Page 44 of The Hitman

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t move either. Somewhere on the other side of the train, a small spat erupts and is quickly quieted, but it’s as if it’s happening on a different car or a different train — maybe even another world — because in the little world of these two small seats that we’ve occupied, it’s as if nothing can touch us. She leans into me, fully relaxing in my arms for the first time, and I hold on tight. After a while, she turns her head and brushes her soft lips across my cheek.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she whispers to me. Her voice is as soft as her cunt and her skin.

I’m ready.

I’m not an exhibitionist, and maybe Zahra isn’t either, but I think we both like this relatively tame flirtation with danger; that at any moment, someone could discover what we’re doing. I push my hips upward, rocking into her slowly and then retreating. There’s not much room to maneuver myself in and out of her the way I imagined last night after I left her hotel room, but that’s okay. We’ll make this work.

I sink down in my seat and pull her on top of me. From this angle, I can pull out a few inches more and press into her a few inches deeper, heightening the pleasure of each stroke. She buries her face in the crook of my neck and moans as quietly as she can. I feel the vibrations of her breath all over my skin, and it pushes me closer to the edge. I won’t last long inside of her.

She shivers around my cock in another orgasm. “Cazzo.”

“Fuck,” she says, echoing my thoughts. “So good.”

“Si.” I wrap both arms around her. “Are you ready?”

“God, yes,” she moans against my cheek.

Now that I have a hold on her, it’s easier to lift her from my lap, pulling her up the length of my shaft as I retreat and lowering her onto my lap as I push inside her again. There is something so delicious and wrong about the way we have to fold into one another to make this position work without rousing the person in front of us — again — or dislodging the thin cover provided by Zahra’s skirt.

But it works. We make it work.

“Oh, God,” she moans again. “Fuck me, just like that.”

“Solo Dio può fermarmi,” I tell her, my breath ruffling her curls. I pump up into her with a singular brutal thrust to accentuate my promise.

Zahra rewards me by sinking her teeth into my neck to muffle her moan, but I hear it loud and clear — I feel it vibrating over my skin — and it sends me into a frenzy.

The seat we’re in squeaks each time I pull out of her, and every time I push back inside. Zahra’s muffled moans turn to cries as she shivers in my tight hold, and her cunt grips me like a vice. I’m breathing so hard I feel as if I’m running beside the train. If we cared about being quiet before, we don’t any longer.

Our little corner of the train feels like a sauna. We’re both covered in sweat, and I can smell the delicious scents of her cunt and soap and perfume mingling in the air. I want to suffocate in it.

This is temporary. We both know that. But when I fill the condom between us, and she grunts out yet another release, it feels endless. It feels like this moment — this thing between us — could be something that we both know it can’t.

She breathes a soft, exhausted laugh and raises her eyes to mine. I brush a few wet strands of hair from her face. Her eyes are soft and unfocused. She’s here, but not quite.

“Bellissima,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “I know that word.”

“Bene.”

This moment is softer than anything I’ve ever experienced before, and of course, it’s ruined.

The heavy metal door between the cars scrapes open. “Biglietti,” the conductor calls as he steps into the car.

Zahra reacts faster than I can. She reaches inside my jacket pocket, snatches the tickets, and shows them to the conductor. Her other hand moves to the skirt of her dress and smooths it down, trying to cover the place where our bodies are joined. I don’t help her because I don’t care.

When the conductor moves away, I tell her again. “You are beautiful.”

She looks at me and licks her lips.

The movement reminds me that I haven’t kissed her yet. I move to sit up, stretching my neck to get my mouth nearer to hers, but she mistakes my intentions and leans away. I groan as she carefully lifts herself from my lap. I already miss her wet warmth around me.

“I made a mess,” she says. She sounds shocked.

I’m not. I look down and am thankful that I changed into dark trousers before we left the hotel. The wet spot she’s left on me is barely visible, but her smell is everywhere, as it should be.

“You should go clean up,” she says.

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