Page 24 of The Hitman

She mirrors me, lifting her left hand, and slips two fingers into her mouth. I stroke myself with renewed vigor as her dainty fingers circle her left nipple and then move back down her stomach. I watch her movements intently. How can I not?

She moves that scrap of fabric aside again to stroke the hard bud of her clit. I can see it now, peeking between her lips, and I want to taste it. I want to taste her.

“No,” I bite out in a sharp command.

Her fingers still. My balls tighten against my body at how easy that was; how easy all of this has been.

“You watch me. And then I watch you,” I say through clenched teeth.

“You don’t want to play together?” she asks as her index finger moves over her lips. She presses at her opening but doesn’t push inside.

I have to tear my eyes away, force myself to meet her gaze. “If we play together, you’re going to end up over the back of this couch,” I tell her.

“I don’t fuck strangers,” she says. I believe her. She’s playing with fire because her defenses are down, and I’m a terrible man, but even I have a faint whisper of morality, so I need to keep ahold of this moment for the both of us.

She looks frustrated, as if she wants to change her mind, but can’t, and that hesitation is all I need to know that I’ve made the right decision.

“I come, and then you come,” I repeat.

There’s a moment of hesitation before she sighs in resignation. “Fine,” she says, “then come.”

And I do. As soon as she says those three words, I groan loudly as my cock jerks and spurts messily over my lap and stomach. But I don’t stop, because she’s watching me, and I want her to remember this moment as surely as I will. I stroke myself furiously with a tight grip trying to wring every drop of come from my aching cock for her. I want her to watch me come and know that all of this is for her. Like a tribute.

I don’t know if she understands — I hope she doesn’t — but she does watch me, cupping her sex and sipping wine straight from the bottle the entire time.

I hope she’s enjoying the view.

* * *

Zahra

For a man who liked to show off, Ryan never once masturbated for me, and I’m suddenly resentful, even though I never even considered that this was a thing we could do. Still, I’m borderline pissed the fuck off that he didn’t consider it either, and this anger is something completely separate from the betrayal.

That’s foolish, right, that I even care about this, since…you know, everything else? But I do care. I can’t explain why I’m so pissed off except that watching this stranger — Jesus, I don’t even know this man’s name! — come all over himself uncovers a small door inside me that I didn’t even know existed. It’s like a lightbulb goes off in my head at the sight, and I suddenly know something new; something I hadn’t even realized was a possibility one second is a sure thing the next.

That new self-realization? That I feel powerful in a way I never have before knowing that I can make someone come so hard, they turn into a sweaty, shaking mess. Because of me. Because I wanted it. Because I told him to do it. None of the very expensive wine I’ve been drinking like water has made me feel so light or intoxicated. And shockingly, nothing has made me feel so completely over Ryan than knowing that he deprived me of this feeling.

Just as I think that, this strange man stands from the couch, stuffing his wet dick inside his shorts. His t-shirt sticks to the mess he made on his stomach.

Dirty. This entire situation is dirty. I’m shocked by how much I like it.

He steps around the coffee table and then sits on it, right in between my legs. He grabs the bottle of wine from me, careful not to touch my skin. He tips his head back, and I watch his throat bob as he takes a deep drink from the bottle Ryan is paying for.

“Your turn,” he says, eyeing me casually as if this moment is nothing spectacular or special or new. And he’s so effortlessly sexy and filthy that I think that’s a very real possibility.

“Can you see?” I ask playfully.

“Con chiarezza,” he says very seriously.

I don’t know what that means exactly, but I’m pathetically obsessed with the way the Italian rolls off his tongue.

I watch his face as I pull my lingerie aside again. He groans.

I watch as he uses his free hand to reposition his dick. I wonder if he’s hard again. I slide two fingers down my slit, feeling the wet warmth of my sex. He licks his lips and takes another sip of wine.

“Are you wet, tesora?”

I use my fingers to open my slit for him.

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