Free On the Run with Love by J.M. Benjamin Page B

letting Freddie know his sensuality had taken her as he’d intended it to. He continued with his serenade as he ran his finger along her pussy lips, inserting two up to the knuckle inside her.
    She gasped.
    â€œI . . . won’t.”
    Simone was so creamy she milked his fingers as Freddie licked along her spine. He used his free hand to slowly push her forward, bending her over the sink.
    â€œFreddie, I want to feel you inside me soooooo bad,” she purred.
    Freddie came out of his pants and slid inside her tightness, slowly, taking his time until he was all the way inside. “Look how beautiful love makes you look, boo. Look at what love looks like in your eyes,” Freddie urged, long dicking her into losing control.
    Simone kept steady eye contact with herself, getting more and more turned on by the expressions on her face, as she watched her own ecstasy. Freddie gripped her around the waist and ground her hard, making her eyes roll up in the back of her head.
    â€œFreddie, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop loving me, baby.”
    â€œYou’re so beautiful to me, Simone. So beautiful,” Freddie replied. “Kiss yourself, ma.” Simone kissed her own reflection on the lips as if it were her long-lost twin.
    â€œI’m beautiful,” she moaned, reaching back to pull Freddie to her as she felt the quiver in her stomach build into a rumble.
    â€œFreddie, I can feel it. I can feel . . .”
    Freddie knew his woman well enough to hold himself until he felt her walls flare and tighten, timing his release to match hers. The intensity of the moment damn near made Simone lose her mind.
    â€œFreddie, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill . . . you,” she stuttered, too low for Freddie to hear. And he was too unconscious to care to understand.

Chapter Twelve
    It had been a week since Mannie’s murder and Tay had already sent a message to the hustlers around the New Projects. He sent a team through to wet up the buildings of 116 in the back on Elmwood, 528, across from the infamous 524 building, in the front on Second Street, 532 in the middle, and 544 near the corner. Every day a different crew of shooters darted through the money-getting housing projects and lit the block up like Independence Day. No one was hit because no one was meant to be, but the message was loud and clear, too loud for Power to ignore.
    Power was from building 528, but he repped his stomping grounds to the fullest. He and his manz and ’em controlled the front, after the feds had come through and swept the housing projects he was born and raised in. Before him, it was his sandbox homies, Malik, Cheddar, Pete and Doub who ran the two West Second Street buildings. They were legendary for their hustles, but his methods required force. He played the role of enforcer, and he played his role well. He had outlasted many of his contemporaries, who were either dead or doing fed bids, so dudes from his city respected his longevity, Tay included. But this wasn’t about respect; it was about revenge, which was why Power decided to go see Tay before things really got out of hand.
    He pulled up in his classic burgundy Jaguar XJR with a beige butter-soft leather interior. Power was beyond the need to floss. He didn’t have oversized tires or spinning rims like the young cats. The Jag was still as it was off the showroom floor.
    There was a little league baseball game being played in Silas Field Park. He decided this was a good place to have the meeting. He didn’t believe Tay was that stupid or gung-ho that he’d do something dumb like talk slick and provoke or force Power’s head, but still he came with his manz, Bash, who was also a known gunman in the town, as an extra precaution. They climbed the half-full stone bleachers and took a seat behind cheering parents and siblings. He looked around and spotted a young cat profiling along the wall.
    â€œYo, akh , lemme holla at you.”
    The