The Wild Wolf Pup (Zoe's Rescue Zoo #9)(75)

With the wind at my back I rode my Harley home to my woman. I miss having Reina on the back of my bike, her arms wrapped tightly around me, her thighs molded to mine as her tits press against my back but there was no way I would let her ride while she was pregnant. I’m not taking any fucking chances. Way too much precious cargo.

I pull into the driveway, kill my engine and turn off the lights. I hang my helmet on my handlebars before striding toward my house. I stare at the front door, waiting for Reina to pull it open and greet me with a smile like she usually does when she hears my pipes wake the neighborhood. I reach the top step but the door doesn’t open causing me to pick up my pace and reach for my keys.

“Reina,” I holler, kicking open the door.

I followed the sound of the television and step into the living room just as she stands from the couch and turns to face me.

“Jack,” she murmurs, swallowing as her eyes work me over. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip as she cautiously steps to me.

“What’s going on, Reina?” I question, sensing she’s off. The woman is as jittery as a fucking virgin on her wedding night. Her fucking hormones have got her head spinning all the time and I’m the one getting whiplash. Then there’s the wedding, she’s breaking my balls left and right to keep things simple but drags my ass to a cake tasting thing.

I follow the path her eyes take as I close the distance between us and focus on the television.

“It’s on every channel,” she says, taking my hand and lacing our fingers together. I stare at Vic’s mug shot on the screen and reach for the remote, raising the volume as my eyes follow the ticker on the bottom.

If you’re just joining us, a riot has broken out in Bennettsville Federal Prison. The prison is on lockdown and the riot squad is trying to get control of the situation. We have confirmation that several inmates have been injured and at least two fatalities. Earlier this morning, New York City’s convicted mob boss, Victor Pastore, transferred to Bennettsville from Otisville. We have since learned the infamous mobster has been battling lung cancer. There has been no word on whether Pastore was involved in the riot.

“Jack?”

I slump down, dropping onto the coffee table as I stare at the chaos on the television, I feel Reina behind me. She places her hands on my shoulders and begins to knead them with her fingers, her eyes glued to the screen like mine.

“You don’t think…” her words fade as the screen changes and another mug shot fills the frame.

Motherfucker.

We just got word in that another inmate in Bennettsville is a rival of Pastore’s, the notorious gang leader, Thomas Gregorio, who is known by most as the G-Man.

Staring into the eyes of the G-Man, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen a photograph of the man who took so much from all of us, mainly our dignity. Like the rest of us he has aged, but instead of focusing on the lines that mark his skin I stare at the three tear drops strategically placed beneath his eyes.

I clench my fists as I lean forward, lost in my head as I stare into the eyes of the enemy.

“Who is that?” She asks. I don’t answer until she steps in front of the television and presses her finger under my chin, forcing me to meet her worried gaze. “Jack, who is that man on the television?”

I shake my head trying to clear the cloud of anger invading it and stand on my feet.

“Nobody, I’ve got to get to the clubhouse,” I tell her, my eyes finally finding hers and I can see the storm brewing inside them.

“I’m coming with you,” she insists, crossing her arms under her chest. Woman’s going to be my death—not a bad way to go. I take her face in my hands, her lips purse and I slam my mouth down on the perfect little ‘O’ they form, erasing it from my view. My tongue glides across her lower lip as she works her pout into a tight line, denying me her mouth until I give into her. She pushes against my chest but I hang onto her face and reel her mouth back to mine, pushing my tongue into her mouth and claiming the lightness she possesses, knowing that shit’s about to get dark for me.

She snakes her arms around my neck, leans on her tiptoes as the swell of her belly presses against mine.

“I’m coming with you, Parrish,” she murmurs against my mouth. “Those eyes of yours are raging,” she whispers, inching further away from me.

I drop my hands from her face and my fingers pinch her hips before gently sliding my palms over her stomach. I’m about to argue, tell her I need her home where she is safe, but the truth is the only place Reina is safe is in my arms.

“Fine, but we’re taking the truck,” I say sternly.

“Whatever you want, Bulldog,” she purrs, kissing my lips quickly.





First, I’ll take Kitten quick and hard against the wall or maybe the door, depending on where she is when I get home. If she’s in the kitchen, I’m getting all Godfather on her ass and flinging everything off the kitchen table and spreading her out like an Italian Sunday dinner.

The Italians are rubbing off on me.

I’m about to park my bike in front of our building and my phone buzzes inside my jacket. I throw one leg over the seat, adjust my aching balls, before reaching inside my pocket for my phone.

“Kitten, I’m coming, well, not yet but why don’t you save us some time and strip. I’m walking into the building.”