Page 8 of Spiteful Heart

But that wasn’t what she’d said. What Lola had said was that she’d fuck him. That’s it. Fucking and having feelings were two different things. Hmm. If I had to choose one that was worse, I… I might pick the latter.

Of course, that’s coming from someone who used to fuck a different girl every weekend.

“I don’t know,” Viper relented. “He’s my brother. I love him. I trust him. If there’s another guy out there that I’d trust with Lola, it’s him. I’m not saying I’d be thrilled, but…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

I let out a groan, pushing away from the counter and heading to the stairwell. My goal was to find Lola. Maybe I’d work out with her. Maybe I’d watch her do her thing. Maybe I’d distract her in a way only I could to get my mind off the whole Mike thing.

Lola had changed one of the many bedrooms in this mansion to a dedicated workout room. It was very similar in design to the one we had at our house, every single machine and weight lifting setup shiny and new. A treadmill, an area with a large punching bag; you name it and this house had it. The only thing it didn’t have was a practice range, where she could work on her aim when it came to guns. She didn’t like using guns, though. Getting up close and personal with her targets was half the fun, in her eyes.

God. She really was one crazy bitch, huh? It wasn’t a wonder why I’d fallen for her, in spite of how much I should hate her for what she did.

The sound of Frank Sinatra blasting was the first thing I heard in the hall as I approached the exercise room. She had a thing for older music, the weirdo. Something about its soulfulness or something. I didn’t know.

I found her on the treadmill, full-out running. Her long, blond hair was drawn up into a tight, high ponytail, swaying with every step she took. She’d changed into a sports bra and nothing else, her flat stomach showing. The top half of her thick scar showed above her leggings, a reminder of everything she’d been through before stumbling into my life.

I couldn’t imagine it. I didn’t want to. How she still stood, alive, was a fucking miracle. Having the urge to kill people was reasonable after living through her terrible flavor of childhood. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that she didn’t view sex as special, either.

When she saw me, she smiled. “You want to work out with me, bae?”

Bae. As much as I wanted to mock her for calling me that, I didn’t. I simply got on the nearest weight machine and started lifting. I didn’t bring any extra clothes, but that was fine. If I got super sweaty, I was sure Big Mike had something I could take. Viper’s clothes would probably be a tad small on me.

At least working out got my mind off things. I could close my eyes and focus on the burning of my muscles, on the repetitive movements. Time didn’t matter. Lola had Frank Sinatra blasting on the speakers in the room through the Bluetooth on her phone, so I was able to judge how long I did certain things by how many songs passed.

Eventually, I got myself on the weight bench and started bench pressing. Sweat lined my brow, my shirt sticking to me. Lola had transferred to the punching bag, but I could tell based on the sounds of her punching that she split her time between focusing on the bag and on watching me.

Maybe I should’ve taken my shirt off to give her more of a show.

I smirked to myself, but I didn’t get up to do it. I breathed out, focusing on the bar and the weight above me. Getting distracted now would be a bad, bad thing. It’s why, really, you should have someone spotting you when you did this, just in case something happened, but who had time for safety when you were a mafia boss’s son?

Man, I wondered how my father was doing, living in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere. I was still kinda pissed that he’d left in the middle of that shit with the Bloody Princess. I guess he’d been miserable a lot longer than Sylvester or I’d known, long before Lola had killed Mario. Still, you’d think he wouldn’t just up and leave everything, especially in the middle of something big like that.

He didn’t even call us. He didn’t try to stay in touch or ask us how things were going here. It was like he’d cut all ties, almost like being around Sylvester and I reminded him too much of everything he’d lost.

Whatever. If he wanted to be a little pansy shit, let him. It wasn’t any sweat off my back. He could become a fucking lumberjack for all I cared, and we’d be just fine here… even if, you know, there was a serial killer we couldn’t catch running around and killing.

The sound of Lola punching the bag stopped altogether, and I was pretty sure I heard her approach my reclining figure. I didn’t stop lifting, needing to blow off more steam now that I was thinking of my stupid father.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re fucking hot when you’re working out?” Lola asked, and I could hear the smirk in her tone. “When that little bit of skin is peeking out, right between your pants and where your shirt has ridden up a bit. I want to lick it.”

Well… fuck. How could I continue working out when she wanted to lick me?

I set the bar up, the muscles on my arms burning with heat. I didn’t move. All I said was, “Then lick it.” As I said the words, my cock twitched in my pants. There was no innocent licking where Lola was concerned. None whatsoever.

Lola didn’t hesitate; she straddled me on the bench, yanked up my shirt further, and lowered her face to my abdomen. Her tongue flicked out, and she licked a straight line up, from the waistline of my pants to where my shirt started, in between my abs. Her tongue was wet and warm, and when I felt it touch me, my cock stirred even more.

“I can think of something else you could lick,” I murmured, my eyes open slits.

“Your toes?” she deadpanned.

“You know damn well I don’t mean my fucking toes,” I hissed out. In fact, my toes were the last place on my body I’d want that tongue. Literally.

Lola knew exactly what I meant, because in the next moment, she flipped her position, straddling my stomach and giving me a nice view of her ass—would’ve been better if she was naked, but hey, if that mouth was about to touch my dick, I’d be happy.

Her fingers worked to undo my pants, pushing everything down just enough to get my cock out. I didn’t need to see it to know it was rock hard, ready for some service. When she wrapped a hand around it and pumped once, I groaned.

“I do love your dick,” she purred out, her frame hunching over. She had to bring her knees up near my armpits to get enough of an angle to meet my cock with her lips, and she swirled her tongue around the tip in an agonizingly slow tease.

“Goddamn it, woman,” I growled out. If I wasn’t lying down, I’d force my cock into that supple mouth, but I was at a disadvantage with my position. She had me, and she could be as slow and as teasing as she wanted with me… unless I rolled her off me.

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