"Fuck me harder," I say, and I start rubbing my clit again. I hope he can feel me doing it. I want to be his little fucking slut and make all of his dirtiest dreams come true.
"I'm gonna cum," he says.
"Oh god, me too," I say.
He pounds into me, and when he groans his pleasure, it's the hottest sound I've ever heard. The flood of warmth inside me sends me over the edge, and a chain reaction explodes throughout my body, from my core, all the way to my fingers and toes.
When we come down from our orgasms, he doesn't pull out of me. I reach back and find his thick head of hair with my fingers, and pull him in closer to me, collapsing onto my side. His cock slips out and I feel his warmth run out of me, but I don't care. I want his everything. In me, and on me. I don't fucking care.
"God damn," he says, "you are one fucking sexy little animal."
I turn my head and catch a kiss from the edges of his lips. "I need more," I say. "Please."
His cock hardens again against my ass, almost instantly. I love his energy.
He lays me on my back again and slips his cock inside me. It feels so much wetter and more slippery now that he already finished inside me once. I fucking love it.
He pounds in and out of me, hitting exactly the right spot, and I feel another orgasm building inside me. He seems to tap into my sexual energy, because he says, "I don't think I'm gonna be able to hold back."
I explode into pleasure again, and when he comes, he pulls out and starts to come. He shoots his seed all over my belly, my breasts, and my neck. He groans and half-closes his eyes as he comes, and it's a beautiful sight to behold. One drop even lands on my lips and I lap it up hungrily. I love the combination of sweetness and bitterness. I never really liked the taste before Hunter, but with him, I can't get enough.
Breathing hard, he collapses down next to me, both of us completely spent. "I love you," I say.
"I love you too."
Over the next couple months, business just explodes at the shop. In fact, the whole town starts to change. On one hand, I'm not sure how I feel about it. I don't want the town to lose its roots, but I'm excited for the future. And I'm excited that maybe it can hold its own against Springville once again. I try not to worry about it too much. Overall, it's a very good development for the people who live here, and after all, nothing stays the same forever.
I work as long as I can, way into the third trimester. Only during the last couple weeks do I take time off, and somehow Hunter manages to keep the shop running with Jason's help, just the two of them. All while he fulfills his new duties as mayor of the town. There's an election coming up in just a couple months, but the people love him so much that we don't think it even makes sense to run a campaign. There are no worthy competitors.
Jason and Crystal start dating for real, and I just love the chemistry between them. And it's great to see Jason grow into a confident young man. With proper shoes and a haircut.
The lease on my crappy apartment finally ends, and Hunter and I look for a new house together. Between all his savings and the profits at the shop, we can afford almost anything we want without even worrying about it. It's a strange feeling, because all my life I've lived paycheck-to-paycheck and had to teach myself to do without. But now I provide for myself, and with Hunter's help, we'll provide for our baby when it comes.
Right before my baby is born, the town holds a parade in our honor. There are rainbow bagels everywhere, and we make enough fried chicken and waffles to feed an army. The parade is full of music and lights and the most hopeful people you could imagine.
"This is great," says Hunter, sitting next to me on the chariot we're riding on. His beard is smeared with honey-mustard dressing. I laugh and take a huge bite of a rainbow bagel smeared with mounds of rainbow cream cheese.
"We're practically on top of the world," I say.
Our business isn't the only one exploding. Oscar is getting a brand new location for his pawn shop, and Eddie's opening another branch of his Chinese restaurant on the other side of town. With all the young people moving here, everyone can afford to expand, and the rising tide is lifting all ships.
When the baby finally comes, Hunter is there with me at the Springville hospital, holding my hand. It's a boy. And when I first hold him in my arms, I know that everything has changed forever.
Hunter and I plan a real wedding. Yeah, we're technically married, but he did such a sweet thing by proposing to me with my mother's ring. So now that we're committed to each other and we can afford a real ceremony and reception, we're going to do it. I do my best not to become a Bridezilla, even though I think I drive Hunter crazy half the time anyway.
That's life for us now. A beautiful blend of business, pleasure, commitment, and anticipation.
And it's absolutely perfect.
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Havok: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance
His love is lethal.
I was a hitman for the Russian mafia, a savage killer. I had nothing, and no one.
Then I met her. A broken-hearted, sweet-as-sin dancer, barely making ends meet. She did what no other girl could: she made me feel human again.
My mission was simple. Kidnap her, then cash her out for a cool hundred grand.
F*ck that. Not with those seductive curves, those submissive eyes begging for my domination.
I'm claiming her as mine. And I’m gonna protect her until the bitter end, even if it means slaughtering every last son of a b*tch in this filthy city.
The one thing I can't do?
Protect her from myself.
1
Penny
"Only a hundred bucks? Useless bitch."
Brock's palm claps against my cheek and my face flares with pain. He hits with the entire weight of his heavyset frame, his fatty arm jiggling as he strikes me. I was hoping he wouldn't beat me today, but it barely fazes me anymore. As my head snaps to the side and I land on the floor, I catch a glimpse of the kitchen table. A sad little stack of five- and one-dollar-bills sits on the corner, amidst mountains of dirty dishes and stained cardboard boxes.
It's my take-home pay from last night at Fascinations, West Ark's most popular strip club. My earnings for a six-hour shift of shaking my tits for the seedy, dirty men of the city. The only source of income for my hellish life here with Brock, my supposed boyfriend.
When he wakes up, the first thing he does is hit the bottle. Then, he counts the stack of bills I dutifully leave on the kitchen table after each night's shift. Whether it's enough to please him depends on his mood, blood alcohol level, and sheer luck.
Today, it wasn't enough.
"Please," I say, scooting backwards on the floor. "The club was really empty last night and—"
Towering over me, he lunges and belts me with the back of his hand. My teeth clink together hard, and my face burns with shame and pain.
"How the fuck we gonna make rent now?" he snarls. "My tits are worth more than this."
I want to cry, I want to scream, I want to pull my hair out in anger and frustration. The son of a bitch hasn't done an honest day's work his whole life. He's an unemployed parasite who mooches off my backbreaking and humiliating work. But for some god-awful reason, I can't bring myself to leave him.
Well… I
know the reason. It's because I've gotten so hooked on these fucking pills, these opiates that numb my pain and destroy my resolve to repair my broken life.
Once upon a time, I was a bright-eyed pre-med student with dreams of running my own practice. Back then, I woke up excited for class each morning. Life was a series of ever-brighter horizons.
But then my dad died in the crash, almost five years ago to this day, and everything started going wrong for me. First, the pills. Then, stripping to pay for the pills. Then… Brock.
Now I'm so deep in this hole I can barely see out. Sometimes I lie awake at night, staring at the cracked, asbestos-coated ceilings, wondering if there's anything else left for me.
Brock shakes his head in disgust as I rise to my feet, rubbing my sore face. He scoops up the stack of bills and pockets them, then exits through the front door of the studio apartment without another word.
It used to make me sick with worry and jealousy, wondering where he was going, who he was seeing. But I don't care anymore. Now, it's pure relief when he leaves.
I shuffle toward the bathroom in a daze of pain and sorrow. The matted, dirty carpet feels foreign against the soles of my feet, the yellow cigarette-smoke stained walls closing in against me like prison bars. The mid-morning sun is bright outside, but it barely filters into this filthy apartment. This may be a house but it's not a home. Not my home at least. I haven't had a real home since Dad died and I fell into this lifestyle.
So now, with my dreams fading away into the past, I sleep when the sun rises and wake to the moonlight. And all I've got to look forward to are old men stuffing dirty bills into my g-string.
Stumbling into the bathroom, my hand searches for the light switch. The walls are dirty, fuzzy almost. I hate this bathroom. Every time I come here to clean myself after a shift, I leave feeling even dirtier than before. The faucet handles are covered in toothpaste grime and soap scum, and the moldy shower curtains constantly stick to my legs in the shower like tendrils.
Sometimes I think of cleaning this bathroom, but I never do. There's no point. It wouldn't change a damn thing.
When I click on the light switch, I see the damage to my face. It's a mess, but it's nothing I haven't been through before. My next shift doesn't start until 10 p.m. tonight. A good eight hours of sleep, a healthy application of foundation, and I'll be fine. Then I'll go in to the club and start the cycle all over again.
But there's one thing I have to look forward to. One thing that carries me through the darkness, and keeps me from giving up.
Vladimir. Or, as they call him at the club, Havok. He works security for the club. That gorgeous, rippling, tattooed hunk of man. Always lurking in the shadows of the club, protecting me and the other dancers, his eyes burning through the darkness like a cat's.
The other bouncers try to grope me, fuck me, buy me with drugs, take advantage of me. The customers treat me even worse, like meat. But not Havok. Not ever. He appears by my side in a flash whenever I need him. Uses his thick, corded muscles and brick body to shield me from any threat. He keeps me safe, always.
But whenever I try to thank him, he avoids my gaze. Slips away back into the darkness. Never tries to get closer to me. Not even a little bit.
I want Havok to rescue me. To claim me as his, and take me away from this life of chaos with Brock. His strength could heal me.
But he hasn't rescued me. And I don't think he ever will. So it doesn't matter that his body is cut from marble, his jaw all hard, sharp, dark lines. It doesn't matter that he affects me in a way that I've never felt before. It doesn't matter how he grounds me, makes me feel safe. It's all a fantasy, and my real life is here in this filthy apartment with Brock.
Still, I just know that if I were Havok's woman, he'd protect me. And he'd do it ferociously.
I feel like I've known him for a lifetime.
2
Havok
I stand in the back of the club, silent and watchful. My arms are crossed, my body hard and alert. Heavy, grinding industrial music blares through the club's P.A. system, loud in the low-ceilinged, neon-lit room. My eyes scan back and forth, and I keep mental tabs on who's here tonight and who's with whom. Situational awareness. That's what keeps you alive in this world.
My real name is Vladimir Vladimirovich Ivanov. Some call me Vlady for short.
Others call me Havok.
By day, I'm a hitman for the West Ark branch of the Russian mafia, the Bratva. By night, I moonlight as a bouncer at Fascinations, the hottest strip club this side of New York City.
I'm not working a second job for the money. I don't need more of that. My targets have made me filthy fucking rich over the years, ever since I came to the United States from Russia to work in West Ark. I don't need the pitiful thirty dollars an hour I take home from this gig.
I'm here for one reason and one reason only.
Connections with the underworld.
To your average Josef, the strip club is just a seedy place to take the boys for a few beers. To get away from the office, away from the wife and kids. But in reality it's much more than that. It's a gathering place for men of the dark. Ambitious men, to whom money and success are everything. The kind of men who stop at nothing to make their dreams come true. Men like me.
This job lets me keep my finger on the pulse of West Ark. Meets me new clients, finds me new Bratva business partners. Lets me keep my enemies close.
I believe they call it "networking."
Because all I've really got left is ruthless ambition. An insatiable hunger for money, for power, for control. I've got no family. No parents. No one who loves me, no one to soften my sharp edges and keep me more human than machine. Not anymore. I haven't touched a woman since Irina, my ex-fiancée, got fucking raped and murdered back in Moscow. God, the memory enrages me. I thought I was keeping her safe, but…
I failed her.
So now, when I'm on a hit late at night, my arms covered in my target's blood up to my elbows, my mind sometimes starts to wander, and I question whether I'm in control or if the darkness has finally taken over. But then I get my bounty, and I get that rush of power and satisfaction that doesn't come any other way, and I keep returning to the darkness again and again. It's all I know. So I chase it. And one day, I'll catch it.
Or it'll catch me.
The door to the front lobby swings open. New customers. My head automatically swivels to survey the scene, by pure reflex. A welcome distraction, to be honest.
My instincts immediately tell me something's wrong with this picture. The four men entering the room are brawny, menacing figures, two of whom have shaved heads. They look like roided-up jerk-offs, not the kind of clientele we let in this club.
My suspicions are confirmed when Oscar, the well-dressed but skinny doorman, bursts through the door after the men.
"Hey," he protests shrilly, "You need to pay up!"
Before Oscar's lips stop flapping, I'm taking action, my feet moving under me. The customers who barge in without paying are almost always college kids too wasted off their asses on Jäger and Red Bull to know they're doing anything wrong. Fucking stupid, but harmless. But my gut says these guys are bad fucking news, and for that I have no tolerance. We can't afford flare-ups or incidents at the club, and that means no riffraff allowed. Keeping up appearances is key to avoiding heat from the pigs.
Most men would be intimidated by a group of juiced-up thugs like them, but not me. I've seen it all before. Slaughtered criminals who could've made these idiots cry like babies.
I move across the club floor swiftly. Up on stage, Violet and Mackenzie, two long-time dancers, are doing a two-girl pole routine. Years ago, I'd have struggled to focus while naked women danced in front of me. But I'm jaded these days. Tits and ass are all the same. They make me feel nothing, not anymore. But every fight is new and different.
I cross the room in five or six strides and come face-to-face with the men.
"Oi," I say curtly in my thick Russian accent, "Get the
fuck out of my club."
The biggest man among them, one of the two with a shaved head, stares into my eyes. He's nearly 6'5", my height. Most men would tremble before him, and I sense his aggravation that I don't. If it weren't for the bass thudding through the speakers, I have no doubt I'd hear his teeth grinding together. His jaw is tense and his hands are balled up into fists. Body language reveals everything, and his is telling me we're doing this the hard way.
"Listen, comrade," he growls, "Beat it, pretty boy, and open some beers for us."
Behind him, his three buddies snicker, watching from a safe distance.
I give him a hard gaze, cocking my head, my lips parting in a slight smile. He thinks he's challenging a bouncer. The poor asshole has no idea he's fucking with a Bratva hitman. "You have ten seconds," I say.
He steps toward me, grabbing the lapel of my jacket with a meaty fist.
That's all I needed. Whenever a customer puts their hands on me, all bets are off. Even the fucking pigs don't question a bouncer acting in self-defense.
My hand shoots up to his neck, my fingers latching around his throat, crushing his windpipe. Shocked, he releases my jacket lapel and clasps his hands around mine, trying to peel my fingers off his throat. But despite his size, his strength is no match for mine. Hours in the gym didn't make him as hard as the Russian streets made me.
Around us, a few customers turn their heads, noticing the disturbance. Some of them look nervous. Personally, I'd fucking enjoy escalating this, but I'm on the clock right now, which means I need to put an end to it, fast. I slam him down, forcing him hard onto his knees. He gags, sending flecks of spittle onto my wrist and jacket sleeve. He looks up at me, his eyes bulging, silently pleading for me to let go of him.
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