Three Hitmen: A Triple Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Lawless Book 2)

by Alice May Ball

  I told him, “I’m too old for you, Beanie.”

  He looked me over, slowly, “Oh, no, ma’am.” He grinned, “No, you’re not.” So innocent.

  “See? You don’t know what I mean when I say that I’m too old for you. You think I’m just talking about the difference in our ages.” I watched the clouds drift over his pretty face. “I mean that I’d burn you up.”

  There was a sigh under his voice as he left, “You have no idea how much I’d like that, ma’am.”

  I thought, I do, Beanie, I really do. I know how much you think you’d love it. And I know what it could really do to you.

  I swallowed my pride and gratefully scarfed down the eggs, waffles and bacon with hash browns on the side. Nothing ever cheers you quite like diner food.

  While I was eating, the Harley crackled by, going the other way. Slower this time. And the rider looked into the diner window more attentively.

  I thought about Beanie. About the lithe, wiry weight of him, flowing like lava. He moved like a dancer. All that young, sensual sinew, toned and supple under his lightly tanned skin. I watched the flashes of his athlete’s girdle, the iliac furrow. Aphrodite’s handles. They’re a real trigger for me, those two little clefts, pointing the way.

  His tats. I thought about how they would roll and undulate as they slid over his muscles. How his muscles would clench and flex.

  The eager light in his pale blue eyes. A little furrow pulling his short, neat eyebrows together. His lips, stretching back and tightening over his strong, white teeth. The sounds he would make.

  I was distracted. Inside my short denim skirt, I was getting pretty hot. My little sheer panties felt too tight. Too hot. And way too wet. My hips tilted and I shifted in my seat.

  All this longing came on so fast. Was it the shock and fear of being alone again, single, or was it just the pent-up passions that I’d not been connecting with for the past few months?

  I guess that’s a defense mechanism of mine. While I was imagining the flowing ridges of that boy’s shoulders and his thickening, hardening, reddening neck, it kept my mind distracted and away from panicking about my situation.

  The black motorcycle returned. This time the rider leaned the bike over and made a sweeping turn onto the lot in front of the diner. The muffled crack, like machine gunfire under a fat mattress, drew louder.

  His black shades matched the two big lamps on the front of the bike. He sat low and easy in the deep saddle. His arms were almost straight to the short handlebars. He leaned again, harder this time, and made a slow arc to bring the bike in front of the window. The fat back tire in was front of me. He faced out and away.

  He killed the engine. He was tall, dark haired and broad. The swing of his leg over the bike was easy and fluid. His tight, round ass looked hard under the loose denim. On the back of his cutoff leather jacket was a biker club patch. It read, Knights of the Lost Highway.

  His hands, in fingerless gloves, ran through the shaggy mop of his hair. His nose creased and he swung up the two little steps to the door of the diner. The swing of his hips was something to watch.

  A tattoo on his cheek with a red dagger matched the design on his MC patch. His face turned to me and his head dipped slightly. His golden-brown eyes shone at me over the tops of his shades. He sauntered over to Beanie and they bro-hugged with some energetic pats.

  A chair scraped and they sat at a table together. They were out of my view, or at least they were unless I turned to watch them. I could have. I wanted to.

  Their voices murmured together a while. When the chair scraped again, the biker appeared in front of me. His voice was low, dark and honeyed.

  “So,” his chin lifted as he spoke to me, “S’up?” There was an mused sparkle in his voice.

  I told him, “I was passing through. Thought I might stay and check out the night life.”

  His bottom lip pushed up a little, pulling on the cleft in his chin. “There’s a little more to Peaceable than you might have seen.” Maybe I scratched his civic pride.

  “This seat free?” He indicated the chair across the table from me.

  “Sure,” I said. My voice wasn’t quite as level as I would have liked. I extended a hand to invite him. I wondered for a moment if I was too young for him, like Beanie was too young for me.

  He was courteous. Almost making a joke of it, “Thank you, ma’am,”

  “Belle,” I told him.

  His grin spread. Before he could say anything, I held up my hand. I said, “My folks were so poor, they couldn’t afford an imagination.”

  He grinned. “We could be related,” he told me as he held his hand across the table. “Hammer.” My eyes were on his as I took his hand.

  The hard, warm tips of his fingers touched my soft, cool palm and his thumb brushed the back of my hand. A jolt ran up my arm and shocked my whole body. There was no way I could be sure that he felt it too. Maybe his eyes flashed, I couldn’t be certain.

  The full beams of his brown eyes were on me. My breath caught. He called, “Beanie? More coffee, prospect.”

  ‘Prospect’ was something to do with motorcycle clubs. It meant that Beanie was a part of the same club as Hammer. Or he had applied for membership. Something like that.

  I don’t know why, but I felt safe with Hammer. I don’t usually open up to strangers. Coming from a family background like mine, I didn’t open up all that much with close friends. Hammer seemed different.

  The way he looked at me, it was like he could hold me with his eyes. He listened. Really listened, like what I said would matter to him. I told him about Larry, about how his dreams of the big-time. How he practically dragged me to Boulder.

  “Boulder fucking Colorado for Chrissakes.” I said, my head slowly shaking, “Man’s in his mid thirties—he says—wants to be a big-time gambler, ‘whale of a whale,’ whatever that’s supposed to mean, and so he drags me to fucking Boulder?”

  “I didn’t think there WAS any gambling in Boulder.”

  “There isn’t. There’s one casino. One, and that’s out on Highway ninety-three. Larry thought he was going to clean up due to the scarcity of opportunity.”

  Hammer’s grin flickered up, “And did he?”

  “Um… no.” Hammer and me, we were light, easy together.

  So before I knew it, I’d told him how I came to be stuck here and that I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to get out.

  He said, “So maybe Larry’s in Boulder or maybe not. Are you in a big hurry to be out of Peaceable?”

  “Not as such, only I have to do something. I have no money and almost certainly no place to live.”

  He thought something over for a moment. Then he said, “We got a space for a bargirl in the clubhouse.”

  “A whatnow?”

  “I didn’t think it would be your kind of work.” He was testing me. I saw it in the pools of his eyes. He was cool and serious on the outside but, if you looked hard enough, there was a little spark that was wicked and playful.

  “I don’t have a kind of work,” I told him, “and I need to acquire one pretty fast. Would you tell me what it involves?”

  He sat back in his chair. “Mainly it involves a girl, in a bar. The bar fills up with bikers.” He chewed on his lip.

  I said, “And then the girl does the same, is that the idea?”

  He said, “I’m thinking it would be way too wild for you.”

  I asked him, “What makes you say that?”

  He tugged the lobe of his ear, “You look more the college-educated, sophisticated professional type.” His eyes narrowed as they swept me up and down, “I don’t know how you’d be, down among the lowlifes on the outside of town.”

  “You call this a town?” Sometimes my mouth gets away from me. “How can you tell when you’re outside from when you’re inside?”

  His eyebrow lifted, slowly. He was a man you just wanted to jam your fingers in his hair and muss him up. Not that he wasn’t mussed already. I just felt like I wanted him
to be mussed up my way. Or by me.

  He asked me if I’d done bar work and I told him no, but I knew how to make a Margueritta, a Bloody Mary and a Moscow Mule. “A masters in mixology is not required,” he said, “The orders are nearly all beer or bourbon.”

  I said, “I can carry a tray.”

  I saw him hold back a grin. He asked, “So, can you do math in your head when you’re off your face?”

  “I don’t get off my face.”

  His eyebrow lifted again. “Know the square root of 69?”

  Sixty-nine. Cute. I could have said, The square root of sixty-nine? That’ll be the hypotenuse of me, hanging upside down off of your shoulders. But I didn’t say that. I said, “It’s going to be eight point three something-something.”

  He watched me. I said, “I’m pretty sure the bikers I met in Boulder would think a square root would mean you got fucked with a two-by-two.”

  He chuckled at that. He had one of those chuckles, once you hear it, you want to hear it again and again.

  I said, “I nearly said ‘a two-by-four,’ but that would have been stoopid.”

  And he said, “Because it’s not square,” and it was like we’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

  “It’s forty bucks a night plus tips. Most girls make a whole lot more in tips than they do in the wage.”

  “That’s for services beyond pouring drinks and carrying a tray, I’m guessing.” He didn’t say anything.

  I said, “I want this clear from the start, OK? I don’t sell sexual services and I wont. I’ll do what I’ll do, or not. Whatever I do it will be my choice and for my own reasons.”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to make up my mind. I knew what I wanted to to. I’d wanted to do it since I saw him. Something inside me didn’t want him to think I did it to get a job. The truth was that, if anything, wanting the job gave me the excuse to do what I wanted to do anyway.

  As I let Hammer lead me out back, Beanie’s eyes were just a little bit sad puppy. My heart swelled for him, but I also wanted to tell him, “See? That’s what I meant when I said I was too old for you.”

  Out in back, I pushed Hammer up against the peeling rusty paint of the concrete wall. I pressed on his chest, through his t-shirt. My teeth sank into the side of my lip as I dragged his t-shirt out of his jeans and up, over his chest.

  My lips sank onto the glistening bulges of his tattooed pecs and I drank in the scent of him while my fingers found his fly-buttons. Behind the denim and inside some soft, snug white cotton, a fat armadillo was uncoiling and straining to meet me.

  My fingers found and traced the shape of it. They always seem bigger when they’re behind some cloth. I gasped. This one was definitely an XL. I slid my hand down the lengthening rod and cupped his goody-sac. The head reached most of the way to the crook of my elbow.

  Nibbling down his silky skin and over the humps of his abs I told him, “I have two good reasons to get your cock in my throat right now.”

  “What are the reasons?”

  My tongue touched his navel, “One is that I kind of like you, cowboy.”

  I licked down, into the front of his tighty-whities. His voice was thickening. “What’s the other reason?”

  “The other reason is none of your damn business.”

  I reached inside. He was so hot and so hard. The pulse of it made my mouth water. I cupped my hand over the firm, silky head. My teeth nipped the skin by his little furrow. The scent of him made me crazy.

  I slid to my knees and slipped my lips over the head of his cock. He pulsed in my mouth and I waited to savor it, feeling the raw, animal strength of him. Loving how he vibrated with energy.

  My nipples scratched inside my t-shirt and I hugged his powerful thighs to feel the heat of them pressed against my breasts. With the tip of my tongue, I licked him from behind his sac, all the way up the seam, slowly till I reached his head.

  I licked all around the head and slurped it into my wet mouth. My lips slid off then onto the side of the shaft and slowly back down. His hand came to the back of my head. With the backs of my fingers I lifted it gently off and raised one finger, Not yet.

  He got it. I felt him anticipate the anticipation. His beating muscle sent shivers of thrill through me, but the charge that I got from the feeling of connection was much bigger.

  I held my mouth over him, but barely touching him. Letting him feel my breath. While I blew slowly along the length of his stiffening pole, my fingers lightly touched the backs of his thighs, the crease under his buttocks, and, especially, his sac.

  When he made a faint groan, I lightly traced the furrows at the sides of his hips. Despite the urge to grab him there, to pull his hot member hard into the back of my throat, I let my fingers barely touch him.

  His pulse rose and hardened. So did his cock. With my breath and the touch of my nails I told him the story of a blowjob. In slow motion, and rising in detail.

  He got the idea as his hands hovered over my head. I could feel him at the edge of my hair, like he could fee the shape of my mouth through the warm air around his cock.

  There’s no time this stops getting better. The longer you can both hold back, the more intense it becomes. As soon as you both get it, it’s a contest for who cracks first. Who can’t hold out any longer. Who has to grab hold, make contact hard and go for it.

  The skin of his hips and the tops of his thighs vibrated under my fluttering touch. His breath thickened. He thickened.

  Still, he was firm. He moaned as his hands shook around my head.

  Taught cables of muscle in his thighs wound and tensed. His buttocks rolled and clenched under the feathery brush of my hands. When my fingers felt at the cleft behind his balls and hovered between his cheeks, insinuating by his star, his mast swelled and pulsed.

  I lost it. My fingers probed his ass and my mouth plunged on his cock. I dove. I pushed down, hot and wet until my lips hit his pubic bone. His hands seized me. One hand plunged into my hair, gripped and twisted as it shoved my head harder onto him.

  The other went to my wrists, behind his ass. He tried to pull my hands away. But his heart wasn’t in it. I backed off. His thighs spread as he torpedoed into my throat. My mouth flooded with a sweet overflow of thin saliva. The dark taste of him filled my head as I swallowed him.

  His hand, my head and his cock synced perfectly. Our beat rose and grew together. Finally I grabbed him with Aphrodite’s handles. He sunk into me. I moaned and cried out. But it made no sound, only vibration along the hot, sawing rail of his cock.

  His hips drove into my face. Rippling rings swelled along his shaft and a fountain of hot love-lava erupted into my mouth. I took him deep. I sucked, licked and slurped. I slipped my lips and slathered my tongue on the ridges of his pulsing pump.

  I didn’t lose a drop.

  As we returned to the diner I looked up at him and asked, “Will the bar work be wilder than that, biker?”

  “Oh, yeah. A lot wilder than that,” but his eyes told another story.

  “Ok,” I told him, “Lead on.”

  Beanie watched through the window as I clambered onto the back of Hammer’s Harley.

  My only previous experience with bikers was the night Larry’s ‘Perfect craps system’ failed big time. He probably got his ‘perfect system’ off the internet for five bucks. Still, after it crashed horribly, he thought he’d chase down his losses, ‘Gotta stay on the steer,’ he said.