"I know your stupid name," she rasps, hoarsely.
"Yeah? You practice moaning my name when you're all alone and you slip your fingers down into those little black panties?"
"Screw you, Corrado," she hisses.
I bring my lips to the shell of her ear and whisper low, "I thought that's what you were trying to avoid in here. Because by all means, baby, if you want it, I can guarantee you'll be screaming my damn name within five minutes. Desires like those are way too dangerous in this place.”
Her breathing becomes heavier. “Oh God,” she gasps.
Then she moans out my name. She moans my name over and over on her lips like I’ve imagined her doing for months. Pressing her hands against my chest, she clamps down on my shirt and twists the material in her hands like she’s afraid I'll float away. Intense blue eyes, that seems to ache when she calls out my name, stare wide-eyed at me as she pants and gasps for me. We’re barely touching, just pretending, and it is one of the most intimate things I've ever felt. I squeeze my damn eyes shut so she won’t realize how my name on her lips has the ability to take over my world.
“Yeah, baby. That’s my girl. Ride me real deep and slow,” I moan.
My heart is thudding hard against my chest, and I feel hers pounding just as fast beside it.
“Oh fuck, Corrado.” Her voice cracks over my name. “You’re going to make me come.” She thumps her head back against the door, and her eyes lock on mine. “So hard,” she breathes.
Slow and deliberate, I lift my hands past each side of her face, pressing my palms against the door, caging her in. I have to ball them into fists not to touch her. "Fuck yeah, baby," I groan out. "That's it, baby, come for me."
Together we make it sound so good, so real.
When her moans turn to whimpers, I push her hair over one shoulder and brush my lips along her neck, just a small taste of her skin. Before it’s too much, I unclench my fists and lean away from her. "That soundedintriguing."
She smirks. "We could go into business as porn star voice-overs," she whispers.
Smiling, I’m still caught in her eyes. She’s so damn beautiful. "You have any emotional attachment to this shirt?" I ask her, pinching the black cotton of her top.
"No, why?"
Sliding my hand in the back pocket of her denim skirt, I lift the serrated-edged knife I know she keeps there, flick it open and tear open her shirt from neck to belly. Her breasts, full and beautiful, bounce free and quiver with the quick rise and fall of her chest. Her lips breathe my name once more and fire surges through my veins. Her eyes widen. So close. So damn blue. Questioning me.
"Look around you, gorgeous. We're thugs. Criminals. You don't belong here. You dance like you're a damn ballerina. Get out of here before youcan'tget out. Any other one of those guys in there would have done whatever they wanted to you. They wouldn't ask for permission. And they wouldn't care if you didn't give it."
A flash of something passes behind her eyes. It’s not fear. It’s a hardness, like she’s seeing something in front of her, beyond me that I’m somehow blind to.
I reach into her bag and she catches my fingers for a moment—quickly pulling her hand back like she just touched fire. "Give me a pair of your panties from in here," I whisper. “I’m just trying to make this all look real.” Her gaze slowly drifts to my eyes as she nods in understanding. I expect her to flinch, get upset, fight with me, but she doesn’t. The corner of her lips tug up and her eyes flash a dark look. She pulls her bag slowly out of my hands and tosses it on the floor near her feet.
With her eyes still locked on mine she reaches down and slides her hands below her skirt and guides a pair of black-laced panties down her long legs and dangles them in front of my face. Her look levels me, slams me flat against the floor with images of that filthy look riding her thighs against mine. It’s like looking at the sun.Damn, I could definitely get into that.
But I don't.
Just call me Saint fucking Corrado.The patron saint of blue balls.
I growl and walk out, leaving her standing in the middle of that room alone, shredded shirt and pantyless. The card game is still going strong, it’s pretty quiet too, but every wise guy sitting there is wearing a smile, thinking they know what just went down in the back room.
"Steer clear, boys, this one's mine until I get my fill of her. I ain't sharing with any of you old wrinklyhas-beens." I hold up her panties to my lips and smile behind them.
They all raise their drinks and cheer me. Through the clinking of glasses, and spilling of liquids, her face is all I can focus on. Her head cocks to the side, leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest trying to keep everyone from seeing her breasts. Smiling cautiously back at me.
I make sure she gets to her car untouched by any of those fuckers and bounce out of there before anyone can ask questions.
I race home trying to get my head clear, never getting below ninety and blowing every light. My heart won't quit racing, thinking about the black lace between my fingers and the steering wheel, and what it looked like when they slowly skimmed against her flesh. How her hips moved, how her breasts trembled.
Storming into my apartment, I go straight to the refrigerator and pull out a beer. Twisting off the cap, I throw it clinking and clanking onto the counter, and gulp back the icy drink. It makes the blood in my veins feel warmer, yet does nothing to calm my urges. I pull out my gun. Yank out the magazine, clear the chamber, and pull it apart. From under the sink I grab the cleaning fluid and Q-tips and methodically clean the already-clean gun. Nothing erases her image. I walk out onto balcony as dawn seeps into the sky. The autumn leaves burn like fire against the sunrise. I toss my gun and my beer onto the table next to me, and collapse into a patio chair. The television from inside is on low and I can still hear the low voice of a news reporter talking about some storm lurking just east of us, over the waters of the Atlantic.
Reaching down, I pull out a hidden pack of Marlboros I keep in the bottom of the patio table and put one of the stale cigarettes to my lips. I've only had a few over the last few months, only when I needed to plan—think things through. Flipping open my zippo I light it, breathing in the old bitterness, and pick up my gun. I twirl it around like a cowboy then hold it still, looking into the round darkness of the barrel.How many people have ever felt the cool metal of a gun against their cheek on the inside of their mouth? The heaviness of a loaded gun lying on their tongue, the bitter tang of its metal tainted with just a little bit of pressure from the trigger?
I hang my head in my hands, elbows heavy on my knees and take one last drag of my smoke. This is not an easy life. I pinch my cigarette out with my fingers and gulp down the last of my beer, heading back inside. The sun is out now, blazing and burning, and it’s time for me to sleep.
