Priest (A Standalone Bad Boy Romance Love Story) (22 page)

“Mm, my baby is always so responsive.” I
turned back around to face him and we kissed again. God, I love kissing him. I
could do it all day. He had other ideas as he growled and buried his face in my
breasts. While he was doing that, and doing it very well, I unbuttoned and
unzipped his pants. I slid my hand down inside and found his now rock hard
cock. I gave it a squeeze and felt him shudder into me.

“Take them off,” I told him. He reached
down and put his fingers against my outer lips again and said, “Mm, so wet
baby…”

“That’s because you’re so sexy, you make
me that way.”

He reluctantly let go of my breasts and
pulled his hand away from my pussy. I watched as my gorgeous husband stripped
off his clothes. I could also just look at him all day. He grinned again and
said, “I think I changed my mind. I think I want to sit on the couch, with my
beautiful wife in my lap.”

“I like that idea,” I told him. He
finished getting naked
. God, he’s
gorgeous, I’m so lucky.
He sat down on the couch and I straddled him.

We kissed for a long time with his hands
rubbing my back and shoulders. I loved it when he touches me like that. I loved
everything he does.

I reached down and took him back into my
hand. I lifted up on my knees and while his hands found my breasts and began to
massage and caress them, I lined him up with me and sat down on his cock.
God…there is no better feeling in the world
than being filled up with my husband
.

I started to move up and down. He was
still licking and sucking on my nipples, using his teeth to graze them lightly
because he knows how much I love that. I arched my back so that I could take
his cock even deeper inside of me and I rocked back and forth on his lap. His
thighs were hard and tense as he used them to bump my butt up and down as he
flexed his hips so that he could thrust up into me.

He kept a breast in his mouth while he
reached down between us and found my clit. I moaned at his pinch. I leaned back
even further to give him better access, and he began to rub it with two fingers
while he continued to pound my pussy.

Each time he bottomed out inside of me, he
would round his hips, grinding up into me hard and deep. I’ve never felt
anything like the way this man makes me feel and I’m sure that I never will.
The sex is fantastic, all the time, but I believe our emotional connection
feeds that and makes it so much better.

I rode him hard and fast until I felt his
breaths begin to shorten and I knew he was ready to come. I squeezed my pussy
muscles, clamping down on him like a vice and that sent him hurtling over the
edge.

I felt the warm liquid fill me up as he
held me down tightly against his lap. He was moaning and making primal sounding
grunts as he milked himself into me. When he finished coming, he didn’t stop
moving. He’s a generous lover; never stopping until I come.

He kept flexing his hips and rubbing my
clit with his fingers. He brought the other hand up and pinched and rolled my
nipples. I felt the orgasm washing over me and tightened every muscle in my
body as I came.

Jace kept rubbing lightly until my body
stopped shaking and I collapsed into him, breathing heavily. He put his hands
on my back then and began to rub my back and run his hands through my hair. He
was kissing the side of my face and telling me he loved me over and over.

When I had the strength I pulled my face
up and looked at him. “I love you, Jace. I never imagined being happy like
this.”

He smiled. I still melt when his smile is
just for me. “I thank God for you every day, Daphne. I love you more than I can
ever put into words and I am so grateful we found each other. I look forward to
discovering new things with you every day for the rest of our lives.”

I kissed him again and I
thought,
who would have ever imagined
that two abused kids who at more than one point in their lives thought they
could never be happy would find each other and change that
.

I know that I’m where I’m
supposed to be and Jace tells me he knows this is where he belongs to. I’m
going to hold onto him forever, and I know in my heart that it’s only going to
get better and better.

That’s
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SHIFTING
GEARS

The
Complete Series

By
Alycia Taylor

Copyright
2016. All rights reserved.

Chapter
One

Painting Candy Canes

Kate

The emergency room is
uncharacteristically slow at St. Mary of Egypt Medical Center. It’s not a
regular part of my job, helping out in the ER, but I am coming to the end of my
shift and, for once, it might just be slow enough for me to run out the clock
here.

I’m having
an innocent conversation
with my friend Paz
when a patient walks by, his upper lip pulling into a sneer as he passes.

“You see the way he
looked at me, like he thinks he’s better than me?” Paz asks, just loud enough
for the patient to hear.

“Paz,” I say, “you’re
doing the crazy lady routine again.”

There
are many
and varied
reasons
my twenty-eight-year-old friend has the highest resting
blood pressure of anyone on staff, but looking at her the wrong way will set
her off faster than nearly anything.

As the man’s standing
there, though, his eyes big, his mouth open, I notice something.

“Oh, I know you did
not
just make that face at me again,”
Paz says, this time to the patient.

“Paz?” I mutter, barely
audible even to myself.

“You just think you can
stand there and smirk while I’m doing a thankless job for no money and I’m just
going to take it, huh?” she accuses the patient.

“Paz?” I say a little
louder than before.

“Yeah, you’d
better
turn around and get back in your
room,” she mutters.

“Paz!” I
yell
, the size of my voice startling even me.

She snaps her head around
toward me. “Oh, chica, you wanna remember who you’re talking to,” she snaps at
me.

When she starts with the
Spanish, that’s when you know you’re in trouble.

I got her to admit once
that she doesn’t speak the
language; she
knows a few words and likes to think it gives her “street-cred.” Those are her
words. It's her way of telling me if I don’t back up, I’m
getting
hit.

Paz isn’t the
standard smiles-and-platitudes kind of nurse. She’s
not the burnt-out nurse who’s been doing this forever and is understandably a
little jaded. She’s more the “Why would
she
ever want to get a job dealing with people?” type.

Paz is
hostile all on her very own.

Fortunately,
though, she’s a friend of mine.

“Look at
his chart,” I tell her. “I think he’s got Bell’s Palsy.”

Being the daughter of a
mom who’s chief of surgery at one hospital and a dad who is a resident at the
only other hospital in town, I’ve picked up a few things over the years. Right
or wrong, this might just be the insignificant slight that puts me on Paz’s
list.

Paz’s list is not a
metaphor. She has a notebook containing the names of the people she thinks have
wronged her over the years, and those names don’t get crossed off until she’s
exacted some disproportionate response.

“That true?” she barks
after the patient.

Through the doorway, I
can hear the man’s timid voice as he answers, “Yes.”

Without any ceremony—or
apology—Paz turns toward me saying, “You’re getting pretty good at that, kid.”
Then, as if nothing had happened, our conversation resumes. “So
back to what I was saying
: I told Marco if he
wasn’t going to stop spending all his time with that puta, I was going to break
it off.”

I’m trying to conceal a
grin. “How relieved was he?” I ask.

She raises an eyebrow,
saying, “He stopped smiling when he found out I didn’t mean the relationship.”

“We’re talking about his
mother, right?” I ask. “She’s the
puta
?”

She rolls her eyes.
“Whatever,” she says. “So then,
he
tells
me
that I need to go to
counseling
or something because I’ve got ‘anger
problems.’
Can you believe that? Paz
means peace. How am I going to have anger problems?”

She’s not great on
self-awareness
.

I looked it up
once. The
name Paz does indeed mean peace. That
said,
calling a
baby girl Chastity all
but guarantees she’s going to strip at some point during her lifetime. I’m
pretty sure that’s the type of thing we’re looking at here.

The thing I love about
Paz is that it doesn’t bother her one little bit if I’m quiet. She’s more than
happy to talk for the both of us. I think it’s about my only requirement for
friendship anymore. Between work and school, it’s not like I’ve got time to be
picky.

I’m a candy striper,
although I could have sworn the job had a different title when they
let
me start volunteering here. I got into it
because the parents wouldn’t pay for the college they wanted me to go to in the
first place if I didn’t.

I wish I could say that
my job is some amazing, fulfilling experience, the likes of which I can hardly
even fathom. The truth is that I’m a glorified—and unpaid—hospital maid.

Every once in a while, I
get put in the gift shop, but that’s about the only time I ever see a smile in
this place.

There’s a commotion at
the far end of the ER and without a word, Paz rushes over to see what’s causing
the disturbance. A couple of doctors and nurses wheel a man into the ER on a
stretcher.

I’d love to follow Paz
over there and help out, but I’d just get in the way. Candy stripers are
ideal
for autoclaving—not as exciting as it
sounds—but whatever’s going on, it’s over my head.

Still, I do find myself
gradually making my way over in that direction, though I make sure to leave
plenty of room between
the patient and me
.
I’ve been yelled at by doctors before. It’s not fun.

“I
'm all right,
” the bloodied man on the stretcher says, covering his
nose with his hand. “Seriously, I’ve got that peroxide stuff or whatever at
home. Seriously.”

As I’m leaning against
the counter of the nurse’s station, just trying to blend in, a man comes over
to me, saying, “Call me crazy, but just taking a look at him, I’d say that’s a
bad idea.”

I glance over, asking,
“Do you know him?”

“Yeah,” the man says.
“Right before he decided to take a detour into an oak tree, we were on our way
to a thing. He’s going to be okay, right?”

“I’m not a doctor,” I
tell him.

“Hey, Mick, this lady out
here says you don’t have a chance, jackass,” the man calls to his friend.

“Shut up, Rans,” he says.
“I’m fine. Will you tell these doctors to get off of me?”

“You know,” I tell
Rans—whatever kind of name that is, “if he’d just stop struggling, they
wouldn’t be trying to strap him to the bed.”

Rans smiles at me and
turns back to his friend. “What?” he calls, “So you’re just going to lie there
and take it? If you’ve got a problem with it, put up a fight. What’s wrong with
you?”

It’s not easy, but I
manage to conceal my amusement. “You see, that’s kinda the opposite of what I
was telling you,” I say to Rans. “By the way: Rans?”

“Short for Ransom,” he
says.

Ransom. That’s the
stupidest
nickname I’ve ever heard, and I
've come across a
lot of them, preferred
nicknames being one of the lines on our intake form.

“You can call me Eli,
though,” he says and then starts cackling as Mick gets an arm free and starts
swinging it wildly.

“He’s going to hurt
himself,” I tell Eli.

He snickers. “Good thing
he’s in a hospital, then.” I’m not sure if the guy wants to see his friend
injure himself more than he already has or if Eli’s just got
an unusually
harsh sense of humor. Either way,
the next words
out
of his mouth are,
“You’re doing great there, bud. Don’t take any garbage from these people.
You’re a free man!”

Either this is just some
big practical joke that both these guys are in on, or Eli’s friend is a bit of
an idiot. I’m not to make judgments about people, but the man on the stretcher,
who must have agreed to come to the hospital in the first place, shouts
something to the effect of, “I’m an American citizen! You can’t do this to me!”
The next thing I know, Dr. Perlman is calling for full body restraints.