by Zahra Girard
His hand slides up and down the shaft, his eyes devour every inch of my bare skin.
“Keep going,” he orders.
I can see precum glistening on the tip, a drop that’s growing larger by the second, with each slow pump of his hand.
I turn around, looking back at him over my shoulder. Leaning forward, I undo my pants and slowly slide them off my ass, taking my time, loving the sight of his eyes staring right at me, nakedly hungry, and his hand working up and down on his delicious cock.
I kick my pants away.
All that’s left on me are my soaking wet panties.
Lips parting, his tongue sliding out to moisten them, he says again: “keep going, lass.”
I turn around to face him.
I slide my fingertips under my panties, caressing the outer-edges of my already-wet slit.
The way he’s looking at me is so wanton that I just can’t help myself. Those wide, emerald eyes of his drift over my body, caressing my tits, rolling down my abdomen, settling on my pussy. His hand moves faster, keeping time with my own.
Every bit of me wants him. Every bit of me is begging for him to strip off these panties and bend me over, but I’ve spent the whole night thinking about just how much I want him. And now that he’s here, I want to enjoy this.
I want to see just how bad he wants me.
Heat rises between my legs, coaxed to life by my eager fingers as I massage my clit. Tension and tightness swells within me.
I keep my eyes locked on Connor’s cock, my breath and my fingers moving in time with his. Faster and faster and I know that soon I’ll lose control and ride this crest of pleasure and as good as it would feel to climax while staring at this man’s lovely cock, it would feel even better with it inside me.
But I hold back.
Watching him pleasure himself while staring at me, while looking so hungry — is making this all worth it.
Then he moves.
Fast.
Powerful.
“Damn it, enough playing around,” he growls as he picks me up by the waist and carries me towards his bedroom. “We’re fucking, lass. Now.”
I squirm in his grip. But it’s a long hallway, way too long for him to make it.
He sets me down on the floor and I arch my back, raising my hips off the ground as he rips my panties off me.
“I need to fuck you. Now.”
The hardwood floor is cold, but I hardly feel a thing other than his muscular body against mine and the way his hands position me just where he wants me.
All I can think about is him. The way he’s looking at me, the way he looks — so powerful and so ready to dominate me.
He sets himself between my legs.
I feel his firm, throbbing heat at the entrance to my pussy.
I’m ready.
He takes me.
I moan.
It’s like every nerve in my body chooses that moment to come to life. I can feel every firm inch of his hard cock inside me, every detail, every curve and ridge, and it is incredible.
I gasp. My voice is harsh and jagged in my throat, a wild, clawing thing that I barely have control over.
He’s not gentle.
Not one bit.
And I love it.
Our bodies turn and twist and twine together. I wrap my legs around his back, holding him tight against me, taking every thrust as deep as I can.
My nails dig into him.
I feel heat and wet and I know I’ve drawn blood.
He growls, nipping my ear and reaching behind himself to take my hands by the wrist.
He pins them to the floor.
I’m helpless.
He owns me, now.
He fucks me. Deep and hard until I lose track of everything but the wet-hot sensation of him sliding in and out of my body.
My voice goes hoarse, but still I cry out in pleasure and pain as I struggle just to hold on.
I come, again and again, ecstasy wracks my body and sends me spiraling out of control.
“I wanted you the second I saw you. I wanted this. I wanted to fuck you until you lost your voice screaming about how much you love my cock.”
“Yes. I love your cock,” I groan.
“Louder.”
He thrusts deeper. My vision swirls. My body feels like it’s on fire.
“I love your cock,” I say again, louder.
I’m shaking. All I feel is him, taking me, owning me, commanding me.
“Again. Louder. Like you mean it, lass.”
“I LOVE YOUR COCK,” I yell. So loud it hurts.
“Good girl,” he says, leaning in to kiss me.
He’s tensing, his abs clenching and releasing, fighting in vain to hold back the climax I feel building in his cock. The words on his lips dissolve into a growl, his hands tighten their grips on my wrists, pressing me hard against the floor. It hurts so good.
I yelp.
He moans.
Tremors wrack my body as he releases inside me. Wave after wave of his climax filling me. Hot and wet, spilling out of me.
I barely recover before his lips find mine again. I lose myself in him, to him, forgetting everything else except how much I want him.
Our bodies are shaking, clutching one another in ecstasy.
When he pulls back from me, smiling down at me with that crooked grin that ties my insides in knots, I can’t help but smile back.
“You are one beautiful sight, you know that?”
If I already weren’t so flush, I’d be blushing right now.
Maybe I’m still drunk from the bachelorette party. Or maybe it’s the mind-bending sex that’s ruining my inhibitions, but some strange urge overtakes me.
I’ve been thinking about Connor all night. How he makes me feel, how the thought of him in my life — somehow — makes me smile so hard my cheeks hurt.
There’s only one word for that feeling.
“Connor, I think I love you.”
Then I think about what I just said.
Instantly, my hand slides up to cover my mouth.
Holy fuck, what am I doing? He’s a hitman, for christ sakes.
I am blushing.
My cheeks are so hot it’s a wonder they don’t catch fire.
Connor smiles and gets to his feet and then, in one smooth motion — like I’m weightless — he picks me up and throws me over his shoulder.
“Just what the hell are you doing?” I blurt out.
I am so confused. By myself, by what I just said, by what I’m thinking and feeling.
He laughs. “I’m taking you to bed, that’s what. Because I just might feel the same way. So, we’re going to go to bed, I’ll give you a second to catch your breath, and then it’s time for round two.”
I grab hold of the doorway, slowing us down. “Round two?”
Not that I don’t want it.
I just don’t know if my body’s capable of it.
Hell, I doubt I could even walk right now.
Connor shifts his grip, moving me from being over his shoulder to being right in front of him, like he’s carrying me over the threshold on our honeymoon.
Fuck, he’s strong.
He kisses me. “We Irish know a thing or two about luck. Landing a beautiful woman like yourself falls pretty high on the list. So, I’m sure as fucking hell going to enjoy this.”
I feel my grip loosening. Or rather, I loosen my grip.
“So you really feel that way about me, too?”
He nods.
“I do. Besides, after what you just said, we’re obliged to fuck at least a couple more times.”
“A couple more?”
This is getting out of control.
I think I like it.
I let go of the doorway completely.
“You’re mine now, lass,” he says, tossing me on the bed.
My back hits the smooth sheets and I look up just in time to see him and his muscled body as he kneels over me. Our lips meet and out of the corner of my eye, I s
ee his cock coming to life again.
I just might be catching my second wind.
* * * * *
Somehow, I can’t sleep.
My body is a wreck.
Every ounce of energy spent. My muscles everywhere — even muscles I didn’t know I have — hurt like I’ve spent the last few hours at the gym trying to keep up with a bodybuilder on a steroid-fueled weightlifting bender.
Next to me, Connor is snoring away in the kind of post-coital sleep that comes after multiple orgasms.
He sounds like a chainsaw.
It takes me ten minutes to find the strength to pull back the covers and another ten to stand up.
I stagger like a zombie out into the living room and plop myself down in a heap on the couch.
I don’t know what I want to do right now — my brain isn’t able to put that much of a thought together — I just know my thoughts are too active to sleep.
First, I fish my phone out from my purse.
Maybe I’ll play a game. That game where you line jewels up or something.
My phone glimmers to life at my touch and a notification blinks at me from my home screen.
It’s three in the morning and I have an email from my boss.
I should have stayed in bed.
I open it.
Thomson,
I understand you’re still young and inexperienced as a newspaper journalist, but, based on what I’d seen on you as a student at USC and the credits listed to your name, I expected far better.
Your latest submission is an embarrassment, both to yourself and anyone who ever instructed you.
Unfortunately, this is not the first time you’ve submitted disappointing work. But it is the last time I’ll accept such sub-par journalism from you.
I’ve removed your article from this Sunday’s edition of the Boston Times. You have two days to provide something print-worthy, or else you will be terminated.
Get to work.
Greg Hosking
I Hurl my phone across the room.
It feels like I’ve swallowed a lead ball and it’s just sitting I my stomach, weighing me down and making me feel nauseous.
I want to vomit. And cry. And crawl into a hole and disappear.
I need this job. If I lose it, I’ll be disappointing myself and my family.
But it’s not like I have any options.
I don’t have a story.
My notes from the transportation meeting are irredeemably bland. The animal shelter story was worthless.
I have nothing.
The one actual story I might have — the one on that flash drive — I can’t use because it will hurt Connor. And I can’t do that to him.
I flip on the television. There has to be something on to distract me from the fact that my life is going downhill at a million miles an hour.
I flip through channel after channel of infomercials. Not even the guy hawking miracle shammy cloths — who is a distractingly sleazy-looking character — is enough to take my mind off the mess I’m in.
Next up, is the local news.
It’s all so depressing.
The anchor drones on about a series of murders. Then, she mentions the words “Boston Samaritan” and my ears perk up.
That’s where Karen works.
“Hospital administrators are assuring the public that they are taking every step possible to increase security at Boston Samaritan after three patients were murdered earlier tonight. All three individuals were involved in a gang-related brawl at a bar in Brookline earlier in the day.”
I sit up.
If I wanted a distraction, I’ve found it.
“Two of the victims were suspected members of a Russian organized crime outfit, while the other was described as a witness to the bar brawl between the alleged Russian gang members and members of Boston’s Irish Mafia. All three men died by either smothering or strangulation.”
I stand. Turn off the TV. Start pacing.
All those little nagging doubts, those puzzle pieces — like the timing of Connor’s going out the other day, his busted knuckles, and his whereabouts earlier this night — they all fall in place.
I do not like what I see.
The lead ball in my stomach swells and I feel sick. I’m barely able to make it to the bathroom before I puke.
My body heaves.
Everything in my life is falling to shit. Everything. And it happens just as soon as I think I have things figured out.
For a brief time tonight, I was happy. I thought I could accept Connor for who he was, because he made me feel a kind of energy and excitement that I’d been missing.
All my life, I’ve been the good girl, the good daughter. I work hard, I take care of myself and I help my family, even though it means working for an editor that hates me, and covering stories that bore me to tears when I’d rather be doing something meaningful.
This was my chance to be with a man who excites me and respects what I do.
But after hearing this?
I can not accept him. I can not respect him.
I wont.
And if I stayed with him, I couldn’t respect myself.
I mean, strangling some innocent college kid? Snuffing his life out while he’s in the hospital?
That was evil.
I can’t believe I had sex with him. I can’t believe I saw myself having any sort of future with him.
I get dressed. I grab my things — my laptop, my phone, my spare clothes, and my purse — and I leave.
It’s a few hours to daylight, till Connor wakes up. More than enough time to get somewhere safe. Karen’s house, maybe. More than enough time to sift through the information that Elliot Meyers gave me on that flash drive.
It’s more than enough time to write the article that will put Connor and his murdering family away for good.
I’m going to shine a light on all their dirty little secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Evelyn
It’s raining. A cold, persistent drizzle that does just enough to soak through my jacket and turn me into a sopping, shivering mess.
At least the raindrops help hide my tears.
I’m angry like I’ve never been before: angry at myself, at Connor, at everything going on in my life.
On top of it all, I’m ashamed. I let myself drop into some stupid fantasy, a delusion where the man I’m dating — the man who murdered someone in front of me and who took me captive — wasn’t a cold-blooded mafia killer.
I’m supposed to be smarter than this.
I’m supposed to ask hard questions. I’m a goddamn journalist after all.
Yet, here I am, in a colossal mess that I created for myself.
When Karen answers the door, dressed in a flimsy robe, I almost don’t know what to say.
She takes one look at me, takes me by the hand, and says: “Come on in.”
I’m barely through the door before she pulls me in to the tightest hug I’ve ever felt in my life. She knows just what to do. She’s a good friend.
Mark’s behind her, standing at the top of the stairway, looking down on the two of us.
“What’s wrong?” She says.
How do I begin? And how much can I tell them before it puts them in danger?
This all whirls through my head as I sob into her shoulder.
Fuck, I’m a mess.
“I need to stay here for a little while. Please.”
“What happened, Evelyn? Did someone hurt you?” Mark says.
“Evie, are you ok?” Karen asks, her voice cutting over her fiance’s.
I shake my head.
Karen guides me inside to their kitchen and starts up their coffee maker.
“Sit down,” she says.
I drop my things in a heap and do as she tells me. It isn’t in me to do anything but take orders right now. All my energy got spent in getting me here, and burnt out in the cab ride over as I broke down crying in the back seat.
That poor taxi dr
iver.
She puts a cup of black coffee in my hands, pours one for herself and her fiance, and they each sit down next to me.
“What’s wrong?”
So many things.
It takes a while for me to find my voice. Thankfully, they’re patient. They don’t look anything but concerned; they don’t push me.
It helps.
Haltingly, I speak. “I’ve been seeing this guy. I told you a bit about him. Anyways… Things got bad, and I can’t go home right now. He knows where I live. I just need somewhere to stay for a while. Ok?”
“Where does he live? I can go have a talk with him, if you want,” Mark says.
I’m flattered. I know Mark doesn’t plan to just ‘talk’ with Connor. But I don’t want my best friend’s fiance to get murdered. And that would be the only real outcome from Mark having a “talk” with him.
I shake my head. “No, don’t, please. Just let me take care of this. All I need is to crash on your couch for a few days, ok?”
“Of course,” Karen says. “Stay as long as you need.”
“You need anything, just ask,” Mark echoes.
I nod.
Exhaustion, physical and mental and emotional, floods through my body. My whole night’s been a sleepless roller coaster and my body and my heart both feel the wear.
“I think I’m just going to sleep,” I say, pushing the coffee back, untouched.
Karen nods and guides me to their couch. Mark disappears for a minute, coming back with a bundle of blankets in his arms.
He and Karen both cover me, until I’m ensconced in thick, flannel comfort. They are both so deliberate and kind in how they lay me out that there is no doubt in my mind that they’ve found their calling in taking care of others.
Karen kneels and kisses my forehead. “Get some rest.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
They leave me and I abandon myself to my exhaustion.
It’s hours before I wake.
Their house is empty and there’s a note on the coffee table next to the couch. Breakfast is in the fridge. Hope you like bacon, it says, in a man’s chicken scratch.
I do like bacon.
I pull a plate of it from the fridge, reheat my coffee, and get to work. I comfort-eat an obscene amount of it.
Elliot’s work is easy to decipher. For all his talk of encryption and cyber security, the data I have from him is straightforward. Payments, kickbacks, corruption, all implicating accounts that Elliot’s tied to the MacCailin crime family.
