by Paula Cox
I help her to her feet, and then she takes the handbag from me.
“Are you coming up?” she says, her eyes hungry, a look I know well, only with her the hunger is matched in my own eyes.
We can barely refrain from touching each other as we go into the hallway, a carpeted, well-lit room with a security guard. Livia swipes her card through and we step into an elevator. As it lurches up, she grips my arm, digging her nails in, and then turns and faces me. Her cheeks are red and her pupils are dilated and there’s an animal smell coming from her, only partially masked by her perfume, which tells me she wants to fuck.
The elevator stops, and then Livia glances at the buttons. “Wrong floor.” She jams another button. “I’m floor seven.”
She’s pressed number eight and nine, but not seven. I step around her and press the button for the seventh floor.
Is she too drunk? I wonder, and when that seed of doubt is planted, it’s damn hard to uproot.
“Are you alright?” I ask. “I mean, are you too drunk?”
“No!” she cries, stumbling into me. I have no choice but to catch her, and when our bodies press together, her breasts squashing against my chest, I forget about my question. She’s soft and yet taut, full and yet bouncy, with an ass that is perfectly captured in that beautiful fucking dress.
Finally, we arrive at her apartment. She hands me the keys and I unlock the door. The place is just as glitzy and glamorous as Livia herself, with silver faux-candles set in scones in the walls, trendy, modern furniture, and a mini-chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Livia walks over to the couch and throws herself down, and then does something that makes my cock so hard I’m sure it’s going to burst. She just opens her legs, wide, giving me a full view of her pink lace underwear, underwear which is tangled up near her pussy. I can see one lip, and her clit through the thin material, and before I know it I’m across the room and standing over her.
“Come here,” she says. “Come here, you sexy fucking dog. Come here and show me how fucking bad you really are.”
She opens are arms, beckoning me, and I fall atop her, propping my arms either side of her head. She presses her lips against mine, moaning through the kiss, and I return it just as hungrily. She moves her hands down my back, squeezing my muscles, digging her fingernails into my skin. I don’t give a damn. She can dig all day, all she wants. I move my hand down her front, and—man, fuck, these are beyond perfect—and grab her breast. I slide under her dress, her bra, and touch her nipple. It’s hard, harder than my cock, and when I stroke it, she shivers like there’s a wave moving through her. I press my cock into her groin and then—
She goes limp beneath me. I stop at once, stand up.
Her eyes are half-lidded and her body lolls. When I get off her, though, she bolts upright, eyes opening.
“Come here,” she says, but she’s shifting from side to side.
“I want it,” she goes on, and she pulls the front of her dress down. Her breasts spill free, two big, tight, bouncy, hard-nippled breasts which make my balls feel like they’re going to pop. I stare at them for a long time, but I can’t help but notice the way her eyes keep opening and closing, as though she’s a few seconds from sleep.
She stands up unsteadily and lurches at me. I catch her, and she slides her hand down my body, over my belly, and then grabs my cock. Pleasure surges through me, a voice in my brain screaming: She wants you! Take her! Fuck her! She rubs my cock up and down its entire length and then leans in and whispers into my ear: “I want you to do it hard, from behind. I want you to fuck me until I come all over you.” She giggles, as though embarrassed by her words, and then starts kissing my neck. I’m about to start going at it again when she slumps in my arms. I’m holding her up, I realize.
Dammit.
If I let her go, she’d fall.
Dammit.
And what kind of man would I be if I fucked a woman I had to hold up?
Damn. It!
Gently, I pry her hands away from me and lead her to an armchair, where I sit her down.
“What’re you doing?” she demands, panting, her breasts jiggling so seductively it takes every ounce of self-control not to kneel down and start sucking them, just suck and suck until she comes all over her panties and then lay her on her back, legs wide, and fucking pound her until—
Stop it, I tell myself. She’s drunk, man. She’s drunk.
“I’m taking you to bed,” I say, looking into her face, trying like hell to ignore her breasts.
“I know…”
“No, to bed.”
I grab her under the armpits, lift her to her feet, and walk her to the bedroom.
“Are you going?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You’re too drunk. I don’t want you doing anything you might regret in the morning.”
Tell that to my goddamn cock, though, I think. It’s still hard and begging to be touched, sucked, to feel the tightness and warmth of her pussy around it. But this is the right thing to do, and sometimes even killers have to do the right thing.
I take her to her bed and lay her on the silk sheets. Her eyes flutter as she struggles to stay awake. “Don’t you want it?” she moans, and her voice is so full of desire I almost lose it all over again.
“It’s not a question of if I want it,” I say. “I’m going to get you a bucket, just in case you need to puke, and some water, okay?”
I go into the kitchen, pour the water and find a bucket under the sink, and then return to the bedroom. Livia’s half sat up on the bed, propped up by cushions, but she’s falling sideways and jolting every few seconds, snapping herself awake. It’s a losing battle.
“But—I’m—horny,” she manages.
Yeah. Me, too.
“There’ll be other nights,” I say, setting the water down on the bedside table and the bucket on the floor near the bed.
Then I take a blanket from the end of the bed and drape it over her torso, covering those perfect breasts. Even covered, it’s hard to stay strong, because the fabric clings to them alluringly. My balls are two solid lumps of lead now, heavy and overfull, begging to be released. And here’s a willing woman. A sexy woman. But…the right thing, remember.
“Your cock is huge, Aedan,” she moans, curling into the blanket and closing her eyes. “Why don’t you come here and let me see if I can put it in my mouth?” She says this sleepily, eyes closing, and I know there’s no way she’s up for it now.
“Another time,” I say.
I’m about to leave when I see a paper and pen, a notepad next to the bed. Grinning to myself, I pick up the pen and write her a little note, a treat for her to find in the morning. Then I go to the door and stand there for a few minutes, watching as she falls asleep. Her chest rises and falls, shifting the blanket up and down, and my cock roars at me to go and tug it down, take one last look at her. But, of course, that’d be a scumbag thing to do, and just ’cause I’m a killer, it doesn’t mean I’m a scumbag.
I’m about to leave a second time when I realize she’s on her back and you should never leave a drunk person on their back. I go to her, roll her over—being careful not to shift the blanket too much—and put her in the recovery position, so she’s safe. “Come here, dog,” she mumbles sleepily. “I’ll ride you so hard, baby.”
I swallow, aching all over, longing, hungry, and finally I leave the apartment.
Back in my car, I rest my forehead against the steering wheel, breathing heavily. I close my eyes and try and think of non-sexual things. Chairs and trees and brickwork—whatever. But when I think of chairs, it’s with Livia sitting on them, legs folded, breasts on display, and when I think of trees, it’s with Livia leaning against them, ass pushed out, beckoning, and when I think of brickwork, it’s with Livia splayed across it, legs open, flashing me her panties.
I did the right thing, I assure myself, starting the engine.
Chapter Six
Livia
Aedan tears his clothes off, literally tears th
em off so they pile around him in heaps, and then walks to the edge of the bed completely naked, his cock rock-hard and pointing straight at my face. I feel free, way freer than I do in day-to-day life, and suddenly the phantoms of Mom and Luca, usually so prominent in my mind, drift away. It doesn’t matter; the only thing that matters it the lust which coils around me and directs my movements.
‘You said you could take it hard,’ he says, and his accent is thick Irish now, not Irish-American. I wonder if he’s doing a voice but then I realize I don’t care, not one bit. Voice or not, it drives me wild. I kneel up, and only then I realize that I’m naked, too, my shaved pussy a triangle between my legs, inviting him in, and my breasts pert, my nipples hard.
‘I can,’ I assure him, body aching with longing for it. I’m going to fuck an Irishman. That’s bad; that’s beyond bad. I shouldn’t do this. He’s a goddamn Irishman! Mom will kill me. But Mom can’t control me every single second of my life and right now I want this. I want to feel that cock; I want him to trail it along my boobs. I want to feel his come spray all over me. I want to bend over and reach back and grab his hips and drive him deep into my pussy, tight and wet and ready and aching for him.
I lean forward and take his dick in my mouth, having to open my mouth wide to take all of him. He’s huge, far bigger than any cock I’ve ever seen in person, and so hard it feels like he could explode at any second. But he doesn’t explode, just reaches down and strokes my hair from my eyes as I suck, bobbing up and down. I look up at him and the look in his dark eyes drives me on.
Then—what happened? I wonder—I’m bent over and he’s behind me, his cock trailing up and down my lips. I gasp as the tip of his cock touches my hole, widens it a fraction, teasing me. I gasp again when he pushes—pushes—pushes…
No, I want it! No! What! No!
I fall through the bed, sinking through the mattress and the frame as though it’s made from smoke. I look up and there’s Aedan, alone and naked, searching the room for me. From this angle, he looks like a man carved from marble, every muscle poised, his cock impossibly hard. I claw at the space around me, trying to wrench myself back into the room. I have never wanted a man so badly in my life. My pussy is aching so badly it’s like there’s a creature down there, tickling my lips, taunting me.
As I watch, Aedan starts to touch himself, stroking his hand up and down his massive cock. No, that’s my job! I think. I want it. Fuck, come back!
He strokes up and down slowly, starting from the base and ending at the tip, and when he opens his mouth and starts moaning, I claw at the space around me with such force I should shoot through the ceiling. But I don’t. I just hover down here, in this no-space, watching as the man who should be buried deep inside of me touches himself.
Then, without warning, I fly up, up, up, and then I’m hovering in the room, watching from above. A woman walks in—no, not a woman, me! I walk in, naked, and bend over. Is that what I look like? I wonder. What is happening right now?
I watch, jealous and aching, as—
I touch myself, hands between my legs, moaning in my sleep. I run my hands over my clit and then down, hungry, to my wet hole. I slide my middle finger inside of my pussy and push it all the way up into my tender spot, and then I make small circular patterns with my finger, stroking. Lust surges through me like a natural force.
Then I open my eyes, panting, and slide my finger out of my pussy. I roll over and over, mouth dry, head pounding, getting tangled up in the sheets. Sunlight, vindictive and purposeful, glares into the bedroom directly onto my eyes. I slam them shut, but my eyelids glow red all the same.
After a while—it could be minutes or hours, time bending in my hungover state—I sit up in bed. What happened? I wonder, my body begging to sink back into the dream. I want to fuck him, I reflect, and it hits me like buckshot. I want to fuck the Irishman. But I can’t. I can’t. It’s wrong. He’s a member of an enemy crime family…but not anymore. But Luca! But Mom!
I groan, wishing this feeling of lust would just fall away, and reach across and take a glass of water from my bedside table. I drain it and when I put the glass back, I see the note. Sexual frustration turns to plain-old frustration inside of me, materializing as a twisting, gnawing in my chest and the flutter of razor-winged butterflies in my belly. It’s written in big, efficient script.
I read it: ‘Last night could’ve been fun, baby, but I don’t take advantage of drunk women. If you still want to fuck, I’m game.’
That cocky bastard, I think, standing up and wobbling on still-drunk legs to the bathroom. As if I want to fuck. I don’t want anything to do with him. Maybe my body does, but I don’t. He thinks the Irish can kill Luca and then I’ll still fuck him? Ha! He’s living in a dreamland. No, I’ll be strong now. Thank God we didn’t do anything last night. But then…it would’ve felt good, damn good.
‘Stop it,’ I hiss at myself, as I sit on the toilet. ‘Just stop it.’
When that business is taken care of, I return to the bedroom and collapse, closing my eyes. Sleep wraps me in its cuddly arms before I can even start fighting it off, and when sleep comes, it brings Aedan with it.
We’re both naked again. This time, when I bend over, the dream doesn’t end. I stay exactly where I am, pussy bared, his huge cock spreading me wide, moaning louder and with more abandon than I’ve ever moaned before.
I don’t want him.
I want him.
I hate him.
I desire him.
I’m happy alone.
I’d be happier with him.
He’s just a cocky asshole.
Maybe he’s a cocky asshole who could give me the best sex of my life.
Ah! How do things get so complicated so fast?
Chapter Seven
Aedan
A couple of weeks after our initial meeting, I get a call from Bruno Russo. I expect him to tell me that the Cartel has hit one of their stories, or has taken one of their corners. They’ve been unusually quiet these past couple of weeks, making everybody suspicious. The Mexican presence on the street has dropped to almost nothing, and the Irish-Italian truce means that we can go about our business without the necessity of blanketing the street in bodies.
But he doesn’t so much as mention the Cartel.
“Aedan, my boy.”
My boy.
“Yes, Mr. Russo?”
“Call me Bruno,” he says.
“Okay, Bruno. What’s up?”
I’m sitting in The Clover, in the corner, and I keep my voice down because Dad is in the back going over the accounts and no doubt getting ready to kick the living hell out of some unlucky son of a bitch for a misplaced comma.
“I wanted to invite you to play a game of golf,” he says.
I sit up, cocking my head, lips twisted in disbelief. It takes a few seconds for his words to register with me.
“Golf?” I say. “Is that a euphemism, ’cause if you want to dance, you’d be better off sending some of your men to get me when—”
“It’s not a euphemism,” Bruno says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “It’s exactly what I say. Golf. What so you say?”
“Um, sure,” I mutter. “Do I have a guarantee on this?”
“We have a truce. So yes.”
“Alright, then. Where shall I meet you?”
“Come by the bar. I’ll have somebody drive us.”
“Alright.”
I hang up and then go into the backroom, where Dad sits, hunched over the table staring down at his documents through his wire-framed glasses. Patrick “Patty” Cooley is a thin man, with limbs as wiry as his glasses, shocks of ginger hair jutting up from behind his ears. He wears a pristine blue suit with not a single blemish on it, and his mouth is constantly pursed. In the chair next to him, sitting like a queen taught to keep her mouth shut, is Mona Cooley, his wife and the woman he betrayed when he seduced my mother. Mona Cooley, much to Dad’s chagrin, has a little sprinkling of Italian-Greek blood in her. It’s no coinc
idence that Dad found this out the week before he started his affair with Mom. Mona’s pregnant, finally, with their first child. She’s ten years Dad’s junior and looks like exactly what she is: a depressed, anxious woman.
“Dad,” I mutter.
His gaze snaps to me. “Boss,” he spits. “Call me Boss, you idiot.”
I swallow, and then nod. “Sorry, Boss, yeah, alright. I just wanted to tell you…”
“This is ridiculous.” He tramples my words. “Look at this.” He nods at the document, but when I make to step forward, he holds his hand up. “It’s absurd. How hard can it be to keep regular, accurate accounts? These fools think that because we’re a crime family, that gives them the right to do everything sloppily, to take no care in their work. This is a legitimate business. Don’t they understand that?” He leans back in his chair, sighing, and stares at me with eyes which hold only the barest hint of love. Or is that my imagination? Just once, I’d like him to look at me like he was pleased.
