Climax

by Holly Hart

  “Really?” I say. Honestly, I’m just fishing for a compliment. I love it when Charlie talks to me like this. No wonder it’s my secret fantasy!

  “Fuck yes. Fucking really,” Charlie growls. “Penny, this is the best idea you’ve had all month.”

  “I know,” I grin. “Now – are you going to going to –“ I pause. The word rolls off my tongue. “– Fuck me, or just stand around talking about it all day?”

  Charlie doesn’t reply. Not with words. Another crack rings out as he spanks me teasingly, pushing me forward. He makes a low, throaty moan, and grips the left-hand side of my body.

  With his other hand – I imagine – he guides his thick, pulsating cock. I feel it – the heat of it – pressing against my pussy. I back into it.

  “Please,” I groan. “Please Charlie, just take me.”

  He does.

  I feel his thickness parting my legs.

  “Oh God, you’re so fucking wet, Penny,” Charlie groans. “Don’t you dare fucking change.”

  I have no idea what that means, but I love it. Does Charlie really expect me to walk around all day like this? I stifle a laugh. In his mind, I bet he’d love that!

  And then all conscious thought gets pushed out of my mind. I can’t think, I can barely breathe. Charlie thrusts his cock into me, gripping both my hips, and digging in with his fingernails.

  “Yes!” I moan.

  “You’re going to come for me,” Charlie growls.

  The pleasure that’s squeezing his balls constricts the gruffness in his throat. I love it! My body is bound and defenseless, but I love that it has an effect on Charlie he can’t conceal. Not even when I’m blindfolded!

  “You’re going to come for me, you little slut. And you’re going to love it.”

  I don’t doubt it.

  Charlie’s right about another thing.

  I am going to come… Soon.

  I collapse forward, struggling with my bound wrists to stay upright as Charlie’s cock rams into me. I love it when he fucks me on my hands and knees. He goes so deep, stretching me like I didn’t know it was possible to be stretched.

  “Charlie –!” I whimper.

  My husband – my lover’s – throat gurgles with suppressed pleasure. He slaps my ass once more for good measure, and as the pleasure ripples through my body –

  I explode.

  I feel Charlie’s heat explode inside me. He collapses on top of me, the sweat on his front mingling with the sweat on my back. His lungs strain, and his chest rises and falls in time with mine.

  I feel him lean forward. I sense his heat once again near my earlobe. I feel him hook a finger underneath my blindfold, and finally free me from the darkness.

  “Don’t you think,” he whispers. “It’s time we had a baby of our own?”

  * * *

  The End. Really!

  Let it Byrne

  I bought her body. But she kidnapped my heart.

  * * *

  I'm a Byrne. Boston's in my blood. It's my city - and that goes for everything in it. Even Casey: a good girl trapped in a very bad place. I was supposed to be casing the Morello joint, but I ended up tasting her pinks. One kiss, and I was hooked. One night and I knew I had to have her. She can protest all she wants, but when she presses her curves against me, her moans tell a different story.

  * * *

  I could leave her to die. I should leave her to die. She made her bed, but I want to lie in it. Fifteen grand's nothing to me - but to Casey?

  * * *

  It's a lifetime.

  * * *

  And all I want in return for wiping her debt clean is four months. Four months to own her mind, her body, and her soul. Four months to coax sweet submission from those pouting lips.

  * * *

  Apparently someone didn't get the message. They didn't hear she's mine. But they'll find out...

  * * *

  When you cross the devil, you Byrne.

  * * *

  Let it Byrne is a standalone, novel-length mafia romance. Holly Hart's bad boys are dark and dirty, she hates cheating, and guarantees an HEA every time.

  Chapter One

  Casey

  “What are you, bitch?” Vince Amari snarls. His face lights up with a hungry fire the second he sees the fear I know is beginning to break through my brave facade. He’s the kind of man who feeds off a woman’s fear. I can see it on his face. He looks at me like a lover, but I see a predator standing in his place.

  When his eyes roam my body with possessive longing, it makes my stomach turn. I’ve heard the talk: when he turns his attentions on a woman, they submit, or he breaks them. There’s no middle ground.

  “Tell me why the fuck I hired you,” he spits.

  “I’m a…” I stammer. I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes off his.

  I know what he wants to do with me – and do to me, and it sends a shiver down my spine. And not in the way a lover should. I can see his desire twisting him in the way his hips push forward, and the way his nostrils flare, and –

  “A runner,” he enunciates menacingly, lips pulled back to bare his teeth. “And tell me, bitch – ”

  “Casey,” I say automatically – like I’m correcting a kid’s potty mouth – but before the last whisper of sound escapes my mouth, my head snaps backward. I hear the crack of his open palm connecting with my cheek a second later, dulled by the ringing of church bells.

  It’s as if time has stopped, or my brain has crashed like an overheated computer. My legs turn to pillars of sand and I stumble, reaching out for support but not finding it. Hot, angry, desperate tears fill my eyes.

  Why the hell did I just do that? Why couldn’t I just let him speak?

  “I don’t give a fuck. You’re a runner. So run, bitch, run.”

  But I don’t. I don’t know what he wants from me, and even if I knew I wouldn’t be able to give it. My legs are locked to the floor, stuck in quicksand, and I’m sinking. My brain is mush, my body broken, and I’ve only been here twenty minutes.

  "I’m sorry, Vinny," I whisper. "I didn’t mean –"

  "Vinny?" The Morello family enforcer hisses, leaning forward. His rotting breath blasts across my face like I’ve opened an oven, or the gates of hell.

  It takes everything I have not to cover my nose, but even then I can’t tell if my eyes are watering with disgust or fear. He turns his head, and I sink backwards with relief. "You hearin’ dis? You believe da balls on dis bitch?"

  Vinny – Vince’s men look at me lazily; then turn back to the flickering television. The Red Sox are playing. That’s more important than some stupid chick learning what’s what. They’ve seen this scene play out a hundred times. I’m far from the first girl Vince Amari’s chewed up and spat out, and I won’t be the last. So why bother looking?

  That thought drives home my fear; the fact that this happens so often, it’s not worth their time to care.

  Vince puts his hand on my chin and his heat sears my skin. "You walk like a duck, Casey? With those big balls of yours swinging from side to side, I bet you gotta –" he turns his head. "Hey Tony, what’s the word I’m looking for?"

  "Waddle, boss," Tony grunts, lifting a bottle of Brooklyn to his lips and spilling it down his chin. He wipes it away with the back of his hand. "Ducks waddle."

  "Yeah, waddle," Vince repeats, looking pleased with his metaphor. "You waddle, bitch? ‘Cos I ain’t paying you to waddle."

  You ain’t paying me at all. Not really.

  I shake my head, knocking Vince’s hand off my chin. His face flickers with mean irritation. I know I’ve got to speak – to say something, to distract him somehow – or face his wrath: and I so don’t want to face his wrath. I’ve seen what happens to girls who have crossed him in the past. He breaks their kneecaps, if they’re lucky. Their faces, if they aren’t. But first: he has his way with them…

  “I’m sorry, Vince,” I say, stumbling over my words in my hurry to get them out, “I didn’t mean to insult you. I
just want to get to work, that’s all. Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it.”

  “That’s good of you, bitch,” he sneers. “‘Cause in my world, if it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck, you know what it fucking is?”

  His anger fades into the background. I should be paying attention, but I’m not. I’m fixated on something else. That word again – bitch. I hate it. I don’t get why Vince can’t just call me by my name. Why does he have to dehumanize me as well; why must he demean me?

  He already has me right where he wants me – under his boot. But he can’t bring himself to stop. He needs to squash me, to squish me into mush.

  “Hey, Tony, get this,” he calls over his shoulder. “The bitch says she’ll do what I want.”

  Tony burps.

  “You’re a runner, bitch. You go out there into the crowd, and you do what Lenny tells you. Capisci?”

  I nod quickly, anything to avoid the back of Vince’s hand colliding with my face again.

  He leans forward, and his hot breath assaults me again. “You know who Lenny is?”

  I shake my head warily.

  “He’s the guy with the big ass gun and a face like a pineapple. Whatever you do, don’t mention the acne. He doesn’t like it when people mention his spots.”

  Tony laughs in the background, and Vince’s face lights up with a sad pride. I wonder what the hell his parents did to him that made him this way. He’s twisted, and evil – and desperate for attention.

  “And what do I do?” I ask. I want to be absolutely sure I understand. I can’t fuck this up, because if I do I don’t get fired, I get dead.

  “At the end of each bout, he’ll point out the losers. They fight less when a girl asks them for the dough they owe – it’s a pride thing, I guess. It’s better for business that way. And with pretty red hair like yours…” He tails off and leans forward, stroking my long hair. A column of burning acid rises up my throat in reply.

  “Oh yeah,” he whispers. “They won’t give you any trouble. And if you do good, Casey, I won’t have to hold you down by that pretty red hair of yours and choke you on my cock. Call it a bonus. Capisci?"

  He takes a thick fistful of my hair and tugs it. When I nod, my head barely moves and my eyes water with pain. “Good girl. Now fuck off.”

  He throws me to the door and I scurry out into the heat and noise of the underground fight. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t be found within ten miles of something this illegal. However, these aren’t ordinary times, and what would have seemed terrifying a week ago now feels like an escape.

  I push through the crowd as my head speeds thoroughly through my options. I can run, but Vince will chase me down. I can hide, but he’ll find me. Finally, I can stay here until I’ve paid off my debt, and just hope I get out with my mind and body intact.

  Either way, I’m fucked. But at least if I stay, Vince won’t be pissed off –

  – and I might just survive this.

  Chapter Two

  Declan

  I don’t want to be here: not now, not ever. This is Morello territory, and that’s a bad place for anyone with the surname Byrne, ‘less they want a beating. They wouldn’t dare kill me – ‘less they want to start a war. So no matter how big that bastard, Vince Amari, is getting for his boots, I don’t think he’s crazy enough to go that far. He’s still just a caporegime, not a Morello. He’s not blood.

  But would he send a message? Sure.

  Thing is, sometimes a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. So tonight, in this dark little corner of South Boston, I’m that guy.

  I pull the hood of my gray sweatshirt down over my eyes so I can be sure no one knows it’s me. The hoodie is two sizes too big, even for a guy with shoulders like mine; between that and the black beanie I had fished out of the glove box of my truck, there ain’t nobody gonna recognize me. It’s just the way I want it.

  ‘Less they look at my eyes; then I’m fucked. But no one’s looking closely, not tonight. They’re all too focused on what’s happening at the other end of the warehouse.

  A dull “thwack” echoes across the room, briefly silencing the baying crowd. I wince. "Jaysus wept," I mutter, watching the recipient’s knees give way, "ya poor sod."

  The downed fighter moans from the floor, and a victorious snarl stretches across his opponent’s face. They drag the loser’s body out, blood flowing freely from his nose, and someone makes a token effort at wiping the crimson puddle off the concrete floor. It doesn’t do much more than paint a red streak on the gray.

  "You want another, pal?"

  The guy behind the bar looks at me strangely, and I realize he was talking to me. It’s not much of a bar, just a thick slab of wood resting atop a couple of barrels. The beer’s warm, but the liquor’s hard, so it’s not all bad.

  I jerk my chin at him, and he looks away. He knows better than to pick a fight with a man like me in a place like this. Nothing good comes of poking your nose in another man’s business – not here.

  Basements like this are in my blood. I’ve been the kind of guy fighting in those same kind of cages, like, a dozen times, and I’ve got the scars to prove it. But I’ve never been dragged out on my ass.

  I have respect for myself, you know?

  I walk towards the crowd, eyes peeled. I’m half tempted to tear the sweatshirt off my back, stride into the cage, and fuck the consequences. My blood’s pumping – hot and thick – inside me. It’s everything I want: an urge; a need; a siren song. I can almost taste the copper of my opponent’s blood on my tongue.

  But – I hold back. It’s not like me, but I do it somehow. I’m here to watch, not pick a fight. I’m supposed to be studying how the Morello operation runs, to see if da’s right about them arming themselves, getting ready for war.

  If they are, if that’s what they’re doin’, we’re fucked. Boston will burn, and not in the way it’s supposed to: with the Byrnes on top of the heap.

  The energy of the crowd dims as they prepare for the next fight. Some of the onlookers head off to take a piss, some to fill their cups, and others just sway where they stand, intoxicated and warmed right through by their drink.

  Men part on either side of me to let me through. I don’t think they know they’re even doing it, but they always have and always will. I’m a foot taller than some men, and half a foot taller than most. Enough that people don’t get in my way.

  My eyes scan the crowd lazily. I’m looking for guns, men pumped up with leather holsters and a cocky swagger. If Morello’s getting ready to do battle, then he’ll have some of the fighting here.

  Right now, though, there’s only the guy with the face like the Grand Canyon – Lenny, I think. The size of the gun on his waist tells me he’s compensating for something.

  My breath catches in my throat. There’s a girl walking through the crowd, and she’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. She’s an angel, dressed like a whore, fit for a king.

  I want to make her mine.

  So I will.

  Chapter Three

  Casey

  “Ass or legs?” Lenny asks, raising his voice over the baying howl of the crowd. My eyes linger on his face just a second too long, and I know he notices. His cheeks look like a battleground that’s been all chewed up by tank tracks.

  He's short – maybe five eight – and he's got a bodybuilder's torso. But it doesn't fit, not with his face and not with his frame. It’s like a kid went mad with too many legos, and too little direction. He's trying too hard to compensate for the short straw he drew in life.

  “– The fuck you lookin’ at?” Lenny snarls, his fingers tightening on the weapon holstered by his hip.

  “N –, nothing” I croak. I'm not used to this world of guns, violence, and men who could snap me in half on a whim. “Are you Lenny? Vince told me to –”

  “I don't want your life story, bitch,” he fires back. “I know who sent you. Look around. Girls dressed like you are here for one of two reasons – ass or legs. So which is it?”
<
br />   I look at him blankly, desperately turning over the two options in my mind – ass or legs? But the truth is I don't have a clue what he's talking about. “I'm sorry? I –, I don’t know…”

  “Jesus Fucking Christ,” he groans, cracking his neck. “I swear; you bitches get stupider and stupider every week. But I'll humor you. Am I selling your ass, or using your legs?”

  “Legs, legs!” I say, my voice shrill with its eagerness to save me from a worse fate than I was already signed up for, a fate worse than death.

  “Vince told me I'd be running money out back for you. He never said anything about whoring myself out. I won't do it.”

  Lenny reaches out and grabs my arm. His fingers bite into my flesh like the claws of a bear trap. I wish I could say he's stronger than he thinks, but I know it isn't true. He knows he's hurting me, he just doesn't care. I'm nothing to him, just another piece of meat. Why would he care if he leaves a mark?

  He pulls me into him, until my tits are pressed right up against his body. I struggle and try to escape, but it's useless. He's too strong. “What are you down for?” He grunts, sniffing my hair.

  “What do you mean?” I whimper. I can feel his erection pressing against my leg, and a wave of nausea rises in my stomach. “Please, please just let me work.”

  “I mean,” Lenny says, gripping my arm even harder, “how much do you owe? Ten? Twenty? More?”

  “Fifteen grand,” I say, blinking back tears. I'm not sure whether they are tears of pain, or at allowing my stupidity to land me in this predicament, “at ten percent.”

  Lenny lets go of me and whistles. It almost feels worse than when he was hurting me. I don't want pity – and certainly not from a mobster like him. “Jesus, bitch. You're gonna be here for a long time if you don’t sell that ass of yours. Turn round.”