Page 9 of The Trap

Giving me another squeeze, she loosens her hold to skim her hand down my half-hardened length. Her eyes light up as she continues running her hand down my trapped shaft, noticing how much her hand still has to travel to reach the tip.

“Oh, look at that. Every time you lie to my face, pretending you don’t want to be buried between my thighs, it gets even harder. Yum,” she adds.

“Go suck a dick,” I bite. My brother’s presence now fills my periphery, quickly approaching this bizarre standoff.

Letting go, she crosses her arms in front of her torso, and just like that, that vixen attitude, that intense banter, all of it disappears before my eyes and quiet, reserved, Sally returns.

She’s a witch, she has to be. How can someone turn their personality on and off like that?

“Oh, I plan on it. Why don’t you stick around and watch how your brother fills my mouth?” she sneers, in a lusty tone that I want nothing more than to squeeze out of her.

My fist tightens at my side. “The fu-” I begin but my brother’s presence deters me.

Unable to soften the aggravated stiffness of my jaw, I look at him.

“Sorry about that,” Brett interjects.

“It’s fine. I was just about to head outside for a smoke,” I mutter, trying to get my wits about me.

“Oh, c’mon little bro.” Fucking Christ, I hate when he calls me that. “We didn’t have dessert yet,” he laughs and for once, I detect a dash of awkwardness, as if he’s finally cued in on the tension between Sally and me.

Sally moves to his side, reaching for his hand and bringing it to her lips, pressing a kiss to his skin. “That’s okay baby, we don’t need him to finish.” She grins, eyes searing through me.

“Yep, she’s right. Me finishing with you guys wouldn’t be a good idea,” I respond, not even looking at my brother. “Someone may choke on their dessert. See ya.” I motion my hand upward in a half assed wave, immediately walking away so I’m no longer subjected to whatever bizarre shit is in the air in that damn dining room.

I need a hit or ten of the pre-roll waiting for me. Reaching for my phone, I swipe and tap on the web browser. Grief hits me hard, wishing I’d paid attention more when mom was alive trying to teach me Spanish, because then I wouldn’t have to rely on google to let me know what the fuck a pendejo is.

FIVE

What the actual fuck Raiden—Sally—whoever the fuck I am right now.

Shaking my head, I internally scold myself. That was too close. Not to mention pathetic. Numbnuts is gone for not even a full five seconds and here I am practically giving his brother a handy through his pants like it’s my job. I pinch my eyes shut as I refocus my thoughts, trying to remind myself why I’m here. Pretending I’m into Brett with his dry as sand personality and mediocre dick is part of my job. Colson has nothing to do with it.Unfortunately.

Pulling myself from my internal spiraling, I force my gaze down to where Brett’s five o’clock shadow is scratching at the side of my face. “That was weird,” Brett breathes as he trails dull kisses onto my cheek, not igniting any emotion within me whatsoever.

No shit, Sherlock.

“Ready for dessert?” His question sends a jolt of disgust to my gut as he starts to kiss down my neck. “Daddy wants you,” he adds, which usually would make me gag but now, with the view of his brother’s broad shoulders slipping from my view, stirsa different reaction within me. Suddenly the lackluster pecks pressing into my flesh send a misplaced fire to my core.

Heat spreads across my cheeks as I fantasize about how it would feel to call Colson Cromwell, the fine as hell, easily aggravated, most unchill stoner I’ve ever met, daddy –or papi–, instead of his douchebag brother. It’d roll right off my tongue, as would a host of other obscenities I’d like to spill into his ear while riding what I can only imagine is his huge, thick cock, judging from the handful I just helped myself to.

But I can’t. Messing with him –well, more than I already do – would only mess with why I was sent here. Colson is risky. He’s too suspicious of things, and I can tell behind the lust-filled gaze he always shoots my way that he questions my presence in their lives—that he questions me. Cromwells run in tight, rich circles. Everyone knows everyone, and I'm no one in their world.

I still don’t understand why this job is so important to Carmine. Other than mildly alluding to the Cromwell’s trying to take over a section of our distribution area, he’s been very vague. Which makes no sense, because as far as I know, since Carmine has taken over the family business in place of his father, we dominate the city and most of Westchester, Putnam, and Dutchess counties in drug distribution. The only thing I can think of – when I started snooping more into the Cromwell’s – is a couple years back, Alistair Cromwell made Carmine an offer to buy the warehouse we use outside of the city. Since the warehouse is where we store our extra product and use the incinerator for some of ourpesky clients, Carmine declined. But other than that, these Cromwell men just seem like stuck up trust fund boys. Fun to fuck with but that’s about it.

“Fuck, you’re such a little minx,” Brett groans, pulling me from my internal thoughts as he sloppily flicks his tongue at my neck. Confused as to what he’s talking about, I look down between my legs. I nearly have a heart attack when I see mygarter exposed––syringe, knife, and all––as he casts my dress aside so he can dip into my arousal. “You’re so fucking wet for me,” he rasps.

Wet? Yes. For you? No.

Taking a step forward, I quickly shift my dress back in place. “I think you’ve had enough of this,” I say through a forced smile as I reach for his glass and place it back down on the table. Thankfully, he doesn’t put up a fight, but I’m still dreading what I know will come next. Still, I'd rather get this moving because the quicker I oblige his nightly vanilla needs, the quicker I can jab him with the sedative tucked in my garter and get to work.

I peer down at my watch, looking at the time. Carmine will be expecting an update from me soon, so I need to move this along. “Ready to go upstairs?” I suggest.

He doesn’t answer. His breath reeks of the booze he’s been slugging and whatever cigar he smoked earlier. Again, fighting the urge to gag or even punch this man for simply existing, I put on my fake charm and do what kills me inside––grin and bear it.

Brett lowers his calloused palm for me to latch onto. Just as I’m about to oblige him by bringing my hand to his, he reaches for my hair. My stomach turns, hoping my wig survives the way he’s yanking at the loose tendrils of fake blonde hair that have fallen past where the rest lay in place behind my shoulder.

I hold my breath as he twirls the hair around his finger. “I’ve been ready, Sally,” he says as he drones on about god knows what, but all I can focus on is him not moving my wig out of place.

---