Ace in the Hole: A Mafia Romance

by Nicole Fox

  “I’m fucking you tonight,” he tells me, his breath on my pussy; it goes into my hole and nestles there, spreading out hotly. “I’m fucking you, and you’re going to come on my cock. Do you understand?” Suddenly, he presses his tongue firmly against my clit.

  “Y—yes!” I cry, as a buzzing feeling erupts between my legs. “Y-y-y-y—”

  The orgasm tears through me like a wave of fire, starting at my clit and then surging through my belly and into my chest. I collapse forward, my whole body trembling as he licks my clit with insane speed, over and over, licking it until all I know is that I never want this to stop, this unbelievable feeling that ricochets around me and slams into me and tosses me all over the place. I bite down on the sheets, close my eyes, and see red. I push my ass out, pressing my pussy hard against his tongue. I can’t think; feeling is all I can do. I gasp, cry, and moan, as my legs shake like crazy and the orgasm fires its last sparks into me. In the end I collapse entirely, lying on my front with the bedsheets sticking to my skin.

  “Oh God,” I whisper, as the pleasure seeps out of me, leaving me feeling drained and yet still wanting more. “Oh, oh …”

  “Turn over,” he says. “And take off your top.”

  I roll onto my back with an effort and wriggle out of the tank top, exposing my naked breasts. Gabriel pulls his shirt over his head and stands there, naked, his chest muscles covered in a fine layer of sweat, and heaving; his whole body is heaving, even his cock, which looks fit to explode. He moves slowly, like a cheetah judging the perfect moment to sprint. He leans over me, the heat of his body enveloping me, and then props his arm beside my head. I reach up and grab it, squeezing the muscle hard. There is no give to it whatsoever. He is all muscle.

  “Are you ready?” he asks with surprising tenderness. His eyes are fixed on me with the most attention anybody has ever shown me, in all my life. The way he looks at me makes me forget about everything else and focus only on him, this moment, and I can tell that he’s doing the same. This room becomes our own world, this bed our island. He leans down and kisses me with shocking softness on the cheek. “Are you?” he urges.

  “Yes,” I whisper. It’s the truth; I’m readier now than I’ve ever been.

  He reaches down with his free hand and grabs his cock, guiding it to my pussy. When the tip touches my hole, I can hardly believe that he’s going to fit inside of me. I open my legs wider, nerves attacking me now as he presses against me. The feeling of vulnerability does not surprise me. I have felt vulnerable my whole life. What surprises me is that I do not hate it; I love it, want more of it. Because even if I feel vulnerable, there’s nobody better to feel vulnerable with. He pushes into me so, so slowly that I feel every single movement, every tiny shifting in his body.

  My pussy aches painfully as his massive length slides inside of me, an intense pain that forces me to shut my eyes tightly and wonder if this is what sex really is. Is this pain what making love consist of? And if that’s so, why do people even bother? I’m thinking that when something shifts; the pain starts to slowly drift away. Five minutes, ten … I don’t know how much time passes, only that at some point the pain goes away and an intense, wet pressure takes its place. His cock completely fills me, touching places nobody, not even myself, has ever been.

  “Relax,” he whispers, again with that shocking tenderness. “Relax, Colleen …”

  He slides out of me and then back in, this time slightly quicker. The wetness implodes, fixated on the end of his cock. I move down when he thrusts up, meeting him, and then he does it again and I do the same; like this, we find a rhythm that gets steadily quicker the longer we go. After another minute or two, the out-of-body disbelief goes away and I just sink into the feeling, grabbing his muscular back and running my fingers down it, scratching him near the bottom by accident, drawing blood. But he doesn’t even notice; he is entirely captivated by me, sliding in and out with more speed now.

  I sit down heavily on his cock. I feel it then, the first whispers of an incoming orgasm, but a different kind of orgasm to any I have ever experienced. It starts somewhere deep, deep inside of me, even deeper than his massive cock. It feels like it starts just behind my belly button, an insanely dense point of pleasure, all captured in one spot. I grab onto his shoulders and bounce up and down quicker, the bedsheets sticking to my sweating back. I grind my hips, lose myself in the motion; he does the same, matching my pace, and then he leans down and kisses me on the lips. We slip, our teeth clattering together. I giggle, and he grunts out a laugh.

  I didn’t know it was possible to be with intimate this somebody—

  His cock explodes inside of me, sending shrapnel of euphoria scorching throughout my body. I lean up and bite down on his shoulder, tasting sweat and feeling hard muscle. But most of all I feel that explosion within me, wetly grinding between my legs, my pussy going tighter so that he has to push with even more force inside of me. I let go of his shoulder, gasping and moaning and then screaming. I’m vaguely aware that I’m being loud but I don’t care, not right now. Modesty can go to hell!

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” I scream, bouncing up and down as he fucks me harder, faster, pumping his hips as I angle mine, his cock finding ever more irresistible points of ecstasy.

  The orgasm fades away only slowly, and then I return to the thrusting motion of our lovemaking. I feel exhausted, hardly able to draw in a full breath. Gabriel’s eyes are wide, his jaw set, his lips twisted; he stares down at my breasts and then grabs one, tweaking the nipple.

  “You done?” he growls.

  “Y—yes!” I cry.

  “Thank fuck for that,” he snarls, and then he arches his back and thrusts into me one final time. He comes. I grab onto his shoulders, sitting down hard on his groin, grinding my soaking wet pussy against his wilting cock. His eyes are locked on me as he finishes. For a moment he is the most intense I have ever seen him, his entire world reduced to us and us alone. Then he pulls out and rolls aside, collapsing onto the bed.

  We lie like this for a long time, as though neither of us wants to move, just in case we break the mood, and then Gabriel climbs to his feet and starts to slowly get dressed. I go into the bathroom and wash myself off and then return and get dressed as well. A few minutes later he’s in the chair and I’m on the bed.

  I offer him a smile. “Well, that was …” I raise my eyebrow, hoping I didn’t do it wrong; hoping, too, that he’s not going to lose interest in me now that we’ve had sex. That was always what Alma said when she warned me to never ‘give myself away.’ She said that if I ever stooped to having sex with a man, he would no longer want me, and that the only way to stop this from happening was to remain celibate until she said so. As Gabriel sits there, looking down at his hands and not up at me, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  Guilt stabs at me. I hate the guilt. It’s unfair. I have no reason to feel guilty; I haven’t hurt anybody. Yet a lifetime of Alma telling me I’m a whore, slut, bitch, etc., if I ever have sex … it’s hard to shake.

  “Gabriel?” I ask. “Is something wrong? Was something wrong with …”

  He looks up at me, eyes narrowed. “What?” he says, as though only realizing I’m here. “No, nothing was wrong. Fuck, Colleen. That was the best goddamn sex I’ve ever had. You were … Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Then why are you sitting there like that?” I slowly move over to him, sliding into his lap. He smiles sideways but makes room for me, propping his hand on my back. “You seem angry.”

  “I am angry,” he mutters, “but it’s got nothing to do with you. These bastards, Colleen, these fucking bastards. You give your life to the Family and the Family tries to give you a bullet in return. I’m going to kill them. I’m going to kill them all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Gabriel

  I wake the next morning, wondering if all this bullshit was a dream. I’ve had some pretty fucked-up dreams in my life, so it’d make sense. But I wake up next to Colleen, curled into a ball and snoring
softly. She’s smiling in her sleep, too. I wonder if it has anything to do with the sex. I go into the kitchen and make myself some coffee and then, after some considering, make her one as well. I wonder at myself as I do that; I never make other women coffee.

  But I do it and carry it on through to the bedroom, placing it on the bedside table. The sun has hardly risen, a weak pathetic light glowing through the curtains. Colleen sits up at the smell of the coffee, her nose wrinkling. “Thanks,” she says, giving me a cute smile.

  “It’s all right,” I mutter, sitting in the chair and sipping my own.

  “I didn’t take you for the coffee-making type.”

  I growl out a laugh. “Yeah, well, there’s a lot I didn’t take myself for. Apparently I’m full of surprises.”

  “You are,” she says, not joking one bit. “You really are.”

  “And you’re not?” I try for a laugh again. Then I grow serious. “I need to ask you a favor.”

  “What?”

  “I’m heading out to take care of some business. I need you to agree not to go anywhere. I could cuff you to the bed but … If something happens to me, I don’t much like the idea of you starving to death up here. Or, more likely, one of the skip’s bastard goons finding you here and … I need you to agree, Colleen.”

  “Are you crazy?” she says, smiling at me in confusion. “You can’t expect me to agree to that!”

  “But you want to,” I press on. “We both know that. So what the fuck?”

  “What do you mean? How do I want to? I’m a prisoner, remember?”

  “You didn’t look like a fucking prisoner last night!” I snap, jumping to my feet. Maybe it was naïve of me to expect her to just agree to it, but dammit, she should. This is why a man can’t let himself think he’s close with a woman, because then she just goes and pulls some bullshit like this. Give a woman an inch, and she’ll take the whole fucking world.

  “But I am a prisoner,” she says. It’s like she’s trying to convince herself, the way her eyebrows furrow, the way her lips purse.

  I rub the tension from my forehead. “I haven’t got time for this. I’ve got business to take care of. Listen: I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars to stay here and not try to run away. That’ll be your money, Colleen, not your parents’. But that means that you have to stay with me until all this is over.”

  “You’ll pay me?”

  I nod. “One hundred. Enough money to start a life when all this bullshit is over, eh? What’d you say to that? If I’m not enough to make you stay here, is that?”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t enough,” she mutters.

  “Fine, I don’t really give much of a damn.” I stand up and turn away from her. I’m a fucking fool for thinking she’d want to stay here just for the sake of it. What did I think, that she liked me? What is this, some bullshit high school stuff? There’s no liking in this life, there’s no closeness, there’s nothing but money, sex, and violence. “Is that a yes or a no?” I say through gritted teeth. “Tell me now, or I will have to cuff you.” I should anyway, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Leaving her here when I might be heading for my death … I don’t know. Goddamn it. She’s really gotten into my head here.

  “I’ve never had money of my own,” she says after a pause. I feel her eyes on my back, willing me to turn around. I don’t. I can’t look at her right now. If I do—I don’t know. Something is changing, and I don’t understand it one bit. “I agree.” She sighs.

  “Fine.” I kick the door open and march away, get dressed and gather my weapons, and head to the elevator.

  I try to clear my mind on the way down, tell myself that she’s just some Irish bitch and I don’t give a damn about her, but that’s not the truth and I know it. I don’t know what happened with that fucking yesterday, only that it wasn’t like any sex I’ve ever had. It was close at times, like that lovey-dovey shit. It was passionate instead of rough and mean and hard. I need to be careful with that shit. Every cold man knows that getting too close to a warm woman can be his ruin; it was the skip who taught me that, before he decided to end my life.

  I clear my mind and head a few blocks south through Queens, hood pulled up over my head and head low. My pistol presses reassuringly into my side. When I’m far enough away from the hotel, I steal a car, smashing the window and tooling with the ignition. It’s an old beat-up thing without an alarm, parked down the side of an alleyway, covered in a thickish layer of snow. I take a wad of cash from my pocket and hide it under a nearby trashcan, the edge of the notes visible. Maybe the poor bastard will find it.

  Then I drive out to Samuel Romano’s place, knowing that he’s a lazy bastard who never wakes up before midday. It’s a longish ride, because New York is a bastard for traffic. When I get there, I park around the back of his house; it’s a detached place not far from the skip’s house. I wonder how often they visit each other, if they play Scrabble or drink whisky together some nights, talking for a long time about how they’re going to fuck me over.

  I climb the back fence and sneak toward the house. It’s dead quiet and the rear bathroom window is slightly open. Steam comes from it. I move in close and listen: Samuel, humming to himself. Even humming, he sounds like an arrogant prick.

  I go around the side of the house and then take a big step back. I judge the distance between me and the side door, step forward, and kick as hard as I can. The door flies off its hinges and then I’m not thinking at all. My instincts take over; I scan the hallways with the pistol, check the corners, making my way toward the sound of the shower and the humming. The humming hasn’t stopped; maybe he didn’t hear it.

  Finally, I open the bathroom door and creep inside, stepping over his discarded jeans and shirt. His humming gets much more high-pitched when I wrench the curtain back and shove my pistol in the bastard’s face. His jet-black goatee shrivels up as the same time as his little prick.

  “P—please,” he whispers.

  “You’re lucky that shower’s going, Sammy,” I tell him. “Otherwise I’d be able to see your tears. Why, Sammy? Tell me that or this shower turns red.”

  “Why what?”

  He gasps when I force the gun into the fleshy part of his neck, half-stepping into the shower. “I don’t much like looking at that little baby’s prick of yours, Sammy, so cut the shit. Why?”

  He licks his lips, his whole face shuddering in terror. He’s not a Family man, and yet the boss picked him over me. “It’s not personal, Gabriel. It’s just … you know too much about the old days, uncle says. You know too much and—and you’re volatile.”

  “Bullshit.” I growl. “I’m a professional. If the skip wants me dead, it’s because you got into his head. What’d you do, drag up some old job from years back, convince him that I’d flip one day? Did you use his dead brother against him, eh? Did you manipulate him like you’re his fucking wife?” I press the gun even harder now. “So that’s it? You got into his head.”

  “Y—yeah,” Samuel wheezes, hardly able to breathe with how hard I’m driving the gun into his neck. “But—what—what did you expect? You disrespect me all the time!”

  “Well, Sammy, I can honestly say I’m never going to disrespect you again.”

  The front door crashes open.

  “He’s in here!” Samuel cries. “Help! He’s in here!”

  Heavy footsteps thump toward the bathroom, moving with deadly purpose. I barely have time to throw myself through the bathroom window before they come crashing in. They fire; the glass shatters. I duck, crouch-run through the snow, and then leap over the fence, cursing myself for not ending him when I had the chance. But my instincts made me run, and my instincts never lie.

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” I whisper, sitting at the end of the street in the stolen car, watching as Samuel and five other men stride toward a minivan. “This ends one way, Sammy.” I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.

  Chapter Twelve

  Colleen

 
; This is the first time in my life I have not been under some sort of surveillance. Ever since I was a girl, there has been somebody watching me, mostly Alma, but sometimes Father’s employees. Even in high school, when I managed to steal some freedom by going to my friends’ houses, I was still being watched in the end. Alma always knew where I was, who I was with, if not what I was doing. But now, this is freedom. I sit up, take a deep breath, and look around the room.

  The room is too small, too stuffy. I want to feel the icy air in my lungs. I want to walk. First the house, and now this. He’s asked me to stay, but what he really meant was don’t run away. But surely I can go for a five-minute walk, a couple of blocks and back? Surely he won’t begrudge me that.