by Max Henry
He wanted to give her space, to allow her to re-associate her body as hers after what Ivan had done, but her heat called to him across the satiny sheets. He edged closer, and drew her to him with an arm over her waist. Steph sighed as she moulded her back to his front. Her breathing eased, and before long he recognized the telltale sign she was asleep; every muscle in her body had finally fallen lax.
Pistol shut his eyes, and fought the emotions that threatened to break the damn he’d spent so long building. Later, there would be plenty of time for him to give her all of himself, but for now, he needed to stay angry until all the threats to their happiness had been silenced.
He had to stay Pistol a little while longer, even if it killed him to do it with her so close.
She needed a lover, but he needed the fighter more.
Steph groaned as the early morning light pierced her lids with an intense, orange hue. She rolled to the other side of her bed, and … hit the floor? What the hell? Why wasn’t she on her normal side? Her eyes now firmly wide open, she righted herself¸ and looked over the lip of the bed to see Pete grinning at her.
“Ya really know how to fall for a guy, huh?”
“Shut-up.” She laughed, but only for a short while as the memories of the night before slammed into her like a runaway train. “Shit. I need to tell someone about this. Somebody needs to know what happened, Pete. Dammit, who do I tell?” Her hands found their way into her hair as the options swum in a whirlpool of indecision.
“There’s plenty of time for that when ya ain’t so upset.”
She registered the rustling of the sheets as he moved from the bed, but her focus stayed fixed to the minute spot where her big toe connected with the carpet. So many pro’s and con’s about telling the police—most definitely out of the question. Pete sure as hell didn’t need them sniffing around his affairs. So who was the next best option? Ben? Derek? Her dad? Last night she’d simply needed the comfort, but this morning she’d woken with a thirst for justice.
“Come get some breakfast.” Pete knelt next to her on the floor in only his jeans, and gently slid his t-shirt over her head. She instinctually lifted her arms, and allowed him to dress her as she sat.
“Thank you … for everything, you know.”
He simply shook his head, and rose to stand. “It’s nothin’.”
Steph smirked as she remembered the first time he’d said that to her; outside the bar the night she met him. “What’s on the menu? Can I fix you something? It’s the least I can do.”
“Don’t be silly, woman. Settle yer cute arse into a seat, and I’ll bring you a feast.”
He held out a hand, and she took it, allowing him to lead her through the house to the kitchen. “Truthfully, I’m not overly hungry.”
“Coffee, and toast it is then.” He smirked, and swept the loose strands of her hair over her shoulder, before gesturing to the small table setting. “Sit.”
Steph positioned herself at the table, and watched as he made his way around the kitchen to organise their ‘feast’. His hair sat deliciously mussed up at the back, fresh from sleep, and since she wore his t-shirt, his torso was temptingly bare. Her eyes followed each line, and shaded section of his flesh as he moved. The pictures seemed to take a life of their own as they twisted, and morphed.
“Will you tell me what all your tattoos mean one day?” she asked.
He glanced her way, and smiled. “Sure.”
Her finger traced lazy circles on the tabletop as the clink of a teaspoon on the ceramic mug filled the uneasy silence. “What should I do about it?” Steph placed her palm flat on the table in an effort to stop her obsessive circles. “I mean, I can’t report him to the cops without it putting what you’re going to do at risk, can I?”
“Not really, no.”
“But it’s not right to leave it and let him away with it.” She frowned. “Maybe I should talk to Derek.”
“Nah, Love. That’s not a good idea right now. He’s stressed, and the guy doesn’t need the hassle.” Pete slid a plate of toast under her braced arms, and placed a mug of coffee next to it. “I promise ya, he won’t get away with it.”
Steph straightened the squares of toast, and lined the mug with her plate. “What will you do?”
“Hadn’t decided.” he drew a seat opposite, and sat with a coffee only. “I know what I want to do.”
“I can guess what that is.”
“I meant it when I said ya quittin’ your job. I’m not happy leavin’ you alone.”
“It’s only Ivan, Pete. He’s hardly about to arrange a mob to kidnap me.”
He sighed, and laid a cigarette on the table. “That’s where ya wrong. It’s not only Ivan.” He placed his Zippo next to it. “I need to make sure me mother doesn’t get to ya, either.”
His mother? “What does she want with me?”
“Anything she can get.” He looked up from his fidgeting, and held her eyes in a deadly serious lock. “She’s the kind of woman who’d hurt ya purely to piss me off, Steph. Ya need to understand how fucked up me mother is.”
Her shoulders drooped with the weight of the world. “It’s still my job, Pete. I can’t leave because of something that might blow over in a week.”
He stared at her, unmoving.
Steph shivered. “What?”
“Why do ya always have to be so difficult?” He rimmed his coffee mug with an index finger. “Why can’t ya do as ya told?’
“I do … sometimes.”
He snorted. “When?”
Steph swallowed back the flash of apprehension at what she would say next. “Sir.”
His eyes widened the tiniest fraction.
Was it too soon? The thought of a guy man-handling her left the hairs on her body reaching for the sky, but at the same time, being so completely, and utterly lost to him seemed like the ultimate safety. It felt so right, so natural to entrust herself to him and forget about the world for a while.
“Are ya sure?” He frowned.
Her tongue swept across her bottom lip, and she slid from the chair to kneel next to him. “Sir.”
A heavy exhale physically shook his body, and her core sung at the sweet sound.
“Get in ya room,” he barked.
She smirked and rose slowly, purposefully elongating herself as she turned, and walked through the house. Steph had never been one to be blessed with natural grace when it came to seduction, but dammed if she couldn’t channel her inner ballet dancer and fake her way through it. There had to be a trick to looking alluring—it’s not as though porn-stars were born with the ability, right?
“Fuck, Love. I don’t want to make ya think it’s all we are,” he said as he followed.
Steph spun, and edged onto the bed to watch closely while Pete stripped his belt from the loops of his jeans. She stuck her hand out, palm up, and wiggled the tips of her fingers. “It’s not all we are, Pete, but it’s the best part.”
His eyes hooded, and he handed the strip of leather over.
She wasted no time securing it about her neck, flicking her hair over one shoulder. The loose end fell before her, and settled on the t-shirt. Of course. Matching his heavy gaze, she lifted the hem, and swept it over her head. The end of the belt slapped against the skin between her breasts as she tossed the fabric aside.
Pete growled. “Get against that headboard, and spread yer legs.”
She did as instructed, her pulse hammering in select parts of her body.
He dropped his jeans to the floor, and a grin took hold of her lips. He was commando. What she would have done at the damn table if she’d known that. The bed dipped with his weight, and he took his time to crawl over to her, devouring her with his eyes before tracing his fingers over her knee, and shoving her leg wider.
Steph sucked in a breath as his lips found her sweet spot, his eyes watching her reactions over the mound of her sex. She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth, and instinctively let her thighs close about his head as her consciousness won out.
Having him watch her with such intensity was unnerving, but also hot.
He flicked the tip of his tongue across her sensitive spot, and lathed her with long, sweeping strokes. “So good,” he mumbled around his mouthful. Her hands found their way to his hair, and she coaxed him deeper as he continued to mine for his gold.
“You have to stop looking at me, otherwise … oh … this won’t last.”
Pete reared back, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He cocked his head to the side, and furrowed his brow. “I have to look at ya.”
“Why?”
“So you remember who you belong to, Love. God forbid, if another man ever touched you like that, I want you to see me face in place of that fuckers.”
Seriously? He was talking about this shit … now? “It’s not like I had a choice last night, Pete.” Steph snapped her legs together, and jerked a pillow across her bare chest.
He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and groaned. “Fuck. I didn’t mean that, Steph.”
“Well, do tell me. What did you mean?”
“I meant if ya ever left me, moved on if … you know … I wasn’t around for a while.”
She sat straight—the pillow fell into her lap. “Do you mean, if you went to prison for your mother?”
He nodded, and his erection fell along with his gaze.
“Baby,” she whispered, crawling over to where he knelt. “I wouldn’t leave you if that happened.”
He met her stare, disbelieving. “It might be a long time, Cutie. I wouldn’t blame ya if—“
“Shut the fuck up, Pete.” She shook her head violently, trying to shake the seed of such a thought from her mind. “Look at us. We met because you were full-on, showing me what you wanted. You told me things that would make a normal person run a mile, told me you’d kill anyone who hurt me, which quite frankly makes me worry for Ivan … but I digress. The point is, Pete. I’m here aren’t I? Why would I go now?”
He stared at her for what felt an age, the two of them taking turns to blink. His jaw ticked sporadically. Her chest heaved with a sigh.
Steph hit the bed with a whoomph as he launched himself on her—his mouth crashing into hers, teeth smacking painfully. Pete’s hands gripped the sides of her face as though if he let her go she would vanish into thin air. She drew her eyes open to look at his pained expression while he poured his inability to voice his gratitude, love, whatever he couldn’t say into a soulful kiss.
She wrapped her arms around his broad chest, and drew him closer, enveloping his hips with her legs to urge him into the part of her that ached with need. He slid himself over her wet folds, and groaned into their dueling tongues. Steph tipped her hips, and placing her feet flat on the bed, she thrust over his steeled length until their bodies couldn’t be any more entwined if she tried.
He pulled back, still gripping her face, and stared into her eyes. “How can a man as fucked up as me, deserve such a fuckin’ beautiful woman?”
Steph gripped him in her depths, squeezing her muscles tight about him. She sighed as he throbbed in response. “Maybe it’s me who wonders what she did to deserve her perfect match?”
He lilted a lop-sided grin. “I ain’t perfect, Love.”
“You are to me.”
His mouth inhibited any further conversation, and his hips slowly rocked back, and forth. Steph closed her eyes, and focused solely on the connections their bodies made, the sensations, the pressure, and the gentle caress. He’d faltered the first time he tried to show her gentle, but perhaps it was more about timing than his skill. He certainly seemed to know how gentle went now.
Her eyes flew open as the belt cinched about her neck. Somewhere in her blind bliss he’d snuck a hand up, and taken the free end into his control. Pete pushed back to kneel between her spread legs. She slipped from him as he sat back, and dropped he the belt. His hands dove under her knees, and he slid her up his lap so her hips lay higher than her head. Pete edged into her depths easily, and curled the fingers of one hand around the belt where it met at her throat.
Using the belt as a handle, he pulled her body into him as he thrust, inching himself that fraction deeper, and nudging on the spot that would ensure nuclear detonation in t-minus one minute and counting. Steph cried out, moaned, whimpered, made any noise she could to expel the overload of sensations surging her body every time he connected. Her orgasm built, and naturally her head tipped back, her eyes fell shut.
Not in his plan.
Pete yanked the belt-collar toward him, so her head was forced up. Steph opened her eyes, and the sight of him over her, arm flexing with the grasp he hand on the belt, lip-ring firmly between his teeth, fired the ignition.
She fought to keep her eyes open, but the endorphins flooding her system left her head in a spin that shook her sense of awareness, time, and space.
White light.
Toes crunching.
Muscles tensed.
His guttural groan as he pulsed within her snapped Steph out of the natural high. She forced her lids wide in time to take in the beauty that was his face free of burden, free of stress, free of pain. In that moment he was free of the world, exactly like she had been, and his escape was an addiction.
Whatever she could do to make him look like that every day, she would do in a heartbeat.
That, right there, was the real Pete.
“Remember, I’ll be here to get ya tonight. Ya comin’ to work with me. I’m not happy leavin’ ya alone yet.”
Steph nodded as he spoke, but he wasn’t able to pick whether she mean it, or simply wanted to placate him. “Yes, dear.”
He narrowed his eyes as she opened the door of the rod, and rose into the sunshine looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. Her pristine appearance starkly contrasted with the vixen that had fallen apart beneath him mere hours ago. She turned, and blew him a kiss before shutting the door. His dick twitched at the sight of her backside swinging while she walked in a tight pencil skirt, and ridiculously high heels. That woman sure knew how to dress to kill a man.
Once she’d entered the building without issue, he turned the rod away and set off for his next destination—Motel de Maggot. ‘Discussions’ with his mother hadn’t come to a satisfactory end, and he had shit to square away before he could settle into life with Steph comfortably. And that, was something he wanted to do without fucking around any longer than he had to.
Post rush-hour traffic ensured he arrived at the motel in good time, and ever better was the fact only two cars were parked in the grounds. Less witnesses. Hopefully the scum-bag who had blind-sided him the last time wasn’t still here.
Pistol climbed from the rod, and shut the door in no real hurry. He had all day to sort this out before he needed to get back to Cutie. He leant his elbows on the roof, and plucked a cigarette from the pack in his hand. The length ignited, and he sucked the ember to the filter while he watched the place, casing who was around, and how many pedestrians went past in any given stretch of time. The spent butt somersaulted off the tip of his finger, and into the traffic. He pushed off the car, and flicked his lip-ring a dozen or so times before taking the plunge, and crossing the road. Location wasn’t ideal for what he wanted to do, but there was no way in hell he’d taint where he lived with memories of his mother there.
He arrived outside her door, and stood a moment to listen to the TV blare inside. Something felt off.
He tried the handle, and edged the door open after it turned easily in his grasp. The room was dim; the glow of the TV left an eerie feel over an already jaded sight.
His mother lay sprawled on the bed, band still on her arm, and the needle on the floor where it presumably rolled from her limp hand. The stupid bitch was as high as a fucking kite.
Pistol edged around the bed, and stooped down to pick up the needle. He dropped it in the sink of the kitchenette, and noted the discarded tools of the trade. A bag of goods sat in clear view toward the back of the small bench. He looked at the contents, at th
e needle, and then at his mother. The cycle repeated several times as a new plan formed in his mind.
He took his time wandering around the room, setting the scene. Pistol hummed a tune to himself as he moved his mother’s comatose body over the bed so that she lay spread-eagled over the single mattress. He moved the band on her arm back into position, and stood back to think about how he could secure her in place. Last thing he needed was her thrashing about when she came to, and dosing him with another Liverpool kiss. His lip-ring popped from his teeth, and he smiled. How did I forget that?
Not a sign of life was to be seen as he left the room, and crossed the road to his car. He ducked in the back, and dug around for the left over rope he had from his encounter with Richard. He’d meant to clean it out of the car, but with things being the way they had, distractions were aplenty and he simply forgot.
Back in her room, he used the nylon weave to bind her to the legs of the bed. The rope cut tight into her flesh as he gave the knots a pull to remove any leverage for her, and red welts soon formed around the white flesh under the binding. He’d have to be quick to ensure he didn’t leave any permanent marks.
Pistol whistled as he worked, setting up another round of heroin for the bitch. Small mumbles sounded behind him as he stood at the kitchenette, and a grin tugged his lips. Nothing was better than when a plan fell into place perfectly, especially when he wouldn’t have to waste time waiting for her to come around.
He laid the charged needle on the nightstand, and pulled the small armchair closer to the bed. Her eyes fluttered open as he sat.
“Son,” she mumbled.
“Ma.”
“Come to finish the job, huh?” she croaked.
“We’ll get to that part, aye.”
Her eyes raked his face, and she jerked as the restrictions on her limbs registered. “What the fuck are you doin’, ya eejit?”
“Playin’, Ma.”
Her wrinkled lip twitched in a scowl, and she yanked on the ropes holding her arms taut. “You fuckin’ yellow livered sissy,” she spat. “Scared I’d beat ya scrawny ass if ya left me free?”