His: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Citrione Crime Family)

by Penelope Bloom

  I reach to touch it, but he slaps my hand away, the anger returning to his face. He pulls my shirt over my head, deftly unhooking my bra and sliding it free.

  “Ladies first,” he says. The words would almost have made me laugh, but the threat in his eyes makes me swallow hard and nod my head. He kisses a trail down my body, pausing at my breasts to take my nipple in his mouth. He circles it with his tongue and bites until it hurts, but I’m so on edge that even the pain begins to blur so I can’t tell what hurts and what feels good. Everything becomes him, and whether it’s pain, pleasure, or something in between, I want it. I want all of it.

  He kisses down my navel, nearly making me giggle as he kisses the sensitive skin. Then he finds my mound and runs his tongue along it, teasing my clit with the flat of his tongue and my entrance with the tip in a rhythmic pattern that quickly has me moaning and tugging at his thick, dark hair.

  “Vincent!” I cry.

  He doesn’t relent even as the stimulation becomes so much that I’m shaking against his touch, squeezing and pulling his hair until I must be hurting him. His hand slides up my body, finding my breast again and squeezing until it hurts. The pain comes right as I’m about to climax, and I cry out as it all comes rushing over me. It’s like a dam deep inside me has been opened and I tremble with the release.

  He gets to his knees and starts to pull down his slacks.

  I bite my lip, still feeling the aftershocks of my climax passing through my body. He pulls his length free and my eyes widen. I didn’t realize it was quite that big the other night, and now I’m not surprised I was still feeling it the next day. He rips his shirt off all the way and kicks off his slacks. His body is amazing—all hard lines and muscle. He reaches down and pulls my hips toward him, lifting my ass up so that he can use his other hand to spread my wetness with the tip of his cock.

  Before he plunges inside me, he leans down over me and cups my face between his fingers, looking straight into my eyes. I see that hint of the danger and violence in him again. A thrill of fear creeps through me.

  “Tell me how badly you want it.”

  “I want it.”

  He slaps my cheek just hard enough to sting. “Make me believe you.”

  “Please,” I moan. “Fuck me,” I say quietly, face burning with embarrassment. I’ve never done anything like this, not even close. The most talking I’ve ever done in bed was passionless discussion over which position to switch into.

  He slaps me again, harder this time. It pisses me off and I clench my teeth, hissing the words. “Fuck me.” I mean it, too. I don’t know how or why he has so much power over me, but my body sure as hell responds to it. I’ve never been this responsive to touch before. Even just feeling his hand on my face and my hips is enough to make me shudder. In some distant part of my mind, I’m pissed that he treats me like this, that he can make me degrade myself so much and enjoy it.

  I don’t have time to dwell on it because he takes his hand off my face, pins my hands above my head, and then thrusts into me with a grunt. His face is flushed now, and even as I whimper with the slight pain of his entry, I feel glorious waves of ecstasy flowing through me. He begins working himself into me at a slow pace, maddeningly slow. I try reaching for him to pull him into me faster. My clit is already throbbing again with a need to cum, begging for friction. I try to rock myself against him, but his strong, possessive hands steady me, forcing me to endure his agonizingly slow pace and the things it’s doing to me.

  I squirm beneath his powerful grip, every fiber of my consciousness focused on his cock inside me.

  I moan. “You feel so good, Vince.”

  His mouth opens slightly and he looks at me with a gaze full of lust and unapologetic hunger. His pace increases, and I know I’ve broken through his game. He wanted to do this his way, to fuck me at his pace and watch me as I slowly lost control, but now it’s him who has lost control. The thought that I’m pushing him over the edge and making him lose focus on his little game makes me cum. My core clenches against him. He groans, tightening his grip on me and thrusting himself deeper. Then he pulls himself free and lets his hot cum spray up my belly.

  “Fuck,” he says quietly.

  He surprises me by leaning forward to kiss me softly, running a gentle hand along the side of my face. The look he gives me says he owns me, but there’s none of the violent darkness in his eyes now, only warmth. My stomach turns over and I’m suddenly overcome by a need to get out of this. Out of here, out of his embrace—it’s too much, too tempting. It was easier when I could think of this as a dirty secret, a no-strings-attached release of pent up emotion. Seeing him look at me like that makes me think he wants more. It makes me think I might want more.

  I don’t know if I’m more scared by the idea of a man like him wanting me for more than just a good fuck or by how much the idea of being his girlfriend appeals to me. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  I push at his chest to free myself. He rolls off me, leaning on one elbow and actually looking slightly hurt. “What is it, doll?” he asks, reaching for my face.

  “Don’t,” I say shakily. I suddenly can’t meet his gaze. I feel ashamed of my nakedness so I grab my torn panties and use them to wipe the cum off my stomach. Then I snatch my blouse and clutch it to my chest, using my other hand to cover my ass as I kneel to pick up my skirt. My eyes fill with tears. What am I letting happen to my life?

  When I turn, he has managed to put his slacks and his shirt back on. I gather the rest of his clothes and push them into his chest, shoving him out my door. He says nothing. When I do look into his face, I see only hurt and pain there, but I must be reading it wrong. He’s just using me like a sex toy. He doesn’t give a shit if I care about him or not. I’m such an idiot.

  “Please,” I say. “Just go.”

  He shakes his head and turns to walk down the hallway outside my apartment, looking over his shoulder once as he leaves. I close the door and press my back to it, sinking to the ground and sobbing uncontrollably.

  11

  Vincent

  I slam my fist on the console of my BMW.

  “Fuck!” I yell, punching the console again hard enough to leave a dent.

  I’m sitting outside her apartment watching the last slivers of sunlight sink behind the Manhattan skyline. I don’t know what to do with myself. How the hell did I let this girl get to me so much? Why did it hit me so hard when she pushed me out. I’ve been kicked out after a good fuck dozens of times, and I never felt shit. I got what I wanted and they got what they wanted. End of story. Except this time it isn’t. I can’t just walk away from her. So what do I want now? Do I really want to get involved with her? I’ve already got Frankie breathing down my fuckin’ back about offing her. I guess Jimmy told him what he saw and now half the familia is on my case to ice the girl. That’s the last thing I need, especially considering the shitstorm that is apparently brewing between some of the most powerful crime families in the Northeast.

  I originally planned to just show up and set her straight, remind her why she should remember to keep her mouth shut. But one look at her in that tight skirt and the way her tits were pressing against her top made me want to own her. I wanted to feel her warm cunt again and no amount of good sense was going to stop that.

  I sit there, feeling like an idiot for several more minutes before I see her coming down the steps of the apartment building. It looks like she took the time to fix her makeup and make herself look presentable, because I can hardly tell I just fucked her brains out. I get a small rush of satisfaction when she turns to the side and I see that part of her hair is standing up in the back. Didn’t completely wipe the traces of me clean, doll. The thought is bittersweet. Why does her wanting to erase any sign of me feel so shitty? It’s like she’s the one using me. She just wants a good fuck and then expects me to get the hell out of her way as soon as she’s done with me? Fuck that. The irony of being treated the same way I’ve treated countless girls isn’t lost on me, but it
doesn’t mean I can’t be pissed off by it.

  I turn the car on and follow her. She drives a shitty Corolla, even though I know her job has to pay her well enough to drive something nicer. Her apartment was run-down and small, too. Where’s all that money going? My stomach sinks when I think about the possibilities. She could be a junkie or into gambling for all I know. That’s the last thing I need. Still, I keep following her until we reach the SportsCast studios on the East end. When I park outside, I call Jimmy on my cell.

  “Jimmy, she’s coming in.”

  “About time. Thought you said she starts at 5:30.”

  I grin. “She got tied up.”

  “I see her now,” he says.

  “You got everything set up, right? The intern badge, the uniform?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t worry, boss. I did everything you told me. She’ll have no fuckin’ idea.”

  “Good,” I say, hanging up.

  The plan is for Jimmy to keep an eye on her at work and make sure she’s not talking to anyone there or acting suspicious. If anyone asks, I’m making sure she doesn’t talk about what she saw. The truth is I’m more concerned about whether she’s letting any other guys hit on her or flirting. I’d lose my fuckin’ mind. I’d pull out my piece, march straight to her office, and put a full clip into whoever thinks they can squeeze in on my girl. My girl? Am I really already thinking like that? Jesus Christ. I rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. This girl is going to get me killed.

  It’s only an hour later when I get a call from Jimmy, but the time moved slower than molasses. “Boss, I’m sending something over. Check your email.”

  I hang up and check. He sent an attachment. It’s a PDF of some kind of article. An article she is writing. It’s not finished, but so far it reads:

  Corruption Under the Lights

  When star wide receiver, Ronnie White, was drafted out of FSU in his junior year, the expectations couldn’t have been any higher. Sportscasters were touting him as the next Randy Moss and already counting him as a future hall-of-famer. If the first two years of his NFL career were any indication, they were right.

  He has it all. Money, fame, women, success … or does he?

  A deeper look into his finances reveals that Ronnie has a gambling problem. A big one. An anonymous source says he saw Ronnie lose fifty thousand dollars in a single poker match last summer in Vegas. And that’s not the only witness to his gambling habits. Countless reports exist of reckless gambling and poor financial decisions, including a multi-million dollar mansion in Florida, over a thousand miles away from his penthouse suite in New York.

  To make matters worse, the details of his rookie contract are plain to see for anyone who cares to look. $435,000 in his first year and $525,000 in his second year. Ronnie is taking on huge amounts of debt and the next logical question is, ‘where is the money coming from?’

  The answer is the mafia underworld. This reporter saw...

  It ends there. The article just leaves off right there. Fuck. I run my hands through my hair, taking a deep breath. She’s not just talking to her friends about what she saw, she’s writing a fuckin’ article to publish? She’s going to out me like that? There’s no telling if it will stick or sound like a crock of shit, but God knows the last thing I need is heat on my ass.

  I jab Jimmy’s number in the cell.

  “What’s she doing now?” I ask.

  “She’s sitting at her desk with her head in her hands. It looks like she’s crying.”

  Even when it looks like she’s about to sell me out, I don’t like hearing that she’s crying. I don’t like it at all. It makes me want to break whatever made her sad, but in this case, it’s my fault. I dragged her into my dark world and she’s trying to deal with it the only way she knows how. She probably thinks she’s doing the right thing, even. Maybe she is. I can’t let that stop me though. One way or another, she can’t publish that.

  “She’s typing more,” says Jimmy.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Just tell me when she’s leaving. And whatever you do, don’t let her bring that story to any editors or whatever the fuck it is they do. No one else sees it. You do anything short of hurting her, okay? Don’t touch a fuckin’ hair on her head though or so help me—”

  “I got it, I got it, boss. I’m not going to touch her. Don’t worry.”

  I hang up again and slam the back of my head against the seat. Sitting here with my thumb up my ass is driving me crazy. I need to move, to get up. I get out of the car and pace around with my hands on my hips, ready to blow up if the smallest thing sets me off. I look toward the building. It’s a smallish skyscraper, maybe thirty floors, all reflective glass and concrete. What floor did Jimmy say she worked on? The fifteenth?

  Fuck it.

  I lock the car and jog up to the building. I look good in my suit, even if it’s a little worse for the wear after tossing it on the ground while I fucked Aubriella. I smooth my hair and open the door. I don’t look at the guard, ask anyone’s permission, or go wait in line at the reception desk like some schmuck. I walk to the elevator like I own the fuckin’ place and no one says a word to me.

  I hit the button for her floor and wait. The cold steel of my piece is a comfortable weight inside my jacket. The elevator dings and I step into a room full of cubicles, copiers, printers, and harassed looking men and women in semi-casual wear. I move fluidly through the hallways between desks, looking for her. I spot Jimmy, whose eyes turn to fish-bowls when he spots me. He knows better than to say anything though, so he just sits back down by the water cooler and points. I nod to him and follow the direction of his finger until I see her.

  Her eyes are puffy and red, but there’s a determined set to her face that tells me all I need to know. She’s going to do it.

  I let myself into her cubicle and sit in the open chair beside her. She turns to me and then her mouth drops open.

  “Y-you…” she says. Suddenly she seems to realize what is open on her computer and she minimizes the document.

  “What’s that you’re working on?” I ask. I planned to come up here and reason with her, to make her comfortable and feel safe. I wanted to assure her that I’d make sure she was protected no matter what. Seeing her try to hide something from me makes me see red though.

  She shakes her head. “Just a mock draft for next year.” She swallows hard. I see beads of sweat forming on her brow.

  She’s lying to me now? My hands itch to take my belt free right now and teach her why she should never, ever fuckin’ lie to me. But I hold my temper. For now. “Doll, you need to come clean, and fast. I’m the only one who can keep you safe in all of this, and if you don’t start trusting me, even I won’t be able to help you.”

  The color drains from her face but she still looks stubbornly determined. “You could be lying.” She lowers her voice. “I think you’d just say whatever it takes to fuck me. Why should I believe a thing you say?”

  I’m surprised at how deeply her words cut me. Is that really what she thinks? I just want to fuck her and that I don’t give a shit about her? I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, because that’s exactly how it was with all the girls before her, but she’s different. She’s got the balls to stand up to me. And the things she lets me do to her behind closed doors…no woman has ever let me do those things and enjoyed them. Just thinking about it is making my cock hard. I pull her close to me and kiss her hard. She stiffens at first, but then her body softens around me, like she’s melting into me. She moans softly into my mouth and I cup her tit.

  “Vince,” she says, pulling away, eyes still shut and mouth half-open. She looks around nervously, but no one seems to have noticed. “I’m at work…”

  “You shouldn’t be working in a place like this,” I say softly. “Just trash the article and get out of this place. I can take care of you. I have more money than I know what to do with.”

  Her face hardens. “How did you know I was writing an article?”

  “Lik
e I said before. You think I can just let you walk free after what you saw?”

  She takes a step back. “Here you are talking about me needing to trust you? Real nice fucking way to show it. You’ve been spying on me?”

  “And a good fuckin’ thing too, wasn’t it? Because that article you’re writing sure as hell looks like a ticket to prison for me and half my family.”

  “I wasn’t really going to submit it. I just…I’ve always wanted to break a story like this. Something dangerous and controversial that could get me off the sideline and into the newsroom. I think I had to at least write the story, even if I knew I wouldn’t go through with it.”

  “And I’m just supposed to walk away while my death warrant sits there on that fuckin’ machine?”

  Something hard enters her eyes. “What are you going to do to me if I don’t delete it?”

  “You’ve got some nerve…” I say, voice dangerously low.

  “Tell me,” she says, shoving my chest. She’s stronger than I expected, but it takes more than that to push me off balance.

  I glare back at her, feeling like hot coals are burning behind my eyes. “You want the truth? If I was able to hurt you, I would have saved myself a lot of trouble and killed you when you walked in on me with Ronnie. But I can’t.” I move a little closer, tugging at her blouse and smirking. “The only way I want to hurt you is with my hard cock and you on your knees, begging for more.”

  Her cheeks flush red, and a few emotions I can’t place pass over her face before she walks to her computer and closes the file, shows me where it’s saved, deletes it, and then empties the recycle bin. She could always write it again, of course, but I appreciate the act. I feel like we’ve finally managed to create some slender line of trust between us, even if it feels like it might snap at any moment.