Page 26 of The Hitman

“I want to see you come,” he says.

This isn’t a command. His voice is softer, slightly pleading. I like this tone almost as much.

My body starts to shake as I get closer and closer to the edge.

And then I feel his touch, just a soft brush of his fingers against my hips, and then the sound of the chair scraping against the floor as he pulls me closer still.

My hips jerk, my back arches, and I cry out as the orgasm washes over me.

His hands are on my knees, keeping them apart as I shudder and spasm through one of the most intense orgasms of my life. His touch only intensifies the moment, and the orgasm begins at my core and radiates out again and again and again.

I try to fold in on myself, but his hands keep my legs wide. He wasn’t playing. He wants to see me come, and he does. Every gushing spasm, every loud cry, every wracking sob when it’s just too much, and I have to finally stop touching myself. He sees it all, and I imagine that he catalogues every second just as I did when I watched him.

I don’t know how long or how hard I come, but he doesn’t move from the floor where I’ve placed him.

Eventually, I begin to settle. I slump into the chair with his hands still pressing my legs apart. My muscles are starting to ache. I feel as if I’ve fucked a mile. Is that a saying? It should be. I’m spent. I can feel the small electric aftershocks of that orgasm in every muscle and tendon and hair follicle. I look down my body, and he’s still there, on his knees in front of me, his mouth dangerously close to my pussy.

I shiver again.

He notices with a smile.

And then I remember why I wanted him on his knees in front of me — besides just wondering if he would do as I said.

I straighten in my chair and lean toward him. I feel his fingers flex around my knees.

I move my wet fingers to his lips. At some point, while we were performing for each other, the sun set. He looks amazing and slightly menacing in this new light.

I smear my essence over his smile and push my fingers between his lips. I skim the pads of my fingers over his soft tongue.

He doesn’t look away as he sucks every drop of me from my digits.

I sigh in a kind of contentment as I pull my fingers from his mouth. “What’s your name?” I ask without thinking.

“Giulio,” he says, and I don’t know if it’s the post-orgasmic haze or his accent — or both — but that’s the sexiest name I’ve ever heard in my life.

“And yours?” he asks with a playful lift of his eyebrow.

“Zahra.”

He tightens his hold on my knees as he stands. The weight of him makes me groan because I’m absolutely imagining him on top of me in that moment.

He brushes his mouth across my left cheek up to my ear. “The next time you think about crying over that stronzo, remember that I’m just next door,” he whispers to me.

“What’s a stronzo?” I ask, stumbling over the word.

He turns and walks away, smiling at me over his shoulder. “I will tell you next time, tesora,” he says.

“There won’t be a next time,” I call back.

His laughter rings out as he pulls open the door and walks through, cool as you please, as if my pussy isn’t still thrumming at the thought of “next time.”

* * *

Giulio

I shouldn’t have told her my real name. I don’t even realize what I’ve done until I’ve showered again and collapsed into bed. And by then, it doesn’t matter, because as soon as I close my eyes, I can see her pussy and her heaving chest and the look of pure bliss on her face as she came.

For me.

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