Big Daddy Sinatra 3: The Best of My Love (The Sinatras of Jericho County) (9 page)

His
hips were lifting, his ass was squeezing, and he was pushing into her deeper
and deeper.
 
And she knew how to pace
herself. Every time her pussy came down on his shaft, she made sure she allowed
him to dictate how far down.
 
First, it
was a couple inches, giving his dickhead that sensuality that primed the
pump.
 
And then he held onto her small
ass and moved her down further and further, giving her more of himself until
her ass was slapping against his balls and they were in a full throttled,
no-holes-barred fuck.
  

He
continued to suck her breasts, and she continued to hold onto him, as he fucked
her with uncompromising ferocity.
 
His
stress was strong and he was matching that strength with his skill.
 
A lesser woman would not have been able to
take it, and Charles knew that.
 
But this
was Jenay.
 
She was riding hard.
 
She was gritting her pearl-white teeth, her
hair was bouncing along her beautiful forehead, and every inch of her gorgeous
face screamed joy, not pain.
 
She was
enjoying this almost as much as he was.
 
And that joyful look of hers, that determined look she gave, allowed him
do her the way he needed to do her.
 
Her
look of acceptance alone allowed him to go all-out in an almost mad, manic,
on-the-edge-of-uncontrollability fuck.

He
fucked her with jarring force.
 
He fucked
her with unrelenting force.
 
He couldn’t
stop doing her.
 
And after so many
thrusts, and after so many moments of near-cum, they came.
 
First him, and then her.
 
And he kept fucking her.
 
He poured and thrashed.
 
He thrashed and poured.
 
It was such a powerful fuck that the lounger
was bouncing.
 

Even
downstairs, in the dining hall, where the master bedroom’s balcony was not even
directly above it, their children could hear the vibrating sounds of something
beating against the upstairs floor.
 
They
were all adults.
 
They knew what they
were hearing.

But
even so, they, at first, looked at each other as if they weren’t sure if they
wanted to hear such sounds.
 
But Tony, as
usual, summed it up.

“See,”
he said to Donnie.
 
“Brent was right as
usual.
 
You didn’t need to go and see
about Daddy.
 
Jenay takes care of Dad.”

Robert,
Ashley, and even Donald laughed.
 
Brent
smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it.
 
Because he knew his father better than any of them.
 
Jenay was giving him what he needed right
now, and that would go a long way, but there was no panacea here.
 
The man their father preferred to think of as
dead was soon to show his face in a court of law right here in Jericho.
 
And he might even be released on the
spot.
 
Brent was not at all sure if his
father was going to be able to handle that.
 
He was not even sure if he could handle that.
 
This was no laughing matter to Brent.

Mark
Stravinsky stared at that paper again.
 
He stared at those DNA results as if this was news to him.
 
Denise Donahue was terrified.
 
She never knew how he was going to
react.
 
Six years ago, she had lied and
told him that he was the father of her unborn son.
 
Now their son, Marcus Stravinsky, Junior, was
very much born and looked very much nothing like her blonde-haired, blue-eyed
husband.

Although
they never spoke a word of it to each other or anybody else, both of them knew
who the real father was.
 
Denise knew the
father of her son was Brent Sinatra, the only decent man she had ever been
with, and Mark knew it too.
 
When he went
to Jericho six years ago to get his woman back, Brent was the prick who kicked
his ass just for fucking his own woman.
 
Because in Mark’s eyes she was his woman and was going to be his woman
for the rest of his life.
  
They had
broken up six years ago, he had left her when her nagging about his cheating
became too much, but she was still his.

She
lied about the baby.
 
She declared up and
down that she was pregnant with his child.
 
And he married her.
 
After he
married her, the baby came.
 
He knew
right away that their greened-eyed, black haired baby boy was no son of
his.
 
No way.
 
But they were married now.
 
And his political aspirations could not allow
do-overs.
 
A divorced politician in
Boston was no politician at all.
 
Just a
tired old political also-ran.
  
Divorce,
and any talk of paternity, was not to be discussed.

He
looked at his gorgeous, African-American wife.
 
Denise looked at her nice-looking white husband.
 
Ever since the birth of Marcus, everything
about their relationship changed.
 
The
woman Mark used to love despite his cheating, was now the woman he loved and
despised.
 
The man Denise used to love
with all her heart, was now the man she despised for the way he treated their
son.
 
But she had ambitions too.
 
And her ambitions trumped everything
else.
 
Because Mark was super-rich, and
if all went well, he was going to be super-powerful too.
 
She had cast her lot with him, and intended
to maintain the considerable privilege of being his wife.
 
No matter how he treated their son.
 
No matter what his inner circle were mumbling
about their son’s paternity.
 
No matter
what that DNA test, the test he now held in his hands, had concluded.

“What
does it say?” Denise asked, as if she didn’t already know.

Mark
continued to stare at the results.
 
They
were in their master bedroom suite.
 
He
was dressed in a white tux and she was dressed in a white gown.
 
They were about to attend a fundraiser Mark
was sponsoring in honor of the governor of Massachusetts, and where it would be
announced that Mark would run as his lieutenant.
 

But
the governor’s people had wanted a DNA test to ensure that there were no
skeletons coming out of anybody’s closets when the campaign kicked off, and
Mark had eagerly agreed.
 

“What
does it say?” Denise asked again.
 

Mark
looked at her.
 
He was unable to conceal
his bitterness even after all these years. “What do you think it says?” he
asked, and tossed the results in her face.

She
caught the paper and looked at it.
 
With
ninety-nine-point-ninety-nine percent certainty, Mark, according to the
results, was the father of their son.
 
Denise nearly dropped the page.
 
She was dumbstruck.
 
She looked at
her husband with astonishment in her eyes.

“What’s
wrong, dear?” Mark asked sarcastically.
 
“You look like you don’t believe your own lying eyes.”

“But
. . .” Denise couldn’t finish her thought.

“But
what?” Mark asked.
 
“The results are
rigged?
 
The results can’t possibly be
right?
 
I’m not the father of our son?”
 
An angry look appeared in his deep, blue
eyes.
 
“Yeah, you’re right.
 
On all counts.”
 

Then
he walked up to her.
 
She stepped
back.
 
He walked up closer and grabbed
her by the chin.
 
“You think I’m a fool?
 
You think I didn’t know the father of my son
was that bastard Brent Sinatra in that backwater country-ass town?
 
You thought I didn’t realize you had betrayed
me when he wanted to beat my ass just for fucking yours?
 
What kind of fool do you think I am?
 
After that boy was born, I didn’t need a DNA
test to tell me the truth.
 
That boy is
the spitting image of his father, I already knew the truth!”

Mark
settled back down.
 
He stared at his
beautiful wife, and thought about all of those beautiful black votes her
beautiful black ass was going to get for him someday.
 
“At least you never told Sinatra that he was
the father.
 
He didn’t know you were ever
pregnant.
 
And I know that to be a fact because
I had my man investigate it.
 
Sinatra
doesn’t even know he has a six-year-old son.
 
And he will never know.
 
Because
you know what else these results prove?”
 

Denise
didn’t respond. “Do you know what else these results ---”

“What?”
Denise asked angrily.
 
“And let me go!”
She snatched away from him.
 
“What do
they prove?”

“These
results prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there’s nothing I can’t do even
before my political career takes off.
 
Imagine my capabilities when my career does take off.”

She
stared at him.
 
Instead of being
frightful, instead of being angry that his reach somehow managed to alter her
son’s official DNA paternity test, she smiled.
 
She actually smiled!
 
She was
getting some kind of serious high from the mere thought of the power they would
one day wield, and they both knew it.
 
That was why he smiled too.
 
And
pulled her into his arms.

“That’s
right baby,” he said as he held her.
 
“If
we do this right, the sky is going to be the limit for us.”

“And
for our son,” Denise added.

Mark
nodded.
 
“Yes,” he said.
 
“And for our son.”

They
held each other tighter.
 
Denise knew
what she was doing was wrong on every level.
 
She knew she was making a deal with the devil himself.
 
But what could Brent do for her?
 
He didn’t want her.
 
She tried to call him countless times after
he discovered her with Mark in that hotel room.
 
She tried to reach out to Brent even more after she and Mark reconciled
and she realized Mark was still lying and cheating on her.
 
But Brent wouldn’t even pick up the phone.
 
Mark was her ticket out.
 

Mark,
she knew, was all she had.

Brent
parked his big truck a block away and made the slow walk to Grogan’s Bar at the
end of the street.
 
He had knocked off,
had showered and changed, and wanted a stiff one to get this Friday night
started.
 
He was either going to call a
female and spend the night with her, or hook up with some of the boys over on
Spelling for another round of poker.
 
Or
both, he thought with an inward smile as he pulled open the heavy door and
entered the crowded bar.
 
The night was
young.

Makayla
Ross saw him long before he saw her.
 
She
was sitting in a booth seat while her date, Eddie Rivers, went to pick up their
drink orders.
  

Brent Sinatra
, she thought, as she watched him
head for the counter.
 
She had come to
town expecting to have to deal with some police chief with ideas as old as he
was, one of those
nobody was going to
come into my county telling me what to do
good-old-boy types, and she was
expecting a knockdown-drag-out just to get the information she needed.
 
She was expecting that.
 
But she got Brent Sinatra instead.
 
Newly-appointed, young for a police chief, and
not just gorgeous.
 
Oh no
.
 
That would have been
too kind.
 
But this Brent had the nerve
to also be fine as wine with that muscular, thick-thigh body that was Makayla’s
weakness.
 
She was not expecting
that
.

She
kept her eyes trained on him as he small-talked with the bartender.
 
Unlike Monday morning, when he appeared
all-business and no-nonsense, he seemed far more casual tonight.
 
He wore jeans, a tucked-in maroon polo shirt
that highlighted his upper body strength and his ripped stomach abs, and he
walked with that muscular confidence that separated the men from the boys as
far as Makayla was concerned.
 
He was a
force of a different kind.
 
A force to be
reckoned with.
 

Not
that she was some slouch either.
 
She was
not.
 
She was known around Augusta,
  
Maine’s Capital, as a tough cookie in her
own right, a force to be reckoned with herself, and a gorgeous one to
boot.
 
She was so well-regarded that the
state’s Attorney General, her boss, had already informed her that she was going
with him to D.C. should the president appoint him, as was widely expected, to
be an assistant in the U.S. Attorney General’s office.
 
Which meant she was going places.
 
Which meant there was no hick on earth, not
even one as hot as Brent Sinatra, that was going to slow her down.

And
he was hot, she thought, as he listened attentively to one of the bartenders
yap about whatever he was yapping about.
 
She couldn’t help but admit that Brent Sinatra was hot as hell.
 
Strong, tough, and with his fierce green eyes
and long, wavy black hair, he possessed beauty with his strength.
 
As if he was a badass from way back who
didn’t have to flaunt shit, because he was the shit.
 

She
was impressed with Chief Sinatra from jump.
 
But she was nobody’s fool either.
 
There was something kind of dangerous about him too.
 
She felt it when they first met Monday
morning, and she was feeling it even now, as he stood across the room from
her.
 
It was that feeling that something
was brewing inside of him; that something was percolating so fiercely beneath
his smooth exterior that it could blow at any moment.
 
But instead of being repulsed by the
possibility of such an explosion, Makayla thought with a smile, she was oddly
thrilled by it.
 

“Here
you are, my dear,” Eddie Rivers said as he returned to the booth with their
drink orders.
 

“Thanks,
Captain.”

Eddie
stopped all motion and looked at her.
 
“I
told you to call me Eddie.
 
I’m not
Captain Rivers, the second-in-command, tonight.
 
I’m Sweet Lovin’ Eddie tonight!”

Makayla
almost wanted to puke.
 
This man was
almost old enough to be her father, for one thing, although she’d dated many
older men before and enjoyed it.
 
But he
was too blatant with the sex talk for her taste.
 
He even joked about the size of penis.
 
He was quite attractive, she’d give him that,
and had that smooth dark skin that was usually her preference, but he was also
slightly ridiculous with his
Sweet Eddie
this and
Lover boy Eddie
that.
 
But he was the cop Brent had appointed to
assist her with whatever information she needed to obtain, and she agreed to
this “date” for that very purpose.
 
But
even as Eddie sat down across from her, and continued with his sexual prowess
talk, Makayla couldn’t help herself.
 
She
glanced over at Brent, who was just receiving his drink.