Baby for the Beast

by Penelope Bloom

  He pulls my hand from my panties, gripping me by the wrist and lifting my fingers to his mouth, where he sucks the wetness from my fingers without breaking eye contact.

  The breath seeps from my lungs in a single, hot exhalation.

  I expect him to turn me around and bend me over, or to hike me up onto his hips, but instead he pins me against the back wall so my ass is pressed to the glass and he moves his hand—in no hurry—from my shoulder, across my breast, lingering on my hardened nipple until I’ve gasped out his name a few times. He makes sure I’m looking straight into his eyes when he mirrors the path my own hand took while he watched, gliding down until his fingers are rubbing me through my already-soaked panties.

  He was definitely paying attention to my little show.

  “I can’t seem to remember what came next,” he says tauntingly.

  If he thinks I’m going to be too proud to ask for it—to beg for it at this point, he’s mistaken. I don’t even hesitate before I grab his wrist and push his hand inside my panties, breathing with relief to feel the rough pads of his fingertips against my slick folds.

  I’ve all but forgotten the crowd watching on the other side of the glass now. It’s impossible to think of anything except the places where his body meets mine, those burning points of contact like lightning rods for my focus.

  He takes a fistful of my hair, tilting my head back forcefully so that he can more easily reach my mouth with his. Our tongues move in a slow dance that flows to the same rhythm of his fingers working their way inside my tight opening.

  He must have more than one finger inside me, because I feel stretched for him in such a wonderful way, like I could barely take any more. He curls his fingers against me, putting pressure with each thrust of his hand against my g-spot. I dig my fingertips into his back, holding onto him for support with my arms as his fingers turn my legs to useless, boneless jelly.

  “I want you to watch them as they watch you,” he says, turning me and pressing me to the glass. He leaves my dress covering my breasts and doesn’t pull my panties down any more than he has to to keep his hand buried in them. I still wear the mask on my face as well, which lets me actually enjoy seeing their eyes on me. There must be a dozen couples, maybe more. Some of the women stroke their men between the legs, some men are groping at their women, and one woman near the back of the gathered group is giving her man a blowjob while he watches.

  “I’d never let them watch if they could see your face,” Enzo says from behind me. “I’d be too fucking jealous. But if you’re anonymous, I can let you ride the thrill.”

  I want to tell him I don’t need any thrill to enjoy being with him like this. Whether we're sexually compatible was never really a question for me. So long as I breathe, I'm going to crave his touch and his body with all my heart. The only question is what happens after this, or whether I'll be able to find a way to make our worlds work together.

  I don’t want to think about that now. I don’t want to spoil the moment, so I focus instead on what he wants. I give him my submission and I let myself enjoy what he wants me to enjoy. I don’t even remember hearing Enzo unbuckle his belt before I realize his hand left me and he’s pulling my thong down just enough from the back to press his hard cock against my entrance.

  He teases me with it, rocking his hips until his length gathers enough of my arousal to slide against me, warm and absolutely delicious. I press my thighs together, wanting to create a warm pocket for him to fuck until he’s ready to enter me.

  He groans his approval, pace increasing.

  I notice the watchers beyond the glass seem to be getting more aroused now, and another woman has her head in a man's lap, bobbing up and down, while a third couple is moving toward a secluded corner of the room, presumably to work out their pent-up desire.

  “Tell me how bad you want it, Neela,” he says. “Beg me for it.”

  “Please,” I say. “Please fuck me.”

  He makes a deep sound in his throat and tightens his grip on my hips before guiding himself inside me. I breathe out in pure bliss to feel the fullness of him deep inside me, my wetness and warmth enveloping him. I put a hand back to grip his hip as he starts to pound into me with increasing pace. He moves his hand between my legs, rubbing me there even as he fucks me, overwhelming me in the most wonderful way imaginable.

  I have one hand pressed hard to the glass and the other against his hips. My breath has made a patch of fog on the glass in front of me, but I can see the eager eyes of the people outside watching us.

  He moves into me with a gradually increasing pace that is almost hypnotic. Every thrust comes just a fraction of a second faster than the last, giving me a building sense of inevitability, of a mounting explosion that I can’t avoid nor want to avoid. Soon, I’m gasping out shamelessly, moans ripping themselves free of me without abandon. The sound of his hips against my ass are loud and rhythmic, like the baseline to a song, and I become transfixed by them, listening to the ever-increasing pace and feeling the eruption of white-hot pleasure from between my legs, where his throbbing length fills me to the brim and his talented fingers take advantage of every last inch of my pussy.

  “I’m going to cum,” I gasp. “I want you to do it inside me.”

  “You want my cum in your tight little pussy?” he growls.

  “Yes. Please,” I breathe. “I want you to fill me up.”

  He makes a sound between a growl and a grunt as he grips me so hard it almost hurts, yanking me into his thrusts now so that his cock buries itself even deeper.

  Just when I feel my orgasm about to come, he flicks off the light in the small room, leaving us in near-darkness, and leaving the people gathered to watch disappointed.

  “Your orgasm is mine,” he grunts. “Only mine.”

  “Oh God,” I gasp.

  “Fuck,” he growls, ending his rhythm with a final, deep thrust that he leaves inside me while his cock swells for a moment and then releases his cum. I faintly feel the heat of it and the sense of fullness.

  He relaxes, placing his hand over mine against the glass and threading his fingers into mine so he can lean down to kiss the back of my neck. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that again.”

  “Four months, if I had to guess,” I say with a smirk.

  “Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” He asks, turning me around and letting himself slide out of me.

  I feel some of his cum run down the inside of my thigh when he pulls himself out. I’m still so turned on that the idea of his cum inside me and running down my leg feels incredibly sexy, as if I’ve been marked and claimed by him.

  I let him kiss me then, and I close myself off to reality for as long as I can, because I know things won’t feel so simple and easy by tomorrow morning. So I take a mental snapshot of this moment and this feeling to store away for when the harder times come.

  15

  Enzo

  I make my way through the lobby of The Tower. Even before the way everything played out with Neela, I never felt at home here. The Tower is my dad’s refuge, his monument to the old ways. He has burly muscle-heads posted at the elevators and stairs. Women in tight pencil skirts man the reception area, and hard-eyed men come and go. It’s a bustling place, but that’s no surprise. If you’re a criminal in this city, you end up tied to my father eventually, and the only way to communicate with him is to come here. If it weren’t for some hefty bribes, the police would probably shake this place down on a weekly basis. But they’re taken care of, and instead of giving my father shit, they actually help look out for the place and tip him off if the authorities are getting hot on him.

  One of the guys at the elevator stops me before I can press the button to call the door. “Mr. Luciani asked us not to let you up.”

  “You know who I am?” I ask in a low, warning tone. Technically, it’s a stupid fucking question. Of course they know, or they wouldn’t know I was the one my father wanted kept out. But it’s not a literal question
. It’s the equivalent of pulling rank, and it’s a challenge. “Maybe you want to ask yourself who is going to be more pissed, me, if I drove all this fucking way to have to kill some idiot security guard, or my father, if his son finds a way to make it upstairs.

  The guy’s mouth tightens into a thin line, but he subtly steps to the side, not making eye-contact with me.

  “Good boy,” I say, slapping his shoulder before I tap the elevator button.

  I take the elevator straight to the thirty-first floor. The penthouse. My father has turned this tower into a goddamn circus since I acquired it nearly ten years ago. The first ten floors are staffed like an office, with men and women working in cubicles to keep track of debts and bring in new clients. He has a few floors dedicated to the management staff, though it’d be more accurate to say they are just the lucky old fucks who have been working with him long enough to lounge around playing cards all day and stuffing their faces. Beyond that, he’s got everything he needs in here. There’s a fully stocked grocery store, a gym, a spa, a casino, and even a shooting range. Then a few floors are reserved for hideout spots that can be leased to criminals who have gathered too much heat and need to lay low, which was my original plan for most of the floors here.

  On reflex, I check my weapon, verifying that there is a bullet in the chamber before reholstering it. I don’t often carry a weapon anymore, but I still go to the range to keep sharp. No matter what my father might want the word among the guys to be, I don’t think I’ll need it. I feel better having it with me, though, and if my father does have his guys try something stupid, I intend to take a few with me on my way out.

  The penthouse is kept dark, with heavy blinds covering most of what should be an amazing view of the city. The furniture is old, shiny leather and the floor is covered in thick rugs. Faintly sweet cigar smoke hangs in the air like a fog, making the four men who sit in the living room look like ghosts.

  “Figured you’d show up,” my father says. His voice is craggy and almost inhumanly deep. When he was still working as a soldier for the his old boss, Enzo Carmello—the guy he named me after—he took a knife to the neck. It severed some of his vocal cords and left him sounding like some kind of fucking swamp monster, but I think my old man actually prefers the effect.

  “Yeah, well I’m getting word that you are painting a target on my back,” I say.

  I move closer until I can see the four men. My father, Michael Luciani sits in a high-backed chair. He has silver hair slicked back from his head, a prominent nose, and permanently pursed lips that make him look like he’s always considering some tough decision.

  The two men to his left are his old friends. A short and stocky old man with a bulldog’s face and a hand with only two fingers. Because of his hand, everyone just calls him The Claw. Then there’s the tall and solemn “Doctor,” who looks more like a college professor than a mafioso. He was my father’s accountant back in the day, and over time he ended up getting absorbed into my old man’s inner circle.

  On my father’s right is the one I am keeping the closest eye on. Vince. He has a shaved head, dark features, and a shiny white scar that cuts across his eyebrow. He’s my old man’s young gun, and he’s hardly better than a rabid dog on a thin leash. I’ve warned my father that Vince is going to snap and kill someone he’s not supposed to one of these days, but he still keeps Vince at his side for protection.

  Vince doesn’t even bother trying to be coy. He reaches into his jacket and slides his chrome-plated pistol out and rests it across his thigh. The thing is fucking huge, and I know it’d put a hole in me the size of a softball if he took a shot at me. You’ll be the first to get a bullet if this goes south, Vince.

  “You disobeyed me. You gave away a hostage we needed. You could’ve landed half this family in jail.”

  “I told you,” I say. “Her father wasn’t playing ball. Keeping the girl or killing her made no difference.”

  “No?” asks my father dangerously. “The respect of my name makes no fucking difference to you?”

  “Fuck respect,” I growl. “Respect isn’t going to keep you out of prison. If we killed the girl, we were only going to piss him off. Letting her go is the only reason he hasn’t pushed the case through.”

  “You said he told you to fuck off.”

  “He did. And then I told him I was letting his daughter go, but he should remember how easy it was for us to take her, and he should think long and hard before he moves forward with the case.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. I still feel a deep stab of guilt for lying to Neela about that, too. I told him he had to keep the case quiet long enough for my father to forget about Neela, so she’d have a chance to start over.

  “And what happens the next time we need to take a hostage?” The Claw questions. He has a voice that always seems too high-pitched for his stocky frame. “People will remember this.”

  “No one would know it happened if you had just trusted my judgment,” I say.

  “Your judgment?” Vince sneers. “Far as I can tell, you just want to make the family go soft. Why should the boss trust your judgment?”

  “I didn’t come here to waste breath on any of you,” I say, locking my eyes on my father.

  He leans forward, picking up a cigar and lighting it. He takes his time dragging out a long puff of smoke and blowing it into the air before he speaks. "Whatever happened to The Beast?” he asks, voice full of scorn. “You used to be my Ace, Enzo. You were the wolf I’d release, the one who could handle any problem without flinching. Now look at you. You’re disrespecting your family and the old traditions for some woman? You’ve gone soft.”

  I clench my fists at my sides. “I’ll promise you something. If any of your men so much as comes near Neela, I’ll give them a close-up chance to see if I’ve gone soft or not, and I’ll send the bodies back to you so there’s no confusion.”

  “You’re my son,” he says, leaning back in his chair and taking a deep, whistling breath through his nose. “For that, I won’t order my men to kill you. And because you’re my son, I’ll tell you this much. I will take the girl from you.” He leans forward now, jabbing his cigar at me as his chair creaks under his weight. “By any means necessary. You want to play tough shit and try to stop my men? Then you just might get caught in the crossfire.”

  Vince points his index and middle finger at me in a mock-gun and fires, sneering widely.

  Angelo and Gino stop by my rooms at The Spot, which have essentially become my main place of residence until we settle things with my father. Neela is still asleep in her room with her sister. I feel bad the two of them have to share a room, but when I designed this place, I never intended to have a need for more than one guest bedroom. I regret it even more because it means I can’t just sneak into Neela’s room and fuck her when I please, but after the meeting with my father, getting back into her pants isn’t a priority at the moment. I need to find a way to keep her safe.

  My brothers and I gather in the kitchen, where we’re less likely to wake the girls as we talk.

  “I talked to him last night,” I say.

  “The look on your face says it didn’t go well,” Gino says. He’s distractedly working pistachios out of their shells and popping them in his mouth as we talk.

  “He’s put out an order to take her, and anyone who stands in the way of his men is fair game.”

  “So it’s a war, then,” Angelo says with a grim twist of his mouth.

  “Yeah,” I agree. I haven’t killed in years, and when I took my last life, I swore to myself I wouldn't do it again. I still smell gunsmoke and blood when I close my eyes, and I still see the look of betrayal in his eyes. But if I have to kill to protect Neela, I know I’ll do it, even if showing her a glimpse of the monster I was scares her away from me for good.

  “You could just take the girl and lay low for a couple years,” suggests Gino.

  “Then what?” I ask. “We spend our whole lives worrying one of the old man’s cronies will snag her at the g
rocery store four years from now? No. This is going to end.”

  “What do you propose?” Angelo asks.

  “I have an idea, but if you so much as breathe a word of it to Neela, the war with our old man will be the least of your worries. Understand?”

  They both nod, listening with grim expressions while I explain my plan.

  16

  Neela

  I’ve been Enzo’s hostage-not-hostage for nearly a week now, and the confinement is finally starting to drive me a little stir-crazy. Enzo had to “handle something” today, which means I’m left with Jess, Enzo’s brothers, Chase, and Luke. For once, Luke isn’t watching a movie. He has his feet kicked up on the couch while he plays some kind of game on his phone. Chase is sketching again, and every time I look in his direction, it seems like I catch him watching me.

  Gino and Angelo are playing cards while Jess and I snack on leftovers from Enzo’s fridge.

  I had my first real bout of morning sickness today, and it irritated me that Enzo wasn’t here to suffer through it with me. It’s a selfish thought, but I’ll blame pregnancy hormones on it. I wish I could blame baby brain on all the other conflicting emotions I feel, but I know I can’t.

  The problem with Enzo is that the answers are so simple. Is he an amazing guy who I could see making a great father? Yes. Is he involved in something so dangerous that no one in their right mind should ever consider getting into a relationship with him? Yes.

  The protective mother in me says I need to get our baby as far away from his world as I can, as soon as I can. That once he gives me some sort of “all-clear” signal, we should just disappear. But I’d also be ripping my baby away from his father, and whether Enzo made bad choices in his past or not, the thought of taking his baby away from him seems wrong on so many levels. I feel like he deserves to be a father. He deserves to be happy.