ACE:Las Vegas Bad Boys(78)

“Fuck me, Ace. Oh, fuck,” I say, gripping his shoulders as he thrusts into me, his cock going in me so deep, so fast. It sends a rippling through my walls that soon mounts into a rushing wave. A current I can’t suppress. Each time he enters me, deeper and harder, the crash sends me moaning into his chest.

“It’s so good, Emmy,” he says, as we both come. My body shakes; his hard cock pulses. Both of us are completely washed in pleasure.

“You fuck all the girls like that?” I ask, a smile crossing every inch of my mouth. I feel so fucking good, so alive. Taken care of in a way I never thought possible.

“I only fuck the women I intend on marrying that way.”

“So lots, then?” I pull up my leotard, covering my breasts.

“If lots is one, yes.” He pulls up his pants, buckles his belt. It was a quickie, but it’s one I’ll never forget.

“Is that a proposal, Ace Royalle?”

“What if it was?” he asks.

“I’d say you have some work to do on it.”

“Noted.” Ace smiles. “I’ll work on it then, and you work on your answer.”

“Got it, Boss.” I smack his butt before pressing the button that raises the screen.

I sashay away from my lover, grinning like a fucking fool.





28





ACE


On the car ride to the hospital all I can think is that I need to propose to this woman in a way that makes her know I mean everything I’ve said. That I am hers.

She holds my hand, beaming. She has that effortless Emmy Rose smile on her face, the smile that is full of promise and understanding. The smile that says there is a lot of fucking shit to deal with, but she’s not letting it drag her down.

She’s still standing.

Emmy Rose is a fucking rock. Solid and sure in a way I don’t think she even knows. In a way I will spend my life showing her.

Before we get to the elevators, I see Mark.

“Hey, man, everything okay?” I ask.

“Great, actually,” Mark says. “Janet’s been moved to the recovery floor now. It looks like she’ll be home with me in a few days. Her surgery went much better than expected.”

“Oh, shit, that’s fucking great,” I say, pulling Mark into a hug. Because, yeah, I may be a bad boy, but I have a fucking heart.

And Mark has done nothing but look out for me. He was right about the property, but I didn’t fucking listen. In the future, I’ll hear him out.

We say good-bye before taking the elevators to Janie’s wing. The silence that envelops us grows heavier with each floor we pass.

“You okay?” I ask, squeezing her hand.

“Janie and I just left on really bad terms ... and even if she is the one that put Grotto behind bars, she’s also the one who told me to fuck off. She’s still the one who never wanted me here.”

There isn’t much I can fucking say to that, so I don’t. Sometimes women need the strong, silent guy. So right now, I’ll be that for her.

We walk out of the elevators and immediately we know something is wrong. Emmy’s hand tightens in mine. Nurses come toward us; I see a doctor being paged. I see the room Emmy entered before, to check in on Janie, is closed.

“We’ve tried to call,” the nurse says, as the whole hospital becomes a blur.

“My phone’s been gone since I was taken in the van,” Emmy mutters, trying to understand.

Doctor Matthews meets us, pats Emmy’s arm. His words are a stream of syllables that begins and ends with death.

“Sepsis ... infection ... organ failure ... downhill fast ... tried to call ... it was a matter of minutes ... addiction ... loss of strength....”

Emmy hears the words, and I hold her up as she nearly loses control. Words that make her dizzy, make me spin as I try to keep up with what is happening. With what has been said.

Janie is dead.

Tears stream down Emmy’s face; hollow cries escape her mouth. My woman, who was beaming like a lovesick fool a moment ago, is now holding her heart in her hands as it threatens to crash to the floor.

I grab it, hold it tight. I won’t ever let it motherfucking go. I won’t ever let Emmy fall alone.

I scoop her up in my arms as she clings to me like her life depends on it. And maybe right now it does.



The shit with my family—the memories of my past—courses through my veins. It’s been a few days since Janie’s funeral, and still, every time I think of it, think of Emmy no longer having a family, it makes me fucking excuse myself so I don’t bawl like a fucking fool in front of everyone.

And everyone has been so good to Emmy, to us. My boys keep bringing food and sitting around my living room talking bullshit, as Emmy sits with her legs tucked underneath her, a blanket over her lap, not really present, but not gone either. She’s a thinker, my Emmy Rose, and I know she isn’t gonna process by talking shit out for days. She needs to come to her own conclusions about what Janie’s death means.