Gunslinger: A Sports Romance

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  “Eyes on me Duchess.”

  He’s a genius, because that smack was just the little push I needed to come completely down.

  Oh. My. God.

  I feel full and stretched beyond measure, but it also feels utterly amazing.

  He starts using both of his hands to knead my ass cheeks, which helps my hips build a rhythmic rocking momentum.

  Forward and back.

  Forward and back.

  After a few minutes, we start to find a mutual cadence. As I work my hips forward he pulls me back down, and I feel as if I’m having an out of body experience as he strokes me over and over. I’m doing it. I’m riding him. And now I’m also starting to feel that familiar tension build down below. The tension I’ve only felt when Roman is about to give me one of the most delicious orgasms ever. This is another first for me. I’ve never come while having sex, and I think it’s about to happen. Now Roman is using his hands to speed things up and bouncing me gently up and down. Up and down. I’m still looking at him. I’m totally concentrating on his face. I’m trying to stay focused and not come.

  It’s intense, and it ain’t working.

  “You better not be coming Duchess.” He warns with the sexiest grin on his face.

  He needs to shut up. The more he talks, the more I’m about to frackin’ come. Everything that comes out of his mouth right now is making me crazy. I’m starting to see that this is part of his game. He wants me to fail.

  “You better ask for permission Duchess.” He says fervently.

  I don’t know what to say. I barely say anything during sex, much less know how to start asking for shit.

  He smacks my ass and I gasp.

  “You know what’s coming if you don’t ask permission baby. Last chance.”

  It’s too late.

  The jackass was talking too much. Everything he says is a turn on, so I scream loud enough for his neighbors to hear, and the orgasm is so frackin’ powerful that I feel a rush of adrenaline straight to my head and it almost knocks me dead on my ass.

  Nope. I’m dead.

  Death by orgasm.

  “I have one rule.” He rumbles after catching his own breath.

  I know, I know.

  “And you broke it.”

  He quickly lifts me up and lays me across his legs on my stomach. He gives me a throw pillow to rest my head on, since my bottom half is on his lap. I notice that his dick is still rock hard and still sheathed in the condom. I can’t believe he didn’t come yet. Wow.

  “Now for your punishment Duchess.”

  “What are you some half ass Dom–”

  One of his massive hands comes down like a hammer on my left ass cheek and I yelp.

  “Ow!”

  He doesn’t say sorry or ask me if I’m ok, but just continues smacking on me. On the right cheek, then the left. Right. Left. Each one hurting a bit more than the last. I count seven slaps on each cheek when he finally stops to abruptly slide a finger deep inside of me. I don’t think I can tolerate another orgasm. I’m pretty sure I’ll pass out. Yet somehow I think that’s the point. Part of the punishment.

  I’m definitely learning. Roman is kinky and dominant and delicious.

  “I knew you’d be wet,” he mumbles. “Perfection.”

  Just when he lulls me into full-blown horniness again, here comes another smack.

  Whack!

  “Masterson–” I whine in between tears and ecstasy.

  No response from him. He just continues with another seven smacks on each cheek, then another round of finger fucking. My bottom is burning but the fingers inside me seem to level the pain out with an equally pleasurable sensation.

  At this point I’m screaming, but I’m not sure for what. To stop or to keep going?

  Finally when the next slap comes, I come hard.

  It’s brutal.

  It comes in waves this time and it makes my pussy pulse over and over.

  I’m spent.

  Afterwards I curl in a fetal position on Roman’s lap, curl my arms around his waist, and close my eyelids. I know I shouldn’t, but this was the closest thing to euphoria that I’ve ever experienced, and I want to be close to him. That is until I feel Mr. Tibbs’ cold blue eyes staring up at my warm brown ones. I know it sounds nutty, but there’s something about the way he’s watching me that makes me start to feel self-conscious. Like he’s judging me.

  “You okay Duchess?”

  I start to rustle around.

  “Yep, just probably should get going home.”

  “Home?”

  “Yeah.” I can’t bear to look him in the eyes.

  “It’s the middle of the afternoon. Why the hell are you leaving?”

  I pick up my bra and tank top, ignoring his question, and politely ask him where the bathroom is.

  “Where the FUCK are you going? Don’t make me ask you again!” He roars violently.

  I don’t mean to, but I inadvertently flinch from the loud volume of his protest. When I do, he takes a long look at me from head to toe and stares at me in a way I’ve never seen before. Like he’s just realized what we’ve done and is scared shitless by it too.

  “I’m sorry Elizabeth. I didn’t mean to frighten you. The bathroom is straight back and the last door on the left. When you’re ready I’ll take you home.”

  After I shut myself away in Roman’s bathroom, I snap my bra back on, and fix my clothes. I take a really long look at myself in the mirror and almost gasp. My makeup is completely smeared, my hair is all over the place, and I look like I’ve been thoroughly fucked … by my cousin.

  I’ve hit an all time low. I start to cry. All I can do now is try my best to rinse my face with some water, hand soap and toilet tissue and promise myself that this will never happen again.

  “I’m ready to go,” Is all I say once I’ve gotten myself together and out of the bathroom. I think he notices that I’ve been crying, but he doesn’t say anything.

  We simply leave his apartment and ride home in the Rover in complete and utter silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ELIZABETH

  JUST LIKE A DRUG ADDICT, I wake up the next day regretting my hit of Roman. And just like an addict, I start promising myself that I’ll get clean. Telling myself that I’ll make smarter choices from now on. Unfortunately like a meth head, my addiction for the bad boy is growing stronger and more powerful with each passing day. I’ve been plotting and planning all morning how I can acquire just one more hit of Roman and then finally quit him cold turkey.

  But then divine intervention strikes and that’s when it happens.

  The call that changes everything.

  A woman named Mrs. Daniella Nelson calls and introduces herself as the executive assistant to a Mr. Henry Lambert. Not the junior level money manager that Sloan knows, but the actual head of the entire investment group. The group that has the power to invest a lot of money into my business.

  “Miss Hill we have an unexpected break in the schedule tomorrow afternoon, and I thought this would be the perfect time for you to pitch Mr. Lambert.”

  Shut the front door!

  “Thanks for thinking of me Mrs. Nelson. I’d love to pitch Mr. Lambert tomorrow. Just tell me the time and I’ll be there. The office on North 16th right?”

  I’m going to need to email Krishna and see if he can make a few quick tweaks to my code.

  “No Miss Hill, Mr. Lambert is away at The Atlantis Hotel in the Bahamas attending a conference. He has a pocket of time in between two panels and asked specifically to meet with you. You’ll have to fly to him.”

  I pause for a moment, because my first thought is of Roman. He’ll go ballistic if I just leave the country without, I don’t know, talking to him about it. Plus a little part of me doesn’t want to leave to do something so big without getting his opinion. Oh good grief! I sound ridiculous. Maybe this is just what the two of us need. Space. A minute to get our heads together. To remember that we’re cousins, not star crossed lover
s.

  “Umm, I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to swing this last minute Mrs. Nelson.” I say with regret. The truth is, is that I don’t have enough room on any of my credit cards for a plane ticket around the corner much less to the Bahamas.

  “We’ll purchase the ticket and reserve your room of course Miss Hill. All you’ll need to worry about is a great presentation. If you agree, your flight leaves at 8:30am tomorrow. You’ll need to get there early of course because it’s international travel. You have a passport right?”

  “I do.”

  “Excellent! So should I reserve your seat and let Mr. Lambert know that you’re on your way?”

  This is it Elizabeth. Your Plan B.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Okay, can you email me your details? Send me your full name, birthdate, passport number and all that jazz, and I’ll email you your boarding pass. Make sure to print it out and bring it with you to the gate.”

  “Absolutely. I’m on it right now.”

  “And Miss Hill?”

  “Yes?”

  “Good luck.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ROMAN

  “What in the ham sandwich happened in here?”

  Jade enters my apartment door cautiously; poking her head inside and looking around corners while randomly kicking things on the floor with the rounded toe of her Converse. I forgot that I gave her a copy of my key if I ever became “unresponsive”.

  It’s a safety precaution we put in place just in case I was ever in trouble, and she needed to access my emergency cash or gun stash. She’s never had to use it until today, although had to use is a strong term for her being here. I don’t need her assistance at all, and she knows it. She’s just being nosy.

  “This place is a real fucking mess Roman and so are you.”

  Tell me something I don’t already know you tiny terror.

  “Shut up Jade.”

  “We really need to talk about how you speak to your employees, if you’re going to take over the business. Your people skills suck.”

  After the awkward drive home with Elizabeth the other day, I called myself giving her a little distance. I know that I moved entirely too fast with her when she was over my place, and that I probably scared the ever living shit out of her. So I thought it was best that I take yesterday off and make it a “No Duchess Day,” because when I’m around her, I can’t help but want to get inside her in any way she’ll allow me to. Her mind. Her body.

  Fortunately my “No Duchess Day” gave me a chunk of distraction-free time to take a serious look over of the ownership agreements I’ve signed with Joseph, along with my lawyer, and to start setting up meetings with management of each club. I have a lot of ideas on how to improve productivity and increase revenue, especially now that Camden and Cutter have agreed to be the managing partners of all the clubs.

  Unfortunately though, I now realize why a “No Duchess Day” was a bad idea, because that woman is capable of anything in twenty-four hours. I run by the house under the pretense of asking Joseph to clarify something in one of the contracts and learn from Juliette that Elizabeth went out of the fucking country to meet some investor, without so much as a single word to me.

  After that my brain and my body went on autopilot. Juliette fixed me something to eat, and I have zero idea of what was on the plate. I just wolfed it down while I thought about a hundred ways to get on a plane to the Bahamas with a non-registered gun. I asked Joseph about clause number twelve in one of the contracts, but I’ll be damned if I have any recall of his explanation.

  Not that it mattered.

  It was all a front to get in the front door and put eyes on Elizabeth anyway. I just needed to know that she was okay. That she didn’t hate me. I wanted to know if she had been thinking about me or about what we did. I’d know if I saw her. Elizabeth is easy to read. Those expressive eyes of hers tell the truth even when she does her best to lie her ass off. Especially to me.

  Now she’s gone.

  When I finally made it home, and I definitely don’t remember exactly how I got here, I sat down with my old friend Jack Daniels and drank myself into a coma and then later into a violent rage. That thing, that monster inside me, which I desperately try to keep at bay was rearing its ugly head. That thing telling me I’m not good enough. That I’m trash. That I can’t be trusted. I start tossing shit all around the place, destroying my own home; my crowning achievement. Because it doesn’t mean shit if I don’t mean shit to the one person that is starting to matter to me.

  So now I’m sitting on my couch, the same couch that I spread Elizabeth across and fucked her thoroughly on just a day ago, and I’m staring at a blank flat screen. Wondering when the hell did I turn into a complete pussy and what I’m going to do about it– because this shit sucks.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Jade in a very annoyed voice like the prick that I am.

  “You didn’t return my call or text for over eight hours homie. You know the protocol. You created it. You could have been in jail or dead in an alley somewhere. What is going on? And don’t tell me nothing because we both know that’s a bunch of bullshit. Is this about Joseph?”

  “No Jade.”

  “Your mom?”

  “No.” I snap. Talking about my mother has always been off-limits.

  “Then what?”

  “Elizabeth is gone.”

  Jade’s eyes grow wide with fear, and I know instantly that she knows something that I don’t. Why would she react like that?

  “What is it, Jade?” I ask with little patience in my voice. “What.”

  “Do you know where she went?” She asks nervously.

  “To the Bahamas. Why?”

  “Oh shit.” Jade rubs the palms of her hands nervously up and down the front of her jeans. “You asked me to look into the ex.”

  “AND!”

  “Well the boyfriend Ethan. He’s not in rehab.”

  My chest constricts. I’m not liking this. I’m really not liking this.

  “When did he get out?”

  “He didn’t. He was never in rehab. At least not in Arizona like Elizabeth thinks.”

  “So where the fuck is he, Jade?”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure he’s in the Bahamas.”

  END OF BOOK ONE

  ♥♥♥

  Want to find out what happens next? Roman & Elizabeth’s Story Continues In Cousins Book Two.

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  COUSINS BOOK 2

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I should notice Jade in the room, because she’s basically standing directly in front of me with her legs shoulder width apart, both hands on her hips, and her miniature skull cocked to the side; but I’m so inside of my own head right now, it’s almost as if she’s a silhouette blending into the background with the rest of the furniture.

  I should also probably hear everything Jade is saying to me, because she’s popping her usual wad of god-awful gum in her mouth while talking completely at me, but even her voice is like white noise to me right now.

  I don’t hear shit.

  I’m sitting on the floor of my living room, methodically taking apart and reassembling my Beretta 92FS while separating and scarfing down yellow peanut M&Ms. If a stranger was a fly on the wall inside my apartment right now, he or she would probably be staring at me as if I was completely certifiable; basically how Jade is looking at me at this very minute.

  What I’ve never told her or anyone for that matter is that I was taught by a school counselor, who I was forced to meet with in the twelfth grade (by Joseph’s request I suspect), that I needed to create rituals for myself in order to self soothe.

  In other words, to calm the fuck down.

  When my insides are dark and stormy, this is what I do. I either create a ne
w ritual on the fly or fall back on one of my old standards, but whichever method I select, they always have to mean something to me. And only me.

  I was barely six years old when my mother woke me up on a weekday at five a.m. and announced that we were going to walk all the way from our house to Walmart (which was at least two miles away) and wait for them to open. She had purchased a vacuum cleaner from there that she wanted to return immediately, because the power cord would not automatically wind back inside its compartment, and she was livid. This is what it could be like living with my mother. She acted on every impulse, every whim, and every emotion. Many times at my expense.

  After the time it took to get there, we waited another two hours for Walmart to open that day, and then she told me to sit on the walkway in front of the store with the vacuum cleaner while she made a run to the bank. I didn’t understand at my age that there were no banks open at seven a.m., at least not in our neighborhood, so I did as I was told and waited.

  It was cold that day and the longer I sat on the concrete, and the longer she was gone, the more anxious I became. I was shivering with my arms around a vacuum cleaner box as store employees pulled inside the parking lot to begin their workday. Most of them gave me inquisitive but brief glances as they continued their labored marches inside the building. Everyone except a cashier named Caroline. A round, robust woman with little to no hair on her head (my guess was due to chemo) but a huge smile, and she stopped to speak to me when no one else bothered to that day.

  “Why are you sitting out here all alone son?”

  “My mom’s vacuum cleaner doesn’t work.”

  “Where is your momma?”

  “At the bank.”

  “The bank? Which one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hmmm … what’s your name?”

  “Roman. What’s yours?”

  “See my name tag? Can you read it?”

  “Yep. It says Caroleene.”

  “That’s Caroline.”

  “That’s what I said. Caroleene.”

  She flashed me another one of her warm smiles.

  “Are you in school yet, Roman?”

  “Sometimes.” I said not realizing what was very wrong with that answer.