Fall For My Ex’s Mafia Father by Caroline Above Story
Chapter 295

Chapter 295 

Kent only pauses for a second when he looks at me as I come back out of the closet, but it’s enough to make a slow smile creep over my face. I cross the room back to him and lean casually against the tiny bar, wiggling my hips a little in an attempt to get him to look at me again. The underwear set that I’ve chosen can…well, it’s so flimsy that it barely deserves to be called underwear. 

But I look damn good in it. And Kent knows it, even if he’s pretending he doesn’t. 

He shifts his eyes to mine briefly before returning to his process. “Do you mind, Fay?” he asks quietly, nudging my elbow away from its place on the bar. “It’s a small work area.” 

“I do mind,” I sigh, leaning forward and allowing my elbow to taking up more space as I place my chin in my palm, looking up at him. “What’s taking so long?” 

“It takes a while,” Kent answers as he peels the rind off of an orange and rubs it around the edge of a glass already filled with a whiskey cocktail. “To make a nice drink.” 

I pout a little as I look down at the glasses. “I wanted tequila.” 

Kent smirks and shakes his head at me, taking a step back from 

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the bar and handing me my drink after popping the orange peel into it. “You should have told me that,” he says, “before I made 

old fashioneds.” 

I look dubiously down into my glass, squinting one eye. “Is it any good?” 

He laughs again and clinks his drink against mine. “Try it, Fay. You might like it.” 

I sneer a little as I lift the glass to my nose, sniffing the drink. “That’s what you said about the fois gras,” I mumble. “And that was gross.” 

Kent just smirks at me and takes a long sip of his drink before starting to walk away back towards the bed. I straighten up as I watch him go, my eyes darting directly to the elastic of his underwear waistband, to the place where it presses delicately against his tanned skin. And it’s certainly not because of the whiskey that my mouth begins to water. 

Still, I take a long sip of the drink, considering it as Kent tosses his reading glasses on his bedside table and sits down on the bed, relaxing against the headboard with one foot flat on the mattress, his leg bent at the knee. 

“What do you think?” he asks, and I swirl the drink around in my mouth before swallowing. 

“Well,” I say, looking consideringly down at it. “The whiskey part is gross, but I like the sugar.” 

Chapter 295 

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Kent just smirks at me and raises one hand, beckoning met closer with a curl of his fingers as he moves his own cocktail to the table next to him. I obey, but I stoop down to grab the little bottle of tequila that I see at the bottom of the bar on my way. 

“Fay,” Kent groans, reaching for me as I come close and pulling me on top of him so that my knees straddle his lap, a bottle of tequila in one of my hands and my whiskey cocktail in the other. “Honestly, girl,” he says, pulling me closer to him with two hands on my waist, “I can dress you in La Pearla and give you a cocktail made with twenty–year–old Bourbon, but you’ll still want tequila and tell me your favorite part of the drink I made is the two cent’s worth of sugar.” 

“What did you expect, Kent,” I murmur, tilting my head back to finish off my cocktail as he lowers his face to my chest, pressing his lips to the swell of my breast, “the first time we met was in a prison, the second was in a strip club. My sister’s strip club, none the less. I never promised class.” 

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Chapter 295 

Kent just smirks at me and raises one hand, beckoning me 

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closer with a curl of his fingers as he moves his own cocktail to the table next to him. I obey, but I stoop down to grab the little bottle of tequila that I see at the bottom of the bar on my way. 

“Fay,” Kent groans, reaching for me as I come close and pulling me on top of him so that my knees straddle his lap, a bottle of tequila in one of my hands and my whiskey cocktail in the other. “Honestly, girl,” he says, pulling me closer to him with two hands on my waist, “I can dress you in La Pearla and give you a cocktail made with twenty–year–old Bourbon, but you’ll still want tequila and tell me your favorite part of the drink I made is the two cent’s worth of sugar.” 

“What did you expect, Kent,” I murmur, tilting my head back to finish off my cocktail as he lowers his face to my chest, pressing his lips to the swell of my breast, “the first time we met was in a prison, the second was in a strip club. My sister’s strip club, none the less. I never promised class.” 

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