Killing for Her: A Mafia Hitman Romance

by Alexis Abbott

  “I can do whatever I want with you,” I growl into her ear, and I feel her whole body shiver. “You are mine, Ana, and I want to offer you everything my body can do.”

  “You don’t know me,” she breathes back.

  “But I know what’s best for you.”

  “Then show me.”

  The challenge in her voice makes my whole body feel more alive than it has in years. I pull her hair back more, making her eyes spring open. Our height difference is so great that I can look down at her with my head resting against the wall while she cranes her neck to look up at me, that bratty pout on her lips making my balls ache with need to release on her.

  I smile.

  “You are more of a bratva leader than you could possibly guess, little princess,” I say.

  I pick her up in my arms without warning and walk her to the couch, laying her down on it and looming over her. I kiss her, and she writhes and melts into it. My body covers her like a blanket, and my hands explore her freely. My kisses pepper her face, then make their way down to her neck and her collarbone. All the while, I feel her body, and soon, I’m working her panties off her. Finally, she is naked under me, nothing but her soft, vulnerable body to be ravished by my unrestrained hardness.

  My mouth goes to her breasts, and I take my time with them, slowly moving my tongue around the swollen nipples and the pink areolas that need my attention so desperately. I get to know her breasts intimately.

  As I bring my kissing lips down the center of her breasts across her stomach and closer to that golden meeting point, her gasps and soft moaning fills my ears like sweet music from heaven. My whole body is desperate for her, and the pleasure she gets from my savage touch is enough to keep me burning forever.

  My lips get to her lower ones, and I press my mouth to her and let out a rumble that makes her shiver with anticipation.

  “I can smell your desire,” I say. “You want me.”

  “I need you,” she says. “I’ve needed you since I first laid eyes on you.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’m not going to let go.”

  Before she can reply, I stroke her pussy with my tongue. It goes from the bottom of her tight pussy up to the clit, and I hold nothing back. I stroke over and into her again and again, feeling how hot and wet she already is. She pushes her hips up into me, once, and I put my strong hands on her hips to hold her down and let me have my fun undisturbed. My tongue flicks out over and over again, striking the same rhythmic points as if I’m a musician with her as my instrument.

  My eyes are closed, and I can feel every part of her folds in intimate detail. No matter how wet she is, I can feel every part of her. The way her clit swells as I tease it is familiar to me. It makes me want to have some part of her to grind against so that I can share in a fraction of the delight she’s getting from my attention. Just like the first time, she runs her hands through my hair, but this time, it’s not just for support. She has gotten to know my body, too.

  While I pleasure her, her hands rove down to my muscular shoulders, then to my biceps. She wants to feel her favorite parts of me, and I am more than happy to oblige. Her hands move back up to my head, then down again, and her breaths only get quicker and hotter with each lick. The tip of my tongue strikes her swollen, needy clit over and over again until I feel a familiar tension building up inside her. I can sense it, like a change in the air, the subtlest of scents reminding me that she’s about to come.

  I work relentlessly on her until I hear a sharp cry from those pouty lips, and I release her hips to slide my hands under her ass. I drink from her, pushing her closer up against my face as she comes. She can’t squirm away from me. There is no escape from my torment.

  She hasn’t finished coming when I take my face away from her pussy, and without any further waiting, I sit up on the couch and grab her hips. She’s surprised, but my body is so large and strong that I have no trouble lifting her up off the couch and seating her on my lap. Her naked ass sits on the bulge of my pants, and immediately, she tries to grind into me, breathing heavily.

  “That’s a good girl,” I muse, rewarding her efforts by bringing my hands up to her breasts. She faces away from me, and I take her from behind, groping her and peppering her neck with kisses, feeling her sweet-smelling hair against my face.

  I bring a strong hand down to her pussy once again, and with two fingers, I feel her tormented, exhausted clit. She shivers again when I touch it, and I nip at her neck as I start moving my fingers in small circles on her clit. She is wet and only getting wetter. Her honey stains my pants, and I mean to get much more out of her before I am finished. My right hand gropes her breasts relentlessly while my left hand tends to her pussy, and once again, I hold nothing back. With my mouth, I nip at the soft skin of her neck, then up to her ear, taking the edge of it between my sharp teeth and teasing it mercilessly.

  “You’re my good girl,” I growl into her ear as I touch her, and her mouth falls open. “I will tell you what is best for you, and I will work your body like an instrument. I will kill for you. I will protect you. And you will open yourself to me. Do you want that, Anastasia?”

  “Like I’ve never wanted anything,” she whimpers, and I hook my fingers into her pussy. She lets out a sigh of delight as I start to stroke her insides. The wet noises my fingers make inside her fill my ears, mixing with the sounds of her soft sighs. My rock-hard legs and abs hold her like steel, more comfortable than the most luxurious couch. In my hands, I can do anything with her. That was no empty boast. And I’m going to make her come over and over again.

  She squirms in my grasp as my electrifying touch drives her wild, but she can only move if I permit it. I hold the reins, and the only way she could escape is if she begged me for it.

  My fingers get faster and faster, never breaking their pace, always steady and precise. Soon, I start using both hands to touch her, one on her clit and the other feeling up her insides. Once again, I feel her whole body winding up, ready to release, and she arches her back and lets out a cry that could almost wake the neighbors. Her hands clench the couch, desperate to cling to absolutely anything.

  She comes, and it’s so strong that I can feel it in my fingers. She is so much wetter and hotter than she was just a few minutes ago, and I’m not anywhere near finished with her.

  “Nikolai!” she cries out, passionate and unrestrained. “Nikolai, oh god!”

  Slowly, I draw my fingers out of her pussy and bring them up to her lips. Obediently, she licks her honey off my fingers, moaning as she lets her lips slide over those fingers that have been so good to her. She whimpers when I take them back, and I stand up with her still in my arms, limp and so very spent.

  “Think we’re finished, girl?” I growl, carrying her into the bedroom. “Hardly. I’m going to drain myself in you.”

  “I wouldn’t want it any other way,” she says in that thick, sleepy voice that makes my cock stiff as a pillar. I toss her onto the bed, and she bounces, stretching out her beautiful limbs on the sheets as I pull my pants off and leave them behind, approaching her like a predator glaring down at the most delicious prey he has ever laid eyes on.

  I don’t even kneel on the bed with her. With savage energy, I grab her sensitive thighs with possessive, rough hands, and I drag her closer to me, smiling ominously.

  I part her thighs and let her look at the sight of my spear looming over her, heavy balls swollen with need under her.

  “You don’t yet understand what it means that you are mine, Ana,” I growl.

  I penetrate her down to the hilt, and she lets out a sharp gasp of pleasure. Her tight pussy is soaking wet and so slick that it feels like my cock is gliding through pure honey all the way in, and my balls hit her ass with a wet slap as I pull her closer into me.

  My hips start bucking into her, but this time, her eyes are wide open and gazing with pure lust up at my endless muscles as I pleasure myself with her body. I want her to know what it means to be used, what it means to be in the hand
s of a dominant man who can treat her right, guide her and strengthen her. My cock is thicker than it was when we were first together, because this time, I want this purely for her.

  I feel every inch of her soft, hot pussy as I start bucking back and forth like a piston. My body is as precise as a machine and many times more deadly, but with her, I am delicate enough that I won’t hurt her. Not in a way she doesn’t want to be hurt.

  I know her body so well already, despite our only having been together a few days. I feel as if we were made for each other, made to find each other’s limits and caress them as a lover should.

  The word lover carries so much more weight now. I seem to see the world in brighter colors when I am around Anastasia. Even as the world burns around us, even as I force her to accept the fact that I must slay her father, I feel the closeness that builds between us and threatens to swallow us like an ocean of bliss.

  I welcome it. I crave it. I need it. I need her.

  The crown of my bulging shaft is leaking precum and grinding against every surface it can find, deep inside her pussy. I am the master of her folds, and my rhythmic pistoning into her soft, most intimate of places is living proof of that.

  I don’t let myself hold back, just like every other action I have taken tonight. My hands grip her ass and feel up every bit of its roundness that I desire, my eyes ravish her naked form, and my cock fills up all the space she has to offer between her legs.

  “I want you to say it, Ana,” I growl in a husky tone. “Tell me that you are mine.”

  “I…” she gasps, but my relentless fucking makes it hard to even focus her words. The poor thing moves her lips, trying to speak, but each time she starts to get something out, my thick shaft thrusts deeper into her and makes her dizzy with overwhelming sensations. “I...I’m yours, Nikolai!”

  “And I am yours, Ana,” I growl, and just like that, I feel her pussy clench and well up with utmost need as she begins to come. She lets out a sharp cry that pierces the room as she comes, and I release all my restraints. My balls clench up, my shaft stiffens and loses its regular rhythm, and the next thing I know, everything is a white-hot blur of animalistic, savage fucking. I put a knee on the bed as they start to go weak, her power is so strong. Back and forth, I spill over the edge of the last bit of control I have over myself.

  The next second, my pearly-white seed fills her up, shot after shot of hot, heady seed. I empty more into her than I thought possible, all while her body writhes and twists with her full-body orgasm.

  After a golden minute, it is over, and we are left panting in the bedroom. Still stiff as a rock, I slide out of her, and the last few drops of my virile, white seed fall out onto her puffy, swollen lips.

  Ana is defeated, nothing more than a quivering mess on the bed, breathing slowly and steadily. I pick her up and tuck her into bed on the other side of me before climbing in across from her. In the sheets, she finally opens her eyes and looks at me with overflowing love, and I feel her soft hand on my still-stiff cock.

  No words pass between us. We don’t need to say a thing. I have given her the comfort she so desperately needed, and I know now more than ever that I was right to put my faith in her. The future ahead of us is uncertain, but we will face it together.

  I know it.

  It isn’t long before a heavy sleep overtakes us. Even I am surprised by how fast and heavy it comes on, but it is the most restful sleep I have had in as long as I can remember.

  And when dawn breaks and my eyes open... her side of the bed is empty.

  I sit bolt upright, looking around. No light in the bathroom. No sounds from the kitchen.

  I toss the sheets off me and head into the living room, and my jaw clenches at what I see. All her clothes are gone.

  Ana is gone.

  Anastasia

  I came here expecting to confront my father. To tell him I know what he’s done and I know what kind of an evil man he is. I know everything. Or at least, I suspect everything.

  The revelation, the fight, the make-up sex to distract me from my pain.

  This morning, I woke up a different woman. Less innocent, more determined. I’m resigned to my fate as the daughter of a terrible man. But there’s still this tiny shred of me that doesn’t believe it, or at least does not want to believe it. Until I can see the proof with my own two eyes, I can’t just give up and offer my father up for the execution.

  He at least deserves a chance to explain himself. And if there’s nothing else I have learned from my father, it’s that loyalty is tantamount to godliness. Our family may be small, it may be shattered into pieces. It may be unconventional, even hideous to look at. But it’s still my family: my father and I, two moving pieces on the chessboard.

  He’s the king, but I am the queen, and I am the one with the power here. That’s why I snuck out of bed this morning, careful not to wake Nikolai, and I crept out of the house, still wearing the same dress as yesterday.

  I quietly walked out of the tract home safehouse and left. It was so quiet, so empty. The development project has long since been abandoned for lack of funding, which is why the safehouse is such a secure location. Who would ever want to go there? It’s just a row of identical, boring, beige block houses, half-finished and utterly without charm or value.

  The neighborhood itself is out in the middle of nowhere, the first pitiful steps toward establishing a new suburb that could be filled with happy, smiling families. Mothers jogging in the morning, pushing their baby strollers. Dads watering the lawn, waving to the neighbors. Kids playing pick-up basketball in the streets, safe in the knowledge that everyone around them only wants what’s best for them.

  Domestic paradise. A little monotonous maybe, but still a pretty picture of the elusive, ever-shifting American dream.

  But the money fell through before the dream could even spread its wings, and now the safehouse sits in relative obscurity out in the New York nothingness.

  Luckily, though, I was able to get cell service. I walked to the end of the row of empty block houses, looked back to make sure Nikolai hadn’t caught on and started following me, and I called a cab.

  My credit card account may be frozen, but I was smart enough to open my own account a while back. About a year ago, I got tired of having to show my father’s credit card every time I wanted something. So I secretly opened a checking account. I sold a bunch of my old designer handbags and shoes on the internet, put the money in the account, and got a debit card in my own name.

  It has no attachment to my father. I only did it out of pride, but I am seeing now the benefits of being more independent.

  At first, the cabbie didn’t want to drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere to come collect me, but I offered him three hundred dollars and he changed his tune. The cab took about a half hour to reach me, and I spent those thirty minutes in a state of pure turmoil and anxiety, looking back over my shoulder, expecting Nikolai to wake up and realize I was gone.

  He never came for me.

  Now I’m in Sands Point, in front of the mansion that I once called home, even though I rarely spent much time there. I had no way of knowing whether my father would be here or not. If he was here, the plan was to confront him in person, to ask him to answer to the same unbelievable accusations Nikolai hurled at him. I know my father better than anyone else, or at least I think I do. Surely I would be able to read his facial cues, his body language, to determine whether or not he was telling the truth.

  And if he told me the truth, if the accusations were false, I was going to make the most difficult decision of my life. The decision between my father’s life, and betraying Nikolai.

  But now that I’m here, standing in front of the home that isn’t really a home, I can see that my father’s beloved mint-green Aston Martin isn’t parked in the circular driveway. The lights are out in the windows. Nobody is home.

  Except for me.

  I stroll up the driveway to the front steps with a pit in my stomach. I wasn’t expectin
g to find the place empty. But I suppose that makes sense. Anytime I expect my father to be around, he’s missing. Every time I think I can count on him to be there for me, he’s gone.

  For all I know he’s over at the Ovechkin mansion, trying to appease his business partner and assure him that he’ll find a way to drag me back, kicking and screaming, to the altar. Or maybe he’s wandering around the state, looking for me.

  Who knows? And honestly, it doesn’t matter.

  I punch in the entry code to the front door, then press my thumb against the receptor to authorize the door unlocking. I hold my breath, worried for a moment that maybe my father would have gone the extra mile and removed my prints from the authorization list as well as cutting off my credit card. I wait patiently, my heart hammering away in my chest, and then to my relief the robotic female voice (which I despise) chirps, “Entry unlocked. Welcome home.”

  I hear the electronic locks disengage in a series of clicks, and then I turn the knob and step inside. Immediately, my senses are flooded with waves of nostalgia. There is a familiar but indescribable smell to one’s home that is instantly recognizable. It takes me back, reminding me of the brief but poignant moments I have spent in this house. Mostly for holidays or as a landing place in between trips to other countries or semesters abroad at boarding school. It occurs to me that it’s totally possible my father still has some of the staff members present here. That could interfere with my plans, or at least make the confrontation with my father more awkward.

  Taking a few steps into the foyer, I call out, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  I listen closely for a few moments, but all I get is silence, and the faint echo of my voice in the massive empty house. It’s weird, seeing my home so devoid of activity. Usually there’s at least a maid or a chef hanging around here, even when we have no intention of spending time here at all ourselves. My father has always been a stickler for cleanliness, and he orders the house to be cleaned constantly, whether we’re expecting to stay here or not. But then again, I suppose maybe my father has other, more pressing concerns at the moment.