Made for him a mafia bab.., p.1

Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance, page 1


Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance

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Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance

  Made for Him

  A Mafia Baby Romance

  Rae Lynn Blaise

  Bigger on the Inside




  1. Jess

  2. Jess

  3. Jess

  4. Jess

  5. Jess

  6. Jess

  7. Jess

  8. Jess

  9. Jess

  10. Jess

  11. Jess

  12. Jess

  13. Jess


  Boss: A Mob BDSM Romance



  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Also by Rae Lynn Blaise

  Copyright © 2016 by Bigger on the Inside, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum



  The city spreads before me, a sparkling grid twinkling against the night sky. Skyscrapers and warehouses and the squat saucer of the sports arena are lit up in the golden glow of a city unwilling to sleep.

  Some people might stand at this window and see a beautiful urban view.

  I stand at this window, and I see a city ripe for the taking.

  I see neighborhoods unclaimed, streets without boundaries, a city that’s been asleep for far, far too long.

  I’m going to change that. And soon. I’ve been quietly moving the pieces into place, spent the last fifteen years rounding up cousins and old allies, begging for scraps from family back in the Old Country, shoring up everything I would need to remake the shattered Moretti empire anew. I was born into a kingdom that was already in decline, and so many of the family ways I had to learn on my own, since there was no family left--at least none still living the old way.

  But for my grandfather’s sake, I’ll make Kansas City respect the Moretti name again. I’ll turn my hometown back into the kind of place where men could live and die by the gun, with honor…and with hefty amounts of cash.

  There’s only one man standing in my way of my vision. That will be rectified shortly, however, and then there’ll be nothing between me and this steel and asphalt kingdom spread before me. Nothing at all.

  I turn away from the view and pad silently across the living room floor to the bedroom. She’s asleep, breathing slowly and steadily in the moonlight. The sheet has twisted around her waist, exposing her pale, perfect breasts. My cock twitches in my pants, even though I’ve already fucked her twice tonight.

  Standing beside the bed, I run a possessive hand over her flat stomach, the sweet nip of her waist. I don’t normally stick around after this part, certainly not in the girl’s own apartment, certainly not when that girl is a heartbroken, tipsy mess I just met that night.

  But I’m not satisfied with only two fucks for a number of reasons…which isn’t surprising. What is surprising is that the top reason I’m going to fuck her again is because I want to. And then she shifts and stretches, the sheet pulling down lower, and as she moves to her side, I catch a glimpse of that toned dancer ass. That firm, squeezable ass that I haven’t yet had the pleasure of feeling against my hips as I fuck her from behind.

  Just like that, wanting to fuck her turns into needing to fuck her. Maybe two times more. Maybe three times more.

  Cock rigid, I unzip my pants and crawl onto the bed.

  “Wake up, gorgeous,” I say in her ear as I lay my body over hers. She stirs, inadvertently pressing her ass against my bare cock, and I groan, unable to help myself.

  “You want to have more sex?” she murmurs sleepily, but that sleepiness and innocent voice are belied by the way she parts her legs and arches her back to get her ass closer to my cock.

  I fist myself and find her wet entrance—the place that is wet from me, from me taking her twice, and fuck if that doesn’t make me so hard I can barely stand it. I shove inside, and she lets out a husky moan.

  “It’s not sex,” I inform her as I pull out and thrust in again. “It’s fucking. And I’m going to fuck you until the only word you remember is my name.”



  Three Weeks Later

  The phone rings seven times before it goes to voicemail, and each of those seven rings is like another stab in the ribs. By the time my uncle’s pre-recorded voice comes through, my entire body is coursing with adrenaline, and I can barely find the words to speak to him.


  “Uh, hi, Uncle Jim,” I say, my voice shaking. My uncle is a busy man, and in the five years since my parents died in a car crash and he unofficially adopted me, I must have left him thousands of messages. But for some reason, I have no idea what to say today.

  No…not for some reason. One reason.

  I avoid looking at that reason, which is now sitting innocuously on my kitchen counter, and instead refocus on the voicemail. “I really need to talk to you,” I whisper. “Something’s happened. Something bad—well, bad isn’t really the right word, I guess, but I don’t know the right word and I feel like this is the kind of thing I would have called Mom and Dad with, so it felt right to call you, but maybe it wasn’t…”

  I realize I’m rambling and stop talking until I can gather my wits. “Just call me back,” I beg. “Please. Love you.”

  My hand is shaking as I press end on the call and set my phone on the counter. I wanted Uncle Jim to pick up today, even though he’s rarely available the very second I need him. But he always comes through for me, like that time I drank too much as a college freshman and didn’t have a ride home, or those first months living on my own when he made sure my fridge was filled with groceries when all I could afford were ramen noodles. I miss my parents terribly, but if I have to live without them, I couldn’t have asked for a better surrogate than my uncle.

  He’ll call me back. He’ll help me figure out what to do.

  You shouldn’t need help figuring this out. You’re twenty-three. You graduated summa cum laude and you’re working at the most prestigious corporate law firm in the region. You should handle this all on your own and not drag your poor uncle into it.

  Taking a deep breath, I grab my phone and do what I should have done in the first place. I grab the thick gray business card off the front of my fridge, glancing once at the name before I dial the number below it.

  Matteo Moretti

  Moretti Investments, CEO

  Matteo. I can still taste his name on my tongue. I thought he left me with nothing more than a sore pussy and his business card, but it turns out I was mistaken.

  He left me with one other thing.

  The phone rings twice, three times, and I steel myself to leave another awkward voicemail, but instead the phone stops ringing and an impatient male voice says, “This is Matteo.” His voice is clipped, brusque, and I remind myself that this is his office number. He probably isn’t used to three-week-old lays calling him here.

  Although maybe he is, if he leaves his card with every random fuckdoll he meets.

  I clear my throat. “Um, hi, Matteo.” I wince at how girlish my voice sounds. I’m not normally this uncertain or hesitant—I’m not brash by any means—but I’ve definitely learned how to communicate in a high-powered business world led (mostly) by men. I try to summon up that Jessica now, the Jessica who is currently rocking the corp
orate world by managing one of the largest investment fraud suits in American history.

  “This is Jess Simmons,” I try again. “We—ah—met a few weeks ago at the Tom’s Town bar?” Met is nicer than stupidly invited you back to my loft and let you come inside me five times.

  “I remember,” he says warily.

  The wariness in his voice makes me queasy and nervous, because of course no man actually wants to hear back from a one-night stand. It smacks of clinginess, of attachment, of the kind of female emotional hysteria that suit-wearing manwhores like him hate. But the wariness also makes me defensive and angry. Fuck you, dude, I want to snarl into the phone. Do you really think I’d call without a damn good reason?

  I ignore the part of my mind that reminds me that, why yes, I have wanted to call for no good reason. I’ve looked longingly at that card every day since we fucked, my body pining for that broad, masculine body, those talented fingers and that thick cock. My new favorite hobby has become fantasizing about him, to the point where even my boss has asked about my spaciness at work.

  It’s natural to feel that way about a rebound fuck—especially when you’re rebounding from a two-year relationship. Now move the fuck on and tell Matteo!

  I straighten my spine, even though he can’t see me, and say, “We need to meet.”

  There’s a moment of quiet on his end of the call. I wonder if he’s calculating how exactly to tell me no, how to tell me to back off, because I know powerful men, and the last thing they want are young paralegals desperate for time and emotional attention.

  But he surprises me. “Okay, Jessica,” he says, and boy, I forgot how much that voice affects me, the way his deep, assertive tone sends shivers from my head to my toes and then right back up again to my clit. “When and where would you like to meet?”

  I glance at the clock. Ten in the morning.

  “Today,” I say firmly, because it really can’t wait. “And I’ll meet you anywhere but downtown.” I used my first ever sick day at Lindemann and Associates this morning, and I don’t want to risk someone from work catching me in a cafe or restaurant and assume I’m playing hooky.

  “Come to my office,” he says, and the way he says it is part order, part invitation—and there’s something else in his tone that’s impossible to pinpoint. Caution, maybe? A warning to me? The man is so hard to read—was hard to read even when he sucked on my clit, and even when he pulsed inside of me, growling like an animal. “It’s downtown, but it’s private.”

  “Okay,” I agree, my voice starting to shake, because holy shit, I am really about to see him face-to-face again, and under these fucking circumstances.

  “Come now,” he says, a little silkily, and despite everything, despite fucking everything, my cunt clenches with a tight heat.

  “Okay,” I repeat, but this time it’s a whisper.

  “I’ll tell my secretary you’re on your way,” he says, and then he rattles off the address and instructions on how to get to his office once inside the building. I promise to be there in twenty minutes, and then I hang up the phone, my heart pounding.

  What will happen when I see him? What will I say?

  And I hate it, but I also ask myself: what will I wear?

  Seven minutes later, I’m in a black pencil skirt and ivory silk blouse, the kind of expensive but modest clothes I wear to work, and my makeup is freshened up and my teeth are brushed again. I grab my favorite pair of heels—bright red Gucci open-toes made of satin and lace—slip them on my feet and start for the door.

  At the last minute, I turn and swipe the pregnancy test off the counter.

  Missouri is the Show Me state, after all, and I want to be more than ready to show him the fucking truth.



  Moretti Investments is on the top floor of its building, and when I make it to the office’s lobby, the long elevator ride has made me queasy and dizzy. I desperately wish I thought to grab a banana or granola bar or anything to stave off the hunger-nausea I’ve had since my puking marathon this morning, but then again, maybe I just would have thrown up some more. I take a few deep breaths, will my stomach to settle down, and step into the sleek lobby.

  As lead paralegal to a senior partner in a corporate law firm, I’m at least passingly familiar with most of the major investment firms and corporations in the region, but it occurs to me that I’ve never heard of Moretti Investments once in the last two years, not even a stray mention in a newspaper article or during a business luncheon. That alone would be strange enough, but as I’m walking through the lobby, I notice something else odd.

  The entire floor seems empty.

  This is premium real estate in the skyline, the kind of office companies get on waiting lists for, but there’s no corridor of doors leading to senior financial advisors, no hum of copiers or fax machines. Instead, the lobby opens up in a massive reception area overlooking the city. I count three, maybe four office doors, not including the double glass doors that presumably lead to Matteo’s inner sanctum. I stride up to the wide reception desk in front of the doors.

  “Jessica Simmons to see Matteo Moretti,” I say. In the hushed quiet of the mostly-empty space, it sounds like an announcement.

  The receptionist glances up at me, her face a mask. But despite her lack of expression, resentment clouds her eyes. She’s irritated that I’m an unscheduled appointment, irritated that Matteo has told her to let me in. Maybe because she likes control of his schedule, but more likely because she wants control of his dick, and I can’t blame her for that. Matteo has the kind of dick that incites wars.

  “You can go on in,” she says curtly, moving her eyes back to her computer. “But be quick. He’s got appointments right after you, appointments that can’t be rescheduled.”

  “Sure,” I say, keeping the antagonism out of my voice because I get it. Who wouldn’t be jealous of women visiting their boss when their boss was a human sex god?

  I push past the glass doors, pass through a smaller, more enclosed lobby area with an aquarium and a few armchairs, and then knock on the solid wood door at the end. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror hung over a table: petite body, lean with my tri-weekly dance classes, hips a little too wide, breasts a little too small. Long hair, blond and silky, a pert nose and cupid’s bow lips, framed by high cheekbones and a heart-shaped face. I’ve long since reconciled myself to looking perpetually nineteen, since I know I’m cute enough to draw men in, but suddenly I feel childish, silly, walking into an office like this with my girlish face.

  My purse feels heavier with the pregnancy test inside, as if the inert plastic rectangle was suddenly made of lead and uranium. But I forget all of that once I hear Matteo’s strong voice call out, “Come in,” and my body ripples with goose bumps.




  I open the door before I can talk myself out of it and walk inside.

  He’s sitting behind his desk, massive windows framing the skyline behind him, the late morning sunlight throwing shades of gold in his dark brown hair. Stubble dusts his wide jaw—I shudder, remembering the way that stubble scratched the inside of my thighs—and his bright blue eyes stand out against the rich olive tone of his skin. A sharp, strong nose and thick eyebrows are balanced out by full, plush lips—a mix of the masculine and the beautiful—and he’s so stunning in his bespoke suit with the skyline glinting behind him that it takes me a minute to remember why I came here and what I wanted to say.

  Luckily, he speaks first. “Jessica,” he says, getting to his feet. I like the way he says my whole name, even though I introduced myself that night as Jess. It sounds so proprietary coming from his mouth.

  “Matteo,” I say, and then I awkwardly extend my hand to him as I step forward. I inwardly curse myself for my lack of experience in smoothly handling former lovers. The two boys in college and the young hedge fund manager who cheated on me with a barista constitute the depth and breadth of my history with sex, and I’m s
ure my lack of expertise in this area is stamped all over my face and body as Matteo walks forward to meet me.

  He takes my hand. It’s a handshake for sure, but the way he looks at me, like he’s vividly recalling how my pussy tastes, makes the handshake feel like so much more.

  “Have a seat,” he says huskily when he finally releases my hand, gesturing to a seating area in the corner of his office. I sit in on a cushy loveseat, and he sits on a sofa facing me.

  I’m grateful that he didn’t ask me to sit in front of his desk like one of his employees, but it’s also strange to sit across a glass coffee table from him as I haul my purse onto my lap and fish for the pregnancy test.

  And fish.

  And fish.

  Where is that fucking test?

  “Jessica,” he says as I dig in my purse. “Look at me.”

  I pause my rummaging to glance up at him. He’s tugging at the knot of his tie, his pupils dilated. He looks like a starving man. “Yes?” I manage in a whisper.

  “I want to fuck you again.”

  My hand stills in my purse at the same moment my heartbeat stops entirely—then picks up again with a vengeance, hammering against my chest.


  “I was an idiot not to get your number that night. You have no idea the number of times I wanted to show up at your door, but I thought ‘No, I should wait for her to call.’ I think you waited fucking long enough, don’t you?”

  I literally have no words. I expected him to be dismissive or distant, annoyed even, but now he’s telling me that he wanted to see me again? That he wants to fuck me again? And while my mind can’t summon a response right away, my body can, my nipples tightening into hard points, my pussy suddenly feeling so hot and swollen that I know my panties will be soaked soon.

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