the car is stolen), shot a pimp in the ass (used a .22 because it didn’t warrant murder), stripping (I made one hundred and sixty-four bucks) and selling pot (smoked the profits) to name a few. None of my books were best sellers, but I had a cult following so I was cool with that. It wasn’t about the money, it was about the art. Plus, my readers dug what I did, they found me refreshing and maybe a touch psychotic. They identified with me. Of course, none of my ideas were legal, which meant I didn’t add my photo to my work. No one knew who I was, not even my editor, adding to my mystique. I also used a killer pen name. Anonymity was my best friend and because I was a ghost, I got away with dumb shit.

You don’t live in Detroit and not know about the building where women can petition for a new life. From what I found out, you have a formal interview and if you qualify, you give your criteria. Money, looks, big Johnson, a yacht, whatever… The interviewer gets a commission from selling your ass after finding your best match. I call this
trafficking with a choice
and that, bitches, is my best seller.