The Hitman's Possession (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Book 1)

by Tia Lewis

  I adjusted the white towel around my waist, which exposed the bulge of my thick nine-inch cock. It was just enough of a tease for me to catch her glancing at my crotch with wide eyes.

  “Hello?”

  She snapped out of the trance.

  “So… what do you do all day?”

  “I kill.”

  “Besides that.”

  “I fuck, work out, collect guns, and mind my fucking business.”

  “Sounds boring if you ask me.” She huffed.

  “Nobody fucking asked you,” I retorted.

  Moments later, she let out a yawn and rubbed her eyes, smudging her makeup and giving her a sexy panda look. She leaned up and nervously looked at the door.

  “Nobody is coming through that door. Trust me.”

  I pushed aside the beer cans and sat on the edge of the coffee table. My cock was persistently hard, pressing against my white towel. She looked at my crotch again, and then shifted her legs subtly, exposing more of her skin. I couldn’t say if she did it on purpose or not, but the result was the same. Her red mini-dress slid up her legs, showing more flesh. There was something in her body language, something which welcomed my attention. It was in the way she looked at me through her smeared makeup, vulnerable and beckoning at the same time.

  “That’s quite a dress. My favorite color is red.”

  “Good to know.”

  “You know, for a woman whose now mine, you don’t seem afraid,” I said. “And I believe I know the reason for that. It’s because you saw me kill that Russian, and you thought to yourself: I can use him. He can protect me.”

  “And what if that’s true?” she asked. “I’ve been used. So, what makes you so different?”

  I lunged in her direction and leaned into her, so close that I could smell her faded rose perfume from last night. I could trace the track of light brown freckles from under her eyes down just beside her nose. I was so close to her that I could see tiny specks of brown in her bright blue eyes.

  “I’ll tell you what makes me different,” I said, breathing heavily, like a bear pushing against the bars of a cage. “If somebody tries to use me, they’ll never try it again.”

  “Okay,” she held up her hands defensively. “I didn’t mean any offense, jeez.”

  She spoke dismissively, but I could see that I’d shocked her. Her hands shook as she lowered them. I sat back down on the coffee table and glanced at her trembling legs. I studied her and wickedly smiled until I realized I was hungry.

  “Do you know how to cook?”

  “You just lunged at me. Now you’re asking me to cook?”

  “For someone who saved you, you’re giving me a lot of shit talking.”

  “If you wanted a silent bimbo, you should’ve rescued a plastic doll.”

  I laughed. “I knew it was only a matter of time until your true personality came out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  The ability of a woman to turn a simple conversation into an argument consistently astounded me, but at least her voice was more interesting to listen to than most. I bit my lip and enjoyed what I was witnessing. This woman had a mouth on her. Didn’t she realize that turned me on and only made my cock harder? I let out a predatory grin. I was going to have a lot of fun with this sexy spitfire.

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, I can bloody cook.”

  “Good. Come on.”

  I led her to the fridge. As soon as she opened it, I realized the stupidity of my plan.

  “There isn’t much to work with,” she told me as she peered into the open fridge. A three-week-old rotten banana, an open can of black beans and a single carrot were all that I had to work with.

  I sighed. How difficult was it for a hitman to get a home-cooked meal?

  “Hand me my cell phone over there, and I’ll order something.”

  “You know… you don’t even know my name,” the woman said when she handed me my phone.

  “Your name isn’t what I’m interested in right now.”

  She went to say something, but suddenly the spunky look vanished from her face. There was a crash downstairs—probably Mrs. Cooke throwing a plate at her husband, Mr. Kendrick punching his wall, or one of the addicts stumbling into a TV. But from the way she reacted, you would have thought a bomb had just gone off.

  She threw herself onto the dirty kitchen floor—a floor which had never been swept or mopped and was covered in crispy bits of old food, insects, and cobwebs—and curled into a ball.

  I couldn’t help it. She looked pitiful, but something nearly crept through my ribcage and found my blackened husk of a heart.

  “It wasn’t a gun this time. Get up,” I kneeled down and tugged at her arm.

  She had a terror-stricken look on her face and slowly got up from the floor.

  “Right,” she smoothed down her dirty red mini-dress.

  “So, what’s your name, then?”

  “I thought you weren’t interested in that,” her eyes said: What are you interested in?

  “I’m more interested in that,” I casually waved a hand at her fuckable body.

  She held in her smile and tugged at her red mini-dress. Then I saw the shape of her perky tits. Fuck! My cock was hounding me.

  “Anyway, my name is Wendy.”

  “Liam.”

  We shook hands. I was aware that her hand was much smaller and delicate than mine and I could have completely enveloped it had I wanted to.

  “Some horrible shit must’ve happened to you for you to hit the floor like that,” I said as I withdrew my hand.

  “Horrible shit happens to everybody,” she countered.

  We stood in silence.

  “So, um… Thank you for last night. For saving me,” she bit her lip.

  I smirked, gazing into her blue eyes. Now she wanted to be grateful? I thought. I’ll show her just how grateful she can truly be.

  We finally ordered Chinese food and sat on the couch in the living room. As we waited for the delivery, I glanced at her long and silky legs. There was something about them that made me want to grip her thighs in my hands and watch the flesh mold around my fingers. I wondered if her pussy was shaved…

  The apartment buzzer sounded.

  Wendy jumped up from the couch looking panicked.

  “It’s just the food.”

  I collected the food, paid, and returned to the couch.

  We ate in silence, and she took the containers to the trash. When she returned, she bit her lip. It was a look that I couldn’t read. I had no clue what she was trying to say. I just wanted to grab her luscious ass and see how she felt when I was deep inside of her. I didn’t care about any looks she would give me unless she was on her back with her legs in the air and looking wide-eyed up at me.

  “So, Liam. Let’s cut to the chase. Am I really your prisoner in this… dump?”

  I laughed mischievously. “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “I guess it’s official then?”

  “Yeah. Besides, you don’t want to leave anyway.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because if you go, you think you’ll come face to face with a ruthless Russian covered in prison tattoos, ready to finish what those bastards in the alley started. You have no choice but to stay with me. Like I said before, make yourself at home.”

  She looked at the ground. The situation was clear. She was scared shitless of the Russians, and she wanted my protection. What wasn’t clear was why the Russians would have anything to do with some young woman. She didn't give off the same type of vibe that most whores seem to have. She was also too feisty and didn’t have the dead eyes of a woman who had been beaten down by life, or at least not yet. She was brave, too, or just plain stupid. You would have to be brave or stupid to run from the Russians like that. Whatever it came down to, it would mean work for me. It was always the same.

  People always wanted something from a man like me, because I was willing to do the things that most peopl
e weren’t. I’d kill anyone if you paid me enough. However, I had one rule: no children. Maybe I was kidding himself, thinking that my rule made me any less of a monster.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, my mind kept dwelling on that hot body of hers. I’d love to see that ass bouncing on my cock as I pounded into her deep from behind, one hand grabbing her hip, my other hand reaching around to her bouncing tits and pinching her nipples.

  “It’s my bet you’ve made a big mess with the Russians,” I said. “A real big mess. So, I’m going to need you to tell me why they’re after somebody like you.”

  She bit her lip and shook her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry,” she replied. “I don’t trust you yet.”

  “Maybe you’re smarter than you look, then. Apart from that yet part. You should never trust me. Let me tell you that up front. Trust me, and you’ll be making a terrible mistake.”

  “I don’t think you’re the monster that you’re pretending to be. A monster wouldn’t have stopped when they heard my screams.”

  “You’re wrong, Wendy,” I said, openly staring at her. “You just have to ask yourself what kind of monster would take a woman like you as his possession? The worst kind of man. Trust me, I’m that kind.”

  She looked away, crossing her legs and sighed.

  3

  She didn’t leave.

  When I woke the next morning, I found Wendy sitting on the couch with her hands on her knees, like she was trying to stop them from shaking. Was there a better way to wake up than with that titillating body lounging on my couch?

  I stretched my long and muscular arms, yawned and sat next to her. Her long blond hair was damp. She’d showered, and I saw she changed into one of my black T-shirts which fell down to her knees.

  “I want to ask you something,” she said.

  “What?” I asked, turning on the TV. There was nothing on, as always.

  “I need my clothes and shoes,” she murmured. “I want to go back to my apartment and get my stuff.”

  “That’s a stupid idea. If you were mixed up with the Russians, they’re watching your apartment.”

  “I know, but…”

  I sighed and reached into my pocket. I pulled out eight hundred dollars in fifties and handed it to her.

  “Go and buy some new clothes,” I said. I turned up the TV.

  She didn’t take the money. She pushed my hand away.

  “It’s not just the clothes,” she said. “I have sentimental things in my apartment. I have a locket from my grandmother and a painting that my mother gave me before she died.”

  I groaned. I’d spent my week killing men for money. Now it was Saturday morning, and I couldn’t just sit down on the couch and watch some re-runs on TV. If this spunky little thing didn’t have a tight body like that, I would’ve thrown her out like garbage on the street. Women were easily replaceable, but one glance at her and you would forget what she was saying for a second. Her beauty literally stunned me speechless.

  “Liam? Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “So…”

  “What do I get?”

  “Get?” She repeated like a fucking parrot.

  “What will you give me in return?”

  She looked like she had no idea what I was talking about. Did she have any idea how much her deer-in-the-headlights look aroused me?

  “What do you want?”

  “Let me tell you.” I rubbed my sharp jawline. “I haven’t jacked off in—how long?—two weeks?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been so busy working that I haven’t had a chance to relax. I’m backed up, and it’s driving me crazy. My balls ache like hell every time I look at you. Now, I could go and relieve myself in my bedroom, but why would I do that when I’ve got a beautiful thing like you in here?”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Simple: I saved you, I need to cum.”

  She scooted away from me on the couch.

  “No!”

  I grinned, leaned back on the sofa and placed my scuffed boots on the coffee table.

  “I need to cum,” I said casually. “I’ve been going half-crazy thinking about that ass of yours, and I'm so fucking tired of thinking about it all the time.”

  “So.”

  “I’m a dirty bastard, and I get what I want.”

  “Lots of people like getting what they want.” Wendy stood firm, shaking her head. “That doesn’t mean they just get it! You can’t really believe that just because you saved me, I’ll let you do that?”

  “Not just because of that, no,” I said, flicking through the TV channels, not even looking at her. “There’re two other reasons.”

  “And what are they?”

  “The first is that I’ve seen the way you look at me. Whatever you’ve been through, it hasn’t killed you in that way. I can see it in your face, your eyes, in the way you tug at your dress to get my attention. You want me just as much as I want you.”

  “Ha! You’re bloody crazy! Here I thought you were keeping me in this dump you call home, but now I realize it’s an insane asylum!” She laughed, but there was uncertainty in her voice. And a moment later, when I turned from the TV and looked at her, she quickly turned her face away from me.

  “You want something from me. I know there are going to be Russians watching your apartment. I know it for a goddamned fact. You expect me to perform a task for you? I require payment.”

  “You could do it as a favor.”

  “A favor?” I laughed. “I’m not in the habit of doing favors for women that I find on the street.”

  “How are you so certain I want you?” she asked. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I said brashly. “It’s obvious that you want to jump on my dick every time that you look at me.”

  “Just because you’re this good-looking, creepy, executioner doesn’t automatically mean women want you.”

  “Of course not. I just know that you want me. See? There’s a difference.”

  Wendy was silent for a few moments, and I let the silence stretch. I knew what I said was true. She wanted me. Even if she lied to herself about it, she couldn’t lie to me. When you’d had as many women as I’d had, you got to know when a woman wanted you. It became a sort of sixth sense. I could tell just by looking at her eyes most of the time. If not, then the flush of her cheek and the language of her body told me more than her lips ever could. It was when it came to stuff that wasn't sex or killing that I was lost. Sex and killing―those were my specialties.

  “Look, what exactly do you want from me?” she asked, after about ten minutes of some idiot on TV trying to sell a get rich quick real estate course.

  “Suck my cock,” I said.

  “I’m not a whore,” she shook her head.

  I laughed. “And I don’t work for free. Make no mistake, there will be blood if I go to your apartment. There will be one hell of a fight. You think I’m going to risk myself for you without getting something in return? I don’t know what fairy tales you’ve been reading, but that isn’t how it’s going to go down.”

  She let out a high-pitched sigh.

  “How important is all that shit at your apartment?”

  “It’s not shit.”

  “Answer me.”

  “Very!” She snapped.

  “Then you better give me what I want.”

  I didn’t know how she could seem so offended. She’d just brazenly asked me to go and fight the Russians for a goddamned locket and painting. Like I’m going to do that for free. Hey, Boss, don’t worry about paying me for that last job. I’ll just kill whoever you want for no fee at all, just because I like you like that! Jesus-Fucking-Christ!

  “Well?”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “Fine by me.” I shrugged and turned up the TV. The man droned on: “For twelve easy payments of $99.99, you too can be on your way to becoming a real estate millionaire!�
�� The man on the infomercial was old and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He started dancing awkwardly to 80’s elevator music. We continued to sit in silence on the couch as we watched the man make a fool of himself until I felt Wendy’s eyes on me.

  I was wearing what I always wore: black leather jacket, black T-shirt, denim jeans, and boots. Her eyes trailed up and down my chiseled arms, to my strong hands, and then to my face.

  “How did you get that?” she asked, studying the upside-down scar above my eye.

  Something in her voice had changed. It was the voice of a woman thinking about doing something with a man that she wanted to do, but felt guilty about wanting to do it.

  “You can see I’m watching TV, right?”

  She closed her eyes, as though preparing herself. “Perhaps if you told me about yourself it might make your request and this whole situation a little less awkward.”

  “What do you want to know about me?”

  “Well, that scar on your face, I can’t help noticing it. Can you tell me how you got that?”

  I clenched my fists and looked down at my knuckles as I spoke. My temple pulsed, as it always did when I thought about Kevin, especially what happened on the night that still haunts me to this day.

  “We were in a bar, and these men walked in—five of them. I was with my younger brother, Kevin, and I was eleven years old, and he was six. I was waiting for a friend, that’s why we were there.”

  If by a “friend” I meant Boss, then yes, I was waiting for a friend. Back then it was a normal practice for Bostonians at our age to hang out in bars, especially in this type of neighborhood.

  “So what happened?”

  “These guys thought it’d be funny to pick on some kids, I guess. They come over with their drinks, pretended to stumble and spilled an entire beer right in Kevin’s lap.”

  “Oh wow.”

  “My brother was a soft kid. Not like me at all. He was only there with me in the first place because he hated going anywhere without me. So I stood up, and I said, ‘You’ve got a fucking problem?’”

  I could remember it like it had happened just last night: the thick scent of smoke, beer, spirits, heavy cologne and sweat. The dim, flickering lights, Kevin’s terrified face, and my trembling bottom lip. The men, clearly drugged up or drunk out of their minds giggling like schoolgirls. My fingernails biting into my palms, a hot ball of rage rising in my chest.