“Take off your clothes,” he says. No, commands. His tone of voice tells me he isn’t playing anymore. “Now.”
I don’t need him to tell me twice. I want to be naked for him. I want him to see me again, and I want to see him. I tear away my clothes quickly, throwing them on the floor, and then I cross my legs and watch Roman. His pupils are dilated. He looks high. High on me, I reflect, a shiver trailing between my shoulder blades.
Roman keeps his eyes on me as he undresses, first pulling his shirt over his head, revealing his torso. His upper body is incredible, looking as though it is carved from marble. Every muscle is tight, sculpted. His abs are a pack of ridges, his pectorals two curved bumps of pure muscle, his arms a series of smaller, tight muscles. He drops his shirt, and then unbuttons his pants. Lust takes me then. I can’t stop it. I lean forward and take the button, pushing his hand aside. I quickly unbutton his pants and pull them down to his knees.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
I think I forgot just how huge his cock is. At least eleven inches, eleven inches and rock-hard, a vein running down one side like a vine down the side of a huge tree.
Roman reaches down and places his hand on my head. Usually I hate when guys do this. But with Roman it isn’t desperate or needy, like it often is with other guys. With Roman, it is imperative. It’s more like we’re two horny animals and he’s just letting me know, in his animal way, what he wants me to do. And, truth be told, I want to suck that huge cock. Just to hear him moan, just to know I can give him the same pleasure he can give me.
I grip his hips, as hard and muscled as the rest of him, and bring my lips to his cock. I open my mouth wide, as wide as it will go, feeling the corners of my lips stretching, and then I lower my mouth onto his cock. It fills my mouth entirely, just barely enough room for me to move my tongue around. But despite the discomfort, it’s worth it to hear the way Roman groans. A series of low, relieved groans, the groans of a man who has been fantasizing about this for some time. That gets me off, too, thinking about Roman daydreaming about me, about the last night we shared together.
I suck him for some time, and then he makes a wolf-like noise and pushes me back, so that I am staring up at him.
“I need to feel that tight fuckin’ cunt,” he says.
Cunt, oh fuck, cunt. I love when he says cunt. It makes this so dirty, so wild. I lift my legs, open them, point my toes and lay my arms back on the bed, waiting to be taken by this giant of a man. He places his hands either side of me on the bed, his body covered in a fine layer of sweat. He stares into my eyes. I stare back. Then I lean up and kiss him, kiss the father of my child, kiss the child of my mother’s savior, kiss the man who, like it or not, I now have an immutable connection with. We press our lips together, our teeth clicking, our tongues entangled. When we break it off, Roman reaches down quickly, unable to wait any longer, and takes his cock in his hand.
Slowly—his is cock way, way bigger than my pussy—Roman guides himself inside of me. First I feel the tip of his cock, which feels like a massive ball as he thrusts inside of me, a ball of euphoria, a ball of pain, of pain-pleasure. I grip his shoulders, once again breaking the skin with my fingernails, and sit down on his cock. It keeps going, deeper and deeper, until the shaft is probing my sweet spot. The pain lingers for a minute or so as we slowly writhe, and then, all at once, it disappears. I let out a long, sighing moan and lay back, gazing into Roman’s eyes, which are almost glassed over now with mad withheld lust.
When I sigh, Roman must know what it means: he must know that the pleasure has overtaken the pain of his entry. Because as soon as I sigh, he goes wild on me. He slides out, slow at first, and then like the firing of a pistol—slams right back inside of me. I squeal, digging my hands into his shoulders, as he fucks me. Really fucks me. Fucks me like no man has ever fucked me before. Fucks me even harder than he did back at the hotel. I bounce up and down on his cock, sweat making the sheets stick to me, his sweat dripping onto me. It’s dirty and rough and I fucking love it.
“Oh, fuck, fuck, Roman. Fuck.”
Holding himself up with one arm, Roman brings his hand to my bouncing breast and plays with my nipple, tweaking it, soft at first and then hard.
“You dirty bastard!” I cry, bouncing up and down so hard his balls slam into my ass, bouncing up and down so hard my deep spot is glowing red-hot, bouncing up and down so hard that the deep spot is growing, not just aflame, but growing larger and larger until I don’t feel his thrusts, just the ignited spot of pleasure.
Roman’s eyes roam my body, especially my breasts. He stares at them, pert and jostling, as he drills into me. I stare at his body, too, especially his torso. His chest muscles are unyielding and glistening with sweat. His abs contort as he thrusts, the muscles becoming more clearly-defined as his belly hunches over. I drive my hips down with more force each time, more and more force until it’s like there are magnets inside of us, pulling us together. Fast, frantic, furious. Animals.
And then my deep spot begins to get even hotter, hotter than scorching. It’s like lava down there, a metal bubbling bucket of lava, overflowing into my pussy, the hottest fuck I have ever had in my life. I want it dirtier, I want it like a real animal.
“Fuck me from behind,” I moan. “Fucking screw me from behind, Roman.”
Roman doesn’t respond with words, but responds like an animal. He growls, pulls out of me, flips me easily with one hand, and then drives back inside of me. I climb onto my knees, grip the sheets, and bounce up and down on his cock, my ass cheeks now pressing into his abs and his balls slapping into my clit.
“I’m going to—”
“Come for me.” Again, it is a command. “Come for me, Lily. Fucking come for me. Come for the father of your child.”
Oh, god . . . That pushes me overboard. It’s safe and dirty at the same time. A beautiful, confusing, intoxicating combination: the father of my child, yes, but the father of my child is treating me like a bad bitch who needs to be screwed hard. I bounce, bounce, as he thrusts, fucks me so fast the lava is bubbling like crazy, melting into my deep spot. The orgasm is coming. I can feel it, approaching quickly, about to grip me and—
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream, my throat going hoarse with the passion.
I drive one more time down onto his cock and then I hold it there as the orgasm takes me. Everything tenses, my ass cheeks, my fingers, my body, and most of all my pussy. It goes so tight around his massive cock that he has to growl and grunt and thrust even harder to slide it deeper inside of me. The orgasm is the hottest thing I have ever experienced, so hot I don’t feel anything else, nothing else in the whole damn world. Roman has blotted it all out. The lava moves through me in waves, spreading throughout my body, as I tilt my hips, angling Roman’s cock. Over and over, the lava takes me. I feel myself squirting onto his cock, and then hear Roman’s satisfied growl when he sees it. Fuck, he loves it. He loves when I squirt on him. He’s deep inside of me and he fucking loves it. I push down one last time, gritting my teeth, taking the last remnants of the orgasm, and then I slump forward, gasping.
“Fuck,” Roman groans. It’s like he’s been waiting for me to come. The second I do, he leans over me, pressing his torso flat against my back, and empties himself inside of me.
When we’re done, we crawl together onto the bed. We lie like that, naked, for a long time. And then I climb into Roman’s arms. He holds me close, kissing me on the head, an offering of tenderness after the animal pleasure.
I don’t think when I close my eyes, not now. I’m too tired, my body too contented. The horrors of the world can wait until the morning.
Chapter Fourteen
Lily
When I wake, Roman is gone.
I listen for him, closing my eyes and scanning the house with my ears, for any noise. But there is nothing but a light summer breeze whistling against the house. I roll over, bring my knees to my chest, and stare at the sun-dappled wall, thinking. I think about last night and I think
about Carol, and I think about the revelation that the woman who saved my mother was Roman’s mother. That’s the strangest thing. Carol is the saddest, but that’s the strangest. What are the chances of that? Perhaps Roman’s yin-and-yang tattoo really does have some deeper meaning. Maybe all that nastiness happened for a reason. I’m not sure if I believe that, but it’s a nice thought.
I’ve been lying here like this, just staring and thinking—and trying not to cry about Carol—when Roman’s cellphone buzzes from across the room. I know it’s not mine because mine wasn’t on me when we made the getaway from the hospital. I lean up. It’s resting on a cabinet, lurching here and there as it vibrates. He must’ve put it there at some point last night, before we had sex. I think about just ignoring it, but my curiosity gets the better of me. I don’t allow myself much thought as I hop across the room and pick it up. It vibrates in my hand a few times. Part of me wants it to go to voicemail so the decision is robbed from me. But I can’t keep living like that: waiting for somebody else to make a choice. Anyway, I couldn’t exactly call myself Sherlock if I had no curiosity, could I?
Forcing myself not to think about how wrong this is, I answer the phone and hold it to my ear. I don’t know what I expect, or even want. Perhaps just an insight into who the father of my child is. Roman is still being reticent on that front. I asked him last night, late, as we were drifting to sleep, who he was and what he did. Still, he wouldn’t tell me.
I don’t say a thing. I don’t need to. The person on the other end has an entire raging speech prepared.
“I hired to you put this fucker down, to fucking kill him! Do you understand me, Roman? Do you? I hired you to kill this man! Not to spend weeks and weeks failing to kill him! Do you understand this, Roman? Do you fucking hear me? I have important things coming up, important opportunities! I can’t spend months waiting for a loose end to be tied up! I heard good things about you, really good things. Best killer in the States. Most efficient killer in the States. Hitman for hire. Assassin fucking extraordinaire! And now what . . . why aren’t you saying anything?”
I drop the phone, step away from it. I suspected he might be a criminal. Yes, I suspected there might be something dark going on. But to hear it, to have it be made real.
“He’s a killer,” I mutter, staring at the floor. “The father of my child is a killer for hire.”
“I am.” Roman appears in the doorway, a brown paper bag in his hand. He gestures with it. “Breakfast,” he explains. “I went out for breakfast.”
“You’re a . . . killer.” I can hardly say the word. Hours ago, this man and I were writhing in pleasure. Oh, I suspected, I suspected! But suspecting something and having it shoved right in front of your face are two different things. This man, the father of my child, kills people for money.
“You must’ve known.” He steps into the room.
I take a step back. “Don’t come near me.”
He stops, wincing. “Alright,” he mutters. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lily. I’ve told you that already. I’m going to protect you.”
He takes another step, but this time to the side of me. I take my chance: dart for the door. Now I’m the one standing in the doorway and he’s the one standing in the room. He sighs, shakes his head. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeats, as we stare at each other across the room. “I would never hurt you. That was just my boss, Lily, that’s all, reminding me that I need to kill the man. You know the man who was responsible for strangling Les in his sleep? That man? A man responsible for thousands of deaths, maybe even tens of thousands. That’s who I’m being sent to kill. How can you hate me for that?”
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I just—you’re a killer, Roman. I’ve spent my life trying to help people, trying to make them better, and you get paid to do the opposite.”
Roman shrugs. “Yin-and-yang,” he says. “I reckon we complement each other nicely.”
We watch each other for a long time, silently. Perhaps Roman thinks I am just going to run into his arms. Part of me wants to. But I also cannot connect these two people: a man who might be CIA or Army with a man who is verified as a paid killer. The man he was before I picked up the phone and the man he is now.
“I don’t know . . .”
I let my words trail off when the red and blue lights flash into hallway. I see them out of the corner of my eye. I turn my head and watch as they flash up the stairs, coming from the direction of the front door. I listen, and hear the muffled voices of two men, the slam of a car door.
I turn back to Roman. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just can’t. I can’t live this life.”
Then I spring down the hallway, running as fast as my legs will take me, running toward the police officers in the driveway. I stumble on the stairs, almost fall, catch the railing and jump the last two steps. When I reach the bottom, Roman booms from the top: “Stop, Lily! You don’t know if these fuckers are clean! They might be dirty! Stop, before you get yourself hurt!” He has his gun drawn, aimed down the stairs. Not at me, but at the door beside which I stand.
“I’m sorry,” I say. The tears have started again, the wretched, unstoppable tears. They sting my eyes, already sore from too much crying last night. I can’t bear to look Roman in the eye knowing that I’m going to be leaving him soon. He won’t kill police officers, not if he is the man he says he is. He won’t kill me, either, not with our child inside of me. “I just can’t do this, Roman. I can’t live this life.”
Roman is halfway down the stairs. He’s not even looking at me. His eyes are fixed on the doorway. He brings his fingers to his lips. “They might be dirty,” he repeats, this time in a low whisper. “If you want to get away from me, running into the arms of dirty cops ain’t no way to do it.”
I want to believe him, I want to go to him, but I also want to re-enter the real world. I want to be able to go to work, to go to Carol’s funeral, to live a normal life. I want to go to sleep knowing who I am, where I am, where I’m going. I want my life back.
“I’m sorry, Roman,” I say, and then turn toward the door. I open my mouth to shout. I don’t know what I’m going to shout. Help me, perhaps. Although that will make me feel rotten and mean. I don’t need help from Roman. I don’t think he’d hurt me. But then, do I know that? How well do I really know him? How well do I know the killer whose child is growing inside my belly?
It doesn’t matter, because the second I open my mouth to shout, the police officer yells: “They’re there! I can see them! Look, in the doorway! Fuck!”
I barely have time to register the words before the glass in the door shatters into thousands of pieces. A split-second after, bullets pound through the door, through the walls, thudding repeatedly all around me. I would be dead if it were not for Roman, who leaps down the stairs and tackles me to the ground. I don’t know what’s happening. Everything is chaos. Bullets thud into the walls, over and over, shattering picture frames and tearing through the plasterboard walls. I am crawling without really crawling. Roman is half-dragging me somewhere, I have no clue where, and I have no choice but to follow him. I keep thinking: are these police? Are these police? And then: are they mad? Are they mad? They must be, surely, to shoot up a suburb in naked daylight.
I was going to run into the arms of these men. The thought causes more horrid tears to slide down my cheeks, as Roman and I crawl through the house.
“Roman, what is happening? What is happening?”
My voice sounds crazed and shocked, even to myself. I know what is happening, but I keep mumbling it, over and over, until I am whispering it to myself, a whisper only I can hear over the gunshots. Am I going mad? Is it possible to go mad this quickly?
When we’re in the kitchen, crouched low with our hands over our ears as bullets cut through the oven, the microwave, the blender, the knife stand, all of it exploding in a frenzy of shrapnel that sends wood and plastic and metal flying to all corners, the front door smashes open and the men charge into the house. Even over t
he chaos, I hear their footsteps, eager, too eager. These men, these police, want us dead, badly. The bullets stop. I open my eyes—I didn’t even realize they were closed—and see Roman, blurry, tear-shrouded, take his gun from his waistband. He brings his fingers to his lips. This time, I listen.
“Think they’re dead?” one of the cops says.
“No idea,” the other replies, quieter. “Let’s not risk it, though. Stay sharp.”
“Look at this place.” The first cop’s voice is deep and gravelly. I imagine him as a much older man, wrinkled and grim-looking. The other sounds like a kid. “No way in hell anybody survives this.”
They’re getting closer now, their boots crunching over the broken glass of the living room. Another ten seconds and they’ll be in here, ready to do us real harm. But Roman lifts his gun and aims it at the doorway, and then calls out: “Stop right where you fuckin’ are.”
The steady crunch-crunch-crunch of the men’s boots ceases.
“We’re stopped,” the younger one says calmly.
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