Shaking my head, he repeated himself, adding my honorifics. Sir, Master, Daddy. At that point, I had him sat on the bench with his legs as far up as they’d go. He sucked one, then two fingers, each time I twisted them gently inside his ass, opening him.
“No touching,” I said as he reached for his cock. “It’s mine.”
“Yes, Sir—Daddy.”
Taking him by the back of the neck, I pulled him into the pretzel shape I’d made of his body and kissed him. My tongue didn’t need to fight for space, he was submissive to it, wanting it. My tongue was approval, and he was giving my the tour.
While kissing him, I positioned my cock against the spit-lubed ass. It went in with ease. My hand took his cock and as I pumped myself into him, I jerked him off, like it was a joystick and I was desperate to get the combo attack shot. Down, up, down, up, squeeze, squeeze, down, up, then spit on it.
Artemis didn’t last long—I hadn’t let him touch himself at all, and from my tablet, this was the first time he was cumming in weeks. He shot his load and kept on cumming. From kissing him, I found droplets of cum had splashed against his chin. I licked it clean while I went balls deep inside him until he was ready for the honor that came with my load.
***
He wasn’t ready for the job. I could do it alone, it was an easy gig, delivering washed cash to the client. I’d done it so many times, always alone, and always without a hitch. Artemis beingattached to the job was unpredictable, it was impossible to know how he was going to be out there in the world.
In my apartment, I sat on the sofa reading the file over.
Artemis was on his knees in front of me, back to being obedient. I glanced to him occasionally from the file. The one thing I didn’t want was him in the line of fire—him being here was all my fault to begin with—it was me to blame if he was hurt. No if, ands, or buts about it. He was mine.
“We have three days to get you ready,” I told him, snapping the file shut. “Three days. Do you think you can do it?”
He nodded. “Can I know what it’s for?”
I tightened my grip on the file for a moment. “I know it might not mean much, but you’re gonna learn quick, big numbers aren’t always so impressive, and you’ll be signing your own death warrant if you steal—from both sides, Mercy by name, but not by nature, you don’t want to get on her bad side.”
“I’m not gonna steal,” he said, his brows coming together angrily. “I—” His face eased as he nodded. “I’m a professional. Can I look at the file?”
I patted the seat on the sofa. “Five minutes,” I told him. “Familiarize yourself with names and numbers quick.”
The file was to deliver 2.8 million dollars in clean bills to the Bianchi family in Boston. With their father recently passing away, the three brothers took the mantel, working together to cement themselves in the community as the bosses. This money was just what they needed.
“What kind of crime do they do?” he asked after only a moment with the file open.
There were a lot of crime families and some of them were into some heinous shit. I always tried to keep a moral obligation not to get involved in anything where innocent people were fucked over. “Gambling, money laundering, except for this sumwhich they had Mercy wash. Known loan sharks, and they have a pay for protection thing—code for extortion.”
He stared at the file. “Why so much money?”
“Father’s will, I think.” I shrugged. It was just a guess. “We don’t ask question on where the money is from, in fact, we don’t ask questions at all for these types of jobs. Questions get you killed.”
Art gulped, and I wanted to pat him and tell him that wouldn’t happen to him. It drove me crazy how my feeling wouldn’t switch off when they needed to. I was a stone-cold killer, yet Artemis was making me feel all deflated and floppy. I just wanted to grab him by the face, squeeze his cheeks—and probably tell him to shave again—which he never did, the one time I let him disobey me because he did look good with the scruff, but it wasn’t what I wanted to feel.
“Are you ok?” he asked, all doe eyed and innocent looking. “I’m excited we’re getting to go out. It says here we get comms and an assault belt.”
“Gun and knife,” I said, plainly. I was already sending him mixed signals with the fucking, I couldn’t show him the side to me I’d tried hard to erase from his mind—but it existed in mine with every cool wind against my neck—I remembered those nights in the warm air, no air conditioning but we didn’t care that our warm bodies were sticking together. “You seen enough?”
“Yep, pretty simple,” he said, handing it to me. “Three hour drive, unload the money, and drive back. Simple.”
***
Forcing Art to get on the punching bag harder than ever, then straight into arms training. He was far from a sharpshooter, but gone were the days I remembered of him flinching whenever mygun was on show. Those days were long gone, and I still only had myself to blame.
As I watched with a forced smile, Art landing another punch on the bag. I could see his lips moving as if he was cussing me out or something, I didn’t blame him, I was being tough on him for a reason. And he was going to have to suck it up, because this was all different now.
“A killer hook can make the difference between you stunning your opponent and then getting an uppercut in on the sneak,” I told him. “It can change an outcome if timing is perfect. Don’t be afraid to break their nose.”
Sweat dripped off him as he pounded the bag, and on the recoil of his arm, it flicked against me. Slamming a fist and sending the bag on a tilt, which came back with the same force. He ducked it, weaved between it, and punched it again. “How was that?” he asked, wiping back the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hands in blood-sweat soaked wraps.
“Good,” I said. “You’re no longer hesitating and actually going in with force on the jab. Go shower, I’m not letting you touch a gun with those hands.”
