Page 23 of The Hitman

I should leave.

I’m not the kind of man who can afford to have enormous moments. I shouldn’t spend any time with a woman who makes a tingle zip up my spine just from her words. I’m made for women like the waitress; women who want to use me — and let me use them — for a few minutes or hours but no more. And even though she’s looking at me as if that’s all she wants, I know, just as certainly as I know that the lingerie she’s wearing costs more than my favorite sidearm, that this is not a woman who should ever settle for less. I’ve caught her at a low moment, and I shouldn’t take advantage of it.

But then she takes another slow sip of wine from the bottle. A rivulet slips from her lips and drips down her chin. I watch the dark liquid cut a path over her jaw, down her neck, and then straight for her cleavage. I can’t get any harder, but I can feel my dick pulse in my shorts trying.

“Do you know what I did when I heard you earlier?” she asks.

“No.”

Her fingers disturb the red path before moving down her neck to her chest, over her stomach, and then stopping right at the top of her mound. I couldn’t have looked away if I’d tried.

I don’t try.

“I touched myself,” she whispers.

My eyes fly to hers. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s something to hide behind flowery language. Don’t lie.” I echo her words on purpose, challenging, settling into this moment when I should be leaving.

Her arm moves. I want to see her hand between her legs almost as much as I want to see what her sad eyes look like when she comes.

“I was fucking myself with my hand. Every time you made her scream, I pushed another finger into my pussy.”

I unbutton and unzip my shorts and then push them over my hips. I haven’t even touched myself, and I’m breathless. My hands are shaking. I don’t care if she sees. And she does see because she’s watching as my dick springs into view.

Her small gasp is like an electric shock that I can feel circling the base of my dick.

“Are we going to do this together?” I ask her as I sit. I scoot down in my seat and spread my legs so she can see me clearly. I have all of her attention, and I plan to keep it.

“Yes,” she whispers, bringing the bottle to her lips.

I lick my palm and grab ahold of the head of my dick with my right hand. I circle my left hand around the base and squeeze tight. My gaze darts to her hand. She’s rubbing the pads of three fingers over her mound in circles and then up and down. Light caresses. I use her hand as a cue and begin to slowly jack my cock up and down, squeezing rhythmically at the base just the way I like. I move at the same rhythm she touches herself.

I want to come. I want to sink balls deep inside her, and yet, I also don’t want to rush this.

“Do you know what I was thinking about when I was fucking her?” I ask.

“What?”

“Who?” I correct. “Do you know who I was thinking about while I was fucking her?” I lift my eyes to hers.

“Me,” she whispers. I like that she’s not pretending to be naïve to seduce me. That wouldn’t work, and just watching her breathe is enticement enough.

“Was I wearing something like this? When you were thinking about me?” she asks, moving the bottle of wine over her breast.

I smile, realizing she’s using it to stimulate her nipple. This Woman will kill me.

“You were naked. I’m not the kind of man to worry about lingerie.”

“Good to know,” she says and shifts. She raises her right leg and throws it over the arm of her chair.

I can’t help but laugh. When I look back between her legs, I see that she’s moved the lacy gusset of her lingerie aside. Her lips are a slightly darker shade of brown with soft downy hair over her mound. And wet. Mio Dio.

She’s soft and meek and demanding and shy and playful and bold and nervous and brave. I’ve never met anyone like her. I’m certain I never will again. What kind of fucking dimwit breaks the heart of a woman like this? I know the answer. I don’t even need to think deeply about it. He’s probably a piece of shit just like I am. He didn’t deserve her, and neither do I.

But he’s not here right now, I am. And so, I smooth my palm over the leaking slit at the head of my dick. It’s not enough moisture to ease my strokes, so I lick the palm of my hand. I taste myself — salty and earthy — and then grip myself again.

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