Page 16 of The Hitman

Unfortunately, he notices and laughs again, but this one sounds different. Can a laugh sound contemplative? If so, this one does. And I don’t have to wonder what — or who — he’s contemplating. Me. My hard nipples. My aching pussy. His lurching dick.

And so am I.

I haven’t had sex with anyone but Ryan in six years, and besides the occasional daydream, I haven’t even thought about it. But right now, I’m thinking about it —reallythinking about it — and the Hairy Italian knows it. I can see it in his eyes. What he can’t see is the conflict I’m feeling about Ryan. Not because I still feel some kind of loyalty to my ex and his community dick, but because in six years, Ryan never made me wet just with a look. And I was going to marry him! Why?

If Zoe were here, she’d have told me to put my existential crisis on hold and take this man back to my hotel room. My older sister has a very firm belief in sex before feelings. Actually, scratch that, she’s more of a sex, no feelings type of person. She doesn’t believe in coincidences or regrets, and she’s always said that if more women followed their body’s advice on who to fuck — but especially on who not to — their lives would be easier. I usually ignore her and her life advice, but only because I’ve always known she was right, and I didn’t have the guts to follow her lead. My body said Ryan was a good provider, but my pussy’s rating of him was… “Meh.”

My pussy has a very different assessment of the man in front of me with his short briefs, downy chest, and cocky grin.

A drop of water falls from the tip of his chin onto my foot, and I swear I have to swallow a moan. He catches that too. Okay, there’s a definite downside to too much attention.

His eyes watch my throat bob, and he opens his mouth, but whatever he’s about to say is lost in the loud intrusion of screeching children.

We both turn to see four kids sprint right into the pool, intruding on the quiet, intense moment we’d been sharing. The quiet, intense moment that was maybe about to end with me fucking a complete stranger on a deck chair for anyone having a leisurely lunch in the hotel restaurant to see.

The intrusion should have doused my mood, but it doesn’t. And even though I never take Zoe’s advice — to my peril — I decide to do so now. If there are no coincidences, then those loud ass kids aren’t an accident. No strange public sex for me, and to cement that fact, I stand from the deck chair in a rush. I set my wine glass down, grab my purse, and clutch it against my chest — to hide my nipples — push my glasses up the bridge of my sweaty nose, and rush back into the building.

“Wait, tesora,” the man calls after me.

I pretend not to hear him.

8Giulio

I want to follow her,but I can’t. My dick is so hard that I practically expose myself when I turn to call after her. I wrap the towel around my waist and grab my clothes from the lounge chair I’d claimed and then rush back into the hotel. She’s gone.

I consider asking someone at the front desk if they saw a beautiful woman with big sunglasses and the most perfect nipples ever created and if they can tell me what room she’s in, but after the strange encounter this morning, I don’t think that’s the best idea. I consider waiting around the lobby just in case she reappears, but Salvo told me to lay low, and stalking some beautiful, angry American around seems like the opposite of that. Besides, my dick is so hard that it’s actually hard to walk. I slink up to my room instead.

My room door isn’t even closed before I drop my clothes and rip the towel open. I let it fall to the tile at my feet and dig my hand into my briefs. My head falls back, and I groan so fucking loudly in relief that I hope the person next door hears me. A small payback for the last two nights.

I push my trunks down my legs just far enough to get my balls free and lean back against the door. I give myself an exploratory stroke, squeezing the tip hard enough to hurt, and pull back to the root, twisting my hand as I go.

“Ai, cazzo,” I hiss. My hand feels great. It’s not a warm, wet pussy, but I can get the job done. And I’m about to. I love a good masturbation session, but this is going to be a great one. I’m already pulling up the memory of those sunglasses perched on the tip of a soft button nose and a pink tongue swiping across the rim of a wine glass from my mind. I’m ready to pore over every second I spent with the Angry American to give myself the messiest solo orgasm I’ve had in a while when there’s a tentative knock on my door.

“Merda,” I grunt, squeezing my leaking tip.

“Va via,” I yell through the wooden door.

“Sono io. La cameriera del ristorante,” she whispers through the door.

I pull the door open in a heartbeat. I don’t cover myself. Why would I? The waitress’s eyes and mouth widen in shock, and because I’m a vain fucker, I love it.

I pull her into my room. She mumbles something about not having a lot of time, and embarrassingly, I know I won’t need it. I don’t tell her that, of course, I simply pull her into my arms and crush her mouth to mine. My dick is caught between us, and while I don’t love the friction caused by her rough nylon trousers, I don’t hate it either. I walk her back into my bedroom awkwardly, with my trunks still down around my thighs, and then I throw her onto the bed.

She giggles. I don’t like that sound. It’s girlish and innocent, and that might get some men off, but not me.

“Nuda,” I bark at her to cut off the noise. Thankfully, she stops giggling as she does what I say. I push my trunks down my legs and then move, naked, to the closet. I open my suitcase, an errant ray of light hitting the metal of the case where I keep my travel guns, with a combination only I know, and no one would guess. To a novice, it looks like nothing more than a small suitcase, but I cover it. I grab the brand-new box of condoms I bought for the occasion and rip it open. I pluck a foil packet from inside and do the same. I groan as I roll the latex down my shaft. I definitely will not last long, but I’ll make it good for…whatever the waitress’s name is. I need to protect my reputation just in case there are other waitresses willing to deliver their pussies to me on a silver platter.

“Si, cazzo,” she hisses when she sees me, and I feel the same. She’s not fully naked, but she’s shimmied out of her trousers and underwear, and her shirt is hanging off one arm.

That will have to do.

I pounce on top of her, burying my face between those deliciously full breasts. I lick at her pink nipples and suck them into my mouth in turn greedily. She squirms underneath me, the soft skin of her thighs caressing my balls. Much better.

She runs her fingers through my hair. I want to tell her that she can tug on it a little, just enough for me to feel a sting at my scalp and the base of my dick, but my mouth is currently busy. I wonder if I would have to give that kind of direction to the Angry American. She’d probably be pulling my hair and scratching at my scalp out of general annoyance. Maybe she’d even bite my shoulders.

My hips jut forward at the thought of her teeth sinking, just the tiniest bit, into my skin. Not enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark.

And that does it.

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