Page 62 of The Hitman

I scoff. “I was damn close on the train,” I admit.

He shakes his head again. “No, tesora. It would be impossible for you to forget your name because it’s the only thing I can remember when I’m inside you. Now, wrap your arms around my neck.”

The spin from that unexpected admission to another command is so beautifully disorienting. It’s exactly what I need, even if I never would have thought to ask for it. I don’t know if I can handle the force of him, even though I’ve asked him to give it to me; to give himself to me.

I wrap my arms around his neck and hold tight.

He pumps his fingers into me a few more times before grabbing me at the waist with both hands.

I gasp and whine at the same time. That’s a new sound I’ve never made before and might never make again. He lifts me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist without hesitation. I feel his dick against my ass and shudder.

This seems to remind him that he’s bare. “Fuck, I’ll go get a condom.”

“Fuck me raw,” I tell him hurriedly. “Please.”

I think it’s the word ‘raw’ that sends him over the edge. He doesn’t tell me that it’s not my turn to give him orders, or that he’ll fuck me on his schedule and just how he wants. Instead, he presses my body back against the wall, and he pushes his dick into me painfully slow.

I feel every ridged inch of him stretching me and filling me. “Fuck.”

“Tesora,” he breathes against my cheek.

“Please,” I beg, now that I know he likes it. He wants it.

I’m stuck between the wall and his body pounding into me, and I love it. I love knowing that I can’t squirm; that every inch of pleasure I get, he’ll have to give me. I love the solid presence of him. But most of all, I love that he’s watching me as closely as I’m watching him. He’s studying me, I realize now, watching to see what makes me moan and cry out. What makes me shudder in his arms. What makes me dig my nails into his back.

And eventually, what makes me come.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He tuts against my chin. “You were supposed to ask me before you came,” he says.

I groan, still shivering from the force of that orgasm. “How do you say, ‘I’m sorry,’ in Italian?” I ask in a drowsy voice.

“Get on your knees,” he says with a laugh.

I squeeze my thighs around him and my pussy around his dick. We both groan. “That sounds like English.”

He nips at my chin and then sets me down on my feet.

I sink gratefully — but not gracefully — to the tile floor. I know what he wants, and thankfully, it’s what I want too.

I reach for him, and he tsks again. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

My hands and mouth are hovering around his dick. I look up at him with an open mouth; open, and ready to receive him. “Please,” I whisper, my breath caressing the tip of his dick.

He curses under his breath. “Say it in Italian,” he tells me.

“Per favore.”

He licks his lips and nods. “Maybe your accent will sound better with my dick in your mouth.”

Only one way to find out, I think, but can’t say because I’ve already wrapped a hand around the base of his dick and engulfed the head with my lips.

“Ah, fuck your mouth,” he groans.

“You can do that,” I lean back and tell him before I suck him between my lips again.

He bends over me and digs his hands into my hair, holding me still for a second as he does exactly what I offered. His hips press back and forth, and his dick moves into my mouth in swift thrusts for a few seconds before he releases me. It’s almost as if he just needed to take the edge off before he fell apart. Just the thought of that makes me shudder in another mini-orgasm.

I might be on my knees for him, but I can feel him losing control to me. This is a very cliché thought — though to be fair, my life for the past few days has been very straight-to-DVD-movie levels of cliché — but knowing that I can make him weak with desire makes me feel stronger than I have in…forever. It won’t last, but right now, it feels damn good.

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