Make Me (The Fox Family Crime Syndicate, #1)

by Summer O'Toole

Is there a way the kiss cam footage I saw last night could be faked? CGI can do a lot these days.

Lucky for me, baseball games are always well documented. Aired on TV, snippets recorded by the media team, fans uploading on social media. If I can confirm the footage that places Cash at the game during Beth’s murder from various sources then…then what? Then I can fuck him without guilt? He’s still a bad dude, like really, really bad.

He may not be the June Harbor Slayer, but that doesn’t mean he’s a saint. Far from it. And I’d be ext...

But the way he kissed me…the way he possessed my mouth like it belonged to him, the way he clamored for more like a starving man, and the electricity that shot through m...

Not to mention, this leaves me again in the dark about Beth’s murderer. The real reason he’s even in my life to begin with.

But then, just as I step into the hallway, a door further down opens and holy mother of god.1

“A man can only take so much, Harlow.” There he goes again saying my name like that, raising the hair on the back of my neck. “And I’m hardly a patient man when I’m at my best.”

“Do you know how badly I want to spin you around right now and fuck you against the wall? Do you know what a fucking vision you would be with your hair wrapped around my fist while I force you to take every. Fucking. Inch?”

“Now spread your legs, a chuisle.” I do as he says, and he clutches my hip with his other hand, pulling my ass out and arching my back. He gently thrusts his cock against my covered ass and my whole body is tingling, waiting, ready for him to rip down my pants.

“Good girl,” he purrs, and my heart spins like a top in my chest. “And do you know what happens to good girls who follow directions?” His breath tickles behind my ear and I shudder.

“That’s right, baby. But instead of my cock, I’m gonna fuck you with my fingers until you drench them like my good little slut.” He lifts my other hand above my head, “Don’t fucking move.”

“You caught me at a moment of weakness, that’s all.” The words are acidic and bitter like bile as they crawl their way out.

He rips his hand from my pants and wraps it around my throat, his grip trembling and wiping my own arousal on my neck. “Don’t fucking lie to me, Harlow. You think I wasn’t watching last night? You think I don’t know that when you touch yourself, you come to my fucking name?” Humiliation like I’ve never known floods me. How could I be so fucking stupid?

“I don’t want your apologies. I want your goddamn soul,” he rasps, and then he’s gone.

There’s no rational thought left when it comes to him. Part of me wants to chase him down and demand he fuck me the way he’s promised. But the other part of me wants to storm out of here and take my chances with Russians. Like I said, there’s no rational option here.

I want to tell him that’s as crazy as it sounds. And while I’m convinced there’s a little—or a lot—of crazy in Cash Fox, I also can’t deny the fact that in a weird, twisted way, I understand what he’s saying. There’s been an unexplainable connection drawing us together from the start.

It’s scary. He’s scary. But what’s more scary is I find myself nodding along. I stare blankly back, not able to put words to any of the tumbling feelings rattling in my chest.

“Not in front of her.” And then I understand why.

“You may be my brother, but I have no problem cutting out your tongue if you continue to have a problem showing fucking respect,” Cash responds with venom, and I shift, uncomfortable in my seat.

Haunted by memories of Beth and the life we had before…I was going to say before Cash, but that’s not exactly accurate if he’s not the killer.

And there it is. That “if” that lingers in my mind like a buzzing fly I can’t seem to squish. Will I ever be fully convinced?

When I open the front door, I’m immediately greeted by a person’s back as if he was standing right in front of the door, swiftly turning around. It’s a middle-aged man with dark brown skin and short black hair, with a leather shoulder holster wrapped around his white tee shirt and filled with handguns. I suck in an inhale, shocked to nearly collide with an armed man. I don’t know why I’m shocked. Cash told me exactly what or who was out here. Being confronted with the reality that I need armed protection makes me slightly sick to my stomach.

I return to my room, stripping down to only my t-shirt and climbing into bed. Back to my think tank. I wonder what’s behind the locked door. I was honestly surprised to find so much of the apartment available to me, but that’s probably because anything important is behind lock and key. What if the answers to not only Cash’s alibi, but also Doug’s mysterious identity, are behind that door?

1. Flames—Donzell Taggart | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists

Want Me

Cash

Seeing the broken glass feels like swallowing the jagged shards, ripping and tearing a path to my heart. This pub was my father’s wedding gift to my mother. It’s changed a lot since he first bought it over thirty years ago, but its soul has always remained the same. After she died, it became a living memorial. And seeing it in this state is like digging up her grave.

“Unavailable, huh? Alright, lover boy.” Lochlan smears a shit-eating grin on his face, and I resist the urge to pistol whip it off. “Don’t worry, Lochy, one day you’ll know something other than your hand.”

My skin is crawling after being gone from Harlow for this long. Our meeting was less than two hours, but I wasn’t able to check the apartment’s cameras that whole time either, and I’m itching for my fix.

I’ve learned she’s a fairly heavy sleeper and seeing her like this, all spread out and vulnerable, reminds me of the way I had her spread out against the wall this morning.

God, she was so wet and needy. Her sweet mewls as she hated herself for wanting more. A more I was all too willing to give her, until she had been a lying cunt. The memory makes me want to storm in there and rip the covers off her. Make her bare herself to me the way I’ve been bared, raw and bleeding, to her.

I’d flip her over and pump her tight pussy full of my cum, and if she protested, I’d shove her face into the pillow so I wouldn’t have to hear it. Because she’s min...

realize now that she's not wearing anything under an oversized, white t-shirt except for a skimpy pair of underwear. I can just make out the full underside of her ass, peeking out from under the shirt’s hem. I want to pull her pouty bottom lip between my teeth and bite down until she yelps, but not let go until I can taste her bleeding for me. She may try to squirm away from me, but I’ll spank her bare ass so she has nowhere to go but closer to me. But mostly, I want to watch her get all flustered when I open the door she’s been so intently staring at.

I step out of the doorway and swipe my arm out to invite her in. She’ll be the first woman to ever step inside the Vault.

But then, she curls in on herself, crossing her arms.1 I follow the angle of her head to see that she is looking at the live stream of her bedroom. “That is really fucked up, Cash.” She turns around like she can’t bear to look at the obliteration of her privacy anymore.

“I’m tired of waiting, a chuisle. You’re gonna tell me right now that what you feel for me is eating you up inside, the same way that my feelings for you have devoured me whole, or so help me god—”

“I am well aware of how your body reacts to me, baby. I know your pussy begs for me. But I want you to beg for me. If all I wanted was your wet cunt, I’d have taken you that night in the Den’s kitchen.”

“You would have liked it too—though you’d never admit it. You would have fought me at first. And it would have only made me harder—your little pleas, your fright fueling your arousal, the sound of mingled pleasure and pain you would have made when I slammed into your tight little pussy.”

“That sounds a lot like assault, Cash.”

“No, baby. That's just me taking what’s mine.” I trace her jaw with the back of my hand, a tender touch to contradict the brutality of my words. I like the way I can see her fighting with herself, I like knowing that I have fucked her up as much as she has fucked me up. And I like—

The first strike leaves a brilliant, red handprint on her ass. The sight of it loosens the knot made of fiery rope in my chest. But only a little. So, I don’t stop.

Harlow

2 The first strike stuns me. The next one maddens me. The one after that finally spurs me into action and I fight his hold. He laughs, a bitter, antagonizing sound. I’m doing exactly what he said I would.

Fight back all while getting hotter and wetter.

“That’s it, baby, spread ’em wide for me.” He’s enjoying t...

I’ve been biting my tongue after the shock of the first, refusing to give him the pleasure of my cries. But the next slap lands on my pussy, snapping me out of my incensed focus ...

The sharp, burning impact to my clit is like nothing I’ve ever felt before, leaving behind a toe-curling tingling. My heart flutters with anxiety between each slap. I don’t know if I’m anxious because I’m dreading another or desperate for another.

The ride to my climax isn’t steady or smooth, it comes fast and swift like the slaps themselves. I’m teetering on the edge, half floating, half anchored by his bruising grip on my wrists. My mewls become more and more anguished as every slap brings me so close to release but never quite there.

“Let me come.” I sigh like I’m surrendering in defeat. “Then you better start begging like a grateful whore.” I was expecting something like this, but his words still whip me in the face, demeaning and degrading.

“Wider, a chuisle. Let me see your hot, glistening cunt. I bet I can see how it weeps for me even over here.”