I gasp at the violent constriction of my loins.
I’m not sure I knew how deep this fantasy ran. Or how potent it would be. How much it would arouse me, score me with lust. But it does. My nails are buried in his shoulders and I’m holding on for dear life, my mouth in a permanent O, receiving rough thrusts of his huge sex and feeling my own pleasure dam begin to give way, even though I want more of the game. More of the depravity and pull between good and evil. More Christopher.
“You have to come, Daddy,” I whisper in his ear. “Or we’re going to get caught.”
He makes a hoarse sound and rails into me harder, his erection thickening inside of me, signaling the end. “God help me, I didn’t use a rubber and I’m not pulling out.”
“You’ll take care of me.” I kiss his neck, his shoulder. “You always do.”
“That’s right.” He latches onto my mouth. “Every day of your life.”
It’s that tender promise of care that sends me sailing. I’m being pleasured without mercy or gentleness, but I’m also being comforted, treasured, loved, as well. This man is the best of both worlds and he rocks into me just right when the climax hits, holding himself deep inside me and growling as I shake, making sure I’m well over the finish line before he hits me with a series of savage pumps, looking me straight in the eye, and finally his seed geysers up inside of me, reaching every corner of my womanhood and dripping down my thighs, onto the floor, soaking into my thong.
“Go ahead and get pregnant, then.” He grinds out into my neck. “No one will blame me. The pussy was just too ripe.”
A second orgasm crests, catching me off guard, and I scream his name, my flesh squeezing, squeezing so intensely that I can barely stand it. And he watches me, my husband. He watches this second peak hit me with blatant satisfaction in his eyes, almost like he’s triumphant and fascinated, the corner of his mouth edged up into a smile.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, still rocking his hips. “Let it all out.”
I’ve never been more spent in my life. I collapse forward over his shoulder, desperately trying to fill my lungs, and while his breathing is shallow as well, his shoulders covered in a sheen of perspiration, Christopher is sturdy as ever, carrying me to the bedroom and laying me down on the cool sheets.
Right before I drift into unconsciousness, he kisses my forehead.
“You have no secrets from me, angel eyes.”
5
Evan
My target is late.
Right after Jolie fell asleep tonight, I received a text from my boss ordering the hit. A Greek businessman named Constantine who fucked over the wrong partner at his flashy firm. I don’t ask questions or philosophize about whether or not someone deserves to die. I don’t have any code, except for refusing to kill women and children.
I lean back against the concrete piling and exhale, anxious to be back home with my wife. With her head tucked under my chin, an arm wrapped around her waist. After the new way we made love tonight, I’m hungrier than ever for her pussy. If I was home right now, I’d be teasing her clit with my middle finger, arousing her while she’s sleeping. She’d be rolling over on top of me, half asleep and humping me, confused and disoriented to wake up wet and throbbing, whining until I took care of business.
Keeping an eye on the parking garage where my target is having a clandestine meeting with his business partner’s wife, I can’t help but replay what happened in the kitchen when I got home from “work.” I walked in with the intention of slowly unraveling her secrets, but I went a little too fast. I have to be more careful with how I respond to the information I get from her therapy sessions or she’ll get suspicious.
I look down at my automatic, long-range rifle and worry twists sharply in my chest.
She would leave me if she knew.
She would leave me.
Anxiety rears up and threatens to make me dizzy, but I breathe through my nose and find my balance. I’m starting to wonder if lying to Jolie like this was the worst move possible. She’s smart. She will eventually realize I’m leaving in the middle of the night, question where I’m going. She will eventually ask to meet co-workers and attend Christmas parties. And Jesus, she deserves better than a man who lies about his identity, his job. Spies on her. Follows her.
Listens to the private thoughts she speaks aloud.
What if I’m no better than the man who kidnapped her?
What if…she should be scared of me?
I am obsessed beyond measure. My every waking thought is about her. But if she were to find out the truth, would she understand the love is real? This connection between us cannot just be the delusions of a sick mind. She feels it, too. Before I even opened my mouth to let out a lie, we looked at each other and experienced the undercurrents. Much of my identity might be fake, but the fact that I would die for her is not.
I’m distracted when my target walks out of the building, his jacket over one arm, tie askew. He paces to his parked car, sending only a satisfied smile at the woman who emerges from the parking garage behind him. I don’t give him a chance to reach for his door handle, firing a single bullet through his temple and watching him crumple to the ground.
A female scream hangs in the air, but I pay it no attention, escaping into the shadows at the edge of the roof and melting down the back fire escape. Dropping soundlessly into the alley. I get into my car and calmly exit the alley, turning down the side street.
What…
What is the odd prick in my throat?
I don’t know why, but I’m thinking about the woman screaming.
The affectionate way the dead man looked at her before I killed him.
I take a hand off the steering wheel to rub at the spot. For some reason, I’m not feeling as detached as I usually do after a hit. Am I beginning to develop a conscience?
Troubled by that thought, I press my foot more firmly on the gas, positive I will feel better once I’m back in bed with Jolie. She cures me, makes me whole. I’m all but sweating by the time our house comes into view, throwing the car into park and spilling out into the garage. I don’t like coming home to her after a hit. I never have, but it feels worse now, because this love…it’s making me more and more human.
I make it to the bedroom and finally, finally, feel like I can take a deep breath. There she is. My wife. Nude. Covered in love marks from my mouth. Curled onto her side, hugging a pillow. Safe. Breathing. My evil deed didn’t kill the only positive thing in my life. She’s still here.
Letting out a shuddering exhale, I fall into a chair beside the bed, tilting my head to look at the lithe, sensual length of her. I should be stripping off my clothes and getting back into bed before she realizes I’ve been out, but I can’t seem to move. Can’t do anything but be arrested by the beauty of my Jolie. Daddy, she calls me. Daddy. Daddy.
Before I even know what I’m about, I’m yanking down my zipper and fucking my hand, lips peeled back in a wince, my balls so high and tight, I’m probably going to go off in seconds. I stand and walk toward the bed, looking down at the slightly parted crack of her ass and I swallow a groan, semen beading at the tip of my cock.
I’m almost busting when she stirs, humming a little in her throat and rolling over onto her back, yawning. I can’t let her see me like this, dressed in all black street clothes, touching myself while she sleeps. I can’t. So just like earlier on the roof, I step back into the shadows and watch her without breathing, hoping she’ll just drift back to sleep.