We look at the ultrasound photos again. Our baby looks like a bean. Or a peanut. Whoops, now I’m hungry again. Pregnancy really is a magical thing.
“Do you think it’s going to be a boy or a girl?” Sage looks up at me, his eyes shimmering with joy.
I smile. “It’s fifty-fifty.”
“What fifty does your gut tell you? That’s where the baby is. It must know.”
“A boy,” I tell him. He smirks, dragging me to sit on his lap. Elle appears from her room, skating across the shiny floor of our house. She comes to a halt beside us, flips her bangs away, and grins.
“Guess what, Daddy?”
“What, baby?”
“Mommy said I can have a cock.”
Sage’s face turns from smiling to stunned. He twists his head to me, still talking to our baby girl. “Baby, you will not be getting a cock any time before I’m six feet under.”
“Sage.” I slap his chest lightly, giggling.
He grins. “She means a chicken, right?”
I nod. “I made the same mistake.”
Sage pinches my waist. “That’s because you’re horn—” I flick his ear, so he catches himself, “horribly imaginative.”
“I think so, too. By the way, you know what else you are going to get, baby?” I turn to my sweet, beautiful daughter who looks just like her father.
“What?”
“A brother or sister.”
Her mouth falls open, and I can’t help but laugh.
She frowns. “But…I’m still getting a cock, too, right?”
Sage and I both laugh, and I bury my nose into my husband’s delicious neck. There is only one word floating in my head right now, but it’s the only one that matters.
Mine.
Surprise Bonus Content
This year started out on an amazing note for me. I was humbled and excited with all the love you have given Midnight Blue, my rock star romance, which came out on January 17th. My readers are much more than just readers. They are my tribe, my home, the people who make me push myself harder with each book. I have therefore decided to treat you to a little extended epilogue from Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1). If you haven’t read the novel yet, please skip this part. If you have, I hope you enjoy.
Thank you for your continued support and passion for the written word. You make the world better. Well…at least mine!
Love,
L.J. xoxo
Extended Epilogue: Vicious
“Kneel.”
There’s menace in this voice, and I grew to love the man who carries it like a loaded weapon. Every word is a sharp edge of a knife, sinking into my skin.
Kneel.
Sit.
Open your mouth.
Touch yourself.
Repeat after me: Vicious, I’m yours.
Most married couples fall into a blissful, albeit drowsy domestic routine of laundry, family dinners, and Netflix.
Most married couples are not Vicious and me.
We were different from the beginning. A yin and a yang, fighting over which color took more space, black or pink. We started out as enemies, and I think that, although we are still crazy in love, we will always be rivals on some level. We will always be passionate, and angry, and desperate.
We will always be us.
“I’m sorry, I don’t take orders from people who aren’t my boss,” I say coolly, dropping my funky, colorful bag at the door and erasing the distance between us in wide, confident steps. He is standing in front of me, his Armani suit impeccable, his raven hair slicked back, his icicle blue eyes devouring me in ways that make being eaten alive worth it. He scans the length of me, a slight sneer on his face. I’m still me, even so many years later. The tips of my light brown hair are still cherry-blossom pink. The soles of my shoes are yellow, for Christ’s sake.
“That could be arranged, if you continue your sass.”
“How is that going to work, Vicious? Are you going to re-employ me against my will?” For the past eighteen years, I’ve been managing my own gallery in L.A. A gallery he bought for me shortly before our engagement. I have a career, an income of my own. Truth is, he gave me a push, but the entire journey to where I am today was made by me, and only me, and he knows it.
He cups my cheek, yanks me by the hem of my funky powder blue blouse with little suns into his body and leans down for a kiss. Our lips brush briefly, promising scattered clothes and ragged breaths, just as the door swings open and our son walks in. He slams the door behind him, his eyes still intently glued to his phone.
Vaughn is a spitting image of his dad. So much so, that sometimes it scares me.
At sixteen, he has the walk, talk, and air of Vicious when the latter was a senior in high school. Rangy, strong body, thick-fringed blue eyes, skin so fair he looks like he defies the sun, and cheekbones you could use as a sharp weapon. More than anything, he has that uniquely-pissed facial expression that tells you that he just doesn’t care.