Page 23 of Creole Kingpin
A thrill charged through me when he called memama. I didn’t know why. I should have thought it was weird, but coming from this man, it was sexy as hell.Hewas sexy as hell.
Don’t think about fucking him while you’re sewing him up. Neat stitches. Less scarring.
“This is gonna sting,” I told him as my fingers hovered over the wound with the alcohol-soaked paper towels.
“Ain’t my first poke.”
I glanced down at the smooth golden skin of his chest, marked with scars that provided all the evidence I needed to know Moses hadn’t had an easy life either. It made me feel like he could understand me in a way most people never would. In a way nobody ever wanted to.
I pressed the paper towels against the wound, and he hissed between his teeth but said nothing and didn’t move. That strength and self-control was hot as fuck.
“All right. I’ll make this as quick as I can.”
His green-gold eyes flashed up at me. “Take all the time you need. I won’t flinch.”
Could this motherfucker be any sexier?
I believed the answer to that question wasfuck no.My admiration probably had a hell of a lot to do with how he handled everything earlier tonight, but at that moment, I didn’t care about all that. Honestly, I didn’t even want to think about what would have happened if Moses hadn’t been here.
“Okay. I’ll make ’em neat and even.”
“Good woman.”
With his compliment warming me, I started working in the dim light, sewing closed a gash on his shoulder that he wouldn’t have had if not for me.
* * *
Present day
As I tie off the last stitch, the vision of Moses a decade and a half ago, in my newly inherited whorehouse right after Hurricane Katrina, fades away.
I ain’t got time to be dwelling on the past. Not anymore. Mama’s got herself a brand-new house, and she’s working on a future to match. No man will ever stand in the way of me getting the life I want.
Not even Moses Gaspard.
Fourteen
Magnolia
Iwake up to the sound of a door shutting. Groaning, I sit up from where I’ve been curled up on the bathroom floor, using my duffel bag as a pillow. My back, neck, and side ache like a son of a bitch.
“I’m too old for this shit,” I mutter as I roll my head from side to side, trying to release the kink I got from sleeping in this position.Damn.Everything hurts.
“Someone up there? Ms. Maison?” Rocco calls from downstairs.
I clear my scratchy throat and answer. “Yeah, I’m here. I’ll be down in a minute.” I smack my lips together and realize I have wicked cotton mouth and need water.
“Shit. Sorry,” he calls. “Didn’t think anyone was around.”
Pushing up from the floor, I wince as the stitches at my side pull and stretch their limits. I peel back the tape and gauze to take a look at the wound. Not too bad. Neat sutures. Mostly straight. Doesn’t look infected.
I’ll call it a win. Lord knows I need one.
I rummage through the duffel, pull out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and change my clothes. I would have done it last night, but I smoked until I was so high there was nothing I wanted more than to sleep for a few solid hours. I needed that too.
With a glance in the mirror, I realize my hair is a disaster, so I shake it out and finger comb it. Rocco has never seen me any way except totally put together, but I can’t bring myself to give a fuck right now.
I shove the shotgun back in the duffel, along with everything else, and do a quick wipe down to make sure I got all the blood. No need for more questions than he might already have.
