Page 14 of The Mob and his Messenger

“I’m in charge now,” I tell him in my mind, moving the shower head back and forth and feeling my wetness start to whelm inside of me.

Lier.

The truth is I was wet the whole time we were on the balcony, fucking soaked, and one reason I came back to my room was it was starting to get uncomfortable.

I bite my lip as I mind-bounce on Dom’s manhood, knowing I could never take the lead like this in real life, knowing that in reality, his lips wouldn’t warp in unstoppable pleasure.

I gasp as it explodes within me, the sudden gut-punch of the orgasm hitting me in complete surprise. I try to hold the image of Dom in my head but everything rushes too quickly and then I’m leaning against the shower wall, trembling.

His image returns, standing there in his suit, his lips firm and his eyes penetrative as he stares at me.

“Fucking suck it,” he growls. “Choke on it. Do you think you’re the only one who gets pleasure? Gag on me, now.”

As the orgiastic song reaches a crescendo, I try to imagine the taste of him, the size, kneeling down on the balcony and forcing my mouth down the length of his manhood as the party goes on oblivious beyond the glass. I imagine him firing his seed into my mouth and then dragging me to my feet, smoothing it from my mouth and down my neck and toward my breasts and—

Yes.

My legs tremble so badly it’s like they’re trying to run away from my body.

I open my eyes, the last aftershocks of the orgasm passing quickly, and then I wash away my shame and take a real shower, trying to wash away the silliness with it too.

“Yeah right,” I murmur, when I return to the bedroom in my bathrobe, sitting on the edge of the bed in the hazy lamplight. Poppet cocks her head curiously. “Maybe Mom’s right, huh? Maybe I really need to stop living so much in my head. It’s starting to get pathetic, really.”

Poppet huffs and turns aside as if she’s tired of this conversation. In her defense, we’ve had it many times before. Maybe she’s as tired of my insecurities and self-doubt as I am. But in my defense, in this case, it’s especially warranted because a little balcony banter doesn’t change the fact that Domenico is a forty-two year old silver fox and I’m well … just twenty year old me.

I walk over to my desk and turn on the lamp, the sounds of the party drifting through the walls dimly.

I put on my headphones and try to lose myself in the writing, but my thoughts keep returning to Dom, to the balcony, to the way he was going to howl for me, freaking howl.

He told me he’d never sing for me and part of me wants to make that a challenge, and soon I’m dreaming up a whole scenario where I trick Dom into participating in America’s Got Talent somehow, which of course he’d never do.

I return to my Word document.

Focus.

My cellphone rings, Mom’s name lighting up the screen.

I’m not really in the mood for another speech about how unfair it is of me to abandon her out west and come here to live with Dad for a few weeks, or a diatribe about how my father is a bad man, somebody I should street clear from, because it just makes me want to yell at her and say cruel things. She’s got no right to drive a wedge between me and Dad. It’s just not fair.

But as always, I answer her calls, because even if she’s a pain in the butt, she’s my mother. I suppose that counts for something.

“Not too busy for your poor mother, then?” she says, her opening gambit.

“Actually, we’re having a party,” I say, tapping my fingernails against my desk. “The stripper’s just left but that’s okay because Paolo will be back with a fresh batch of coke soon.”

“What?” Mom snaps. “Drugs?”

“Freaking hell, I was obviously joking.”

“I thought jokes were supposed to be funny?” she says, with an aura of checkmate in the jibe. “Anyway, aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing, hmm?”

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. Mom has always somehow made it seem like she’s the daughter and I’m the mother, and now it’s no different. Her voice is brimming with look-what-I-did pride and a deaf man could tell she’s got something she wants to tell me.

“Have you got a new boyfriend?” I guess.

I hear her deflate. “Well, that was no fun, was it? But yes, I do. And you won’t guess where he lives? On the east coast! So it might be possible that your poor neglected mother might be coming to see you soon. You see, Cillian is a traveling salesman. Can you believe they still have those? But he’s not one of those boring salesmen like they have in the movies. He’s a tall steak of a man with the looks of a film star and the body of a, well … I think you’re too young for that.”

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