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

by Alice May Ball

  His lovely blond curls bobbed down and he bent to watch between my clenching thighs. I could hardly contain the noise of as my legs slammed together and I forced them apart. His breath fanned the insides of my thighs, then the underside of my clenching cheeks.

  Finally I felt his warm breath snake up to the tops of my legs. It blew hot on the soft flesh of my inner thighs, cool on my aching, swollen lips. Cold enough to make me shudder as he blew on my throbbing bud, cool as it slipped into my crevasse and up, inside between my trembling walls.

  The bedsprings heaved as my back arched. My toes curled and my fingers clawed and I had to bite my arm to muffle the sound of my helpless, rasping moans.

  “We must never,” his hot breath grated in a whisper, hot on my neck, “Whatever happens. We can never, ever do this again.”

  “Never.” I said. I was glad that the one fat little tear rolled out of the eye that was away from him. I’d have hated him to see it.

  When Roger arrived, mother told me that Lord Chatterton’s ‘big apartment’ was going to be much more suitable than our little house. I didn’t see why. It was way high in an apartment block downtown. Our clapperboard and shingle house, just a few minutes from the sea, seemed much better than that sterile, echoing old museum of a place.

  We had our own door on to the street and you didn’t have to wait for an elevator to go out or to come back in. You could open all the windows and we had a yard out back with grass and some flowers.

  Mother said that Father’s apartment had a wonderful view of the river. I couldn’t see what was so great about seeing the river when you were so high up above it. Being able to smell the sea seemed far better.

  So, the next four years Roger and I both went to Lincoln High. Father was awful to him pretty much all of the time.Whatever Roger did, wherever he went, I tried to follow him like some stray mutt.

  He tried to shoo me away like a mutt, too. Once in a coffee bar, in front of practically the whole of my school year he said, “Must you hang around me like a bad smell wherever I go?”

  He was right, of course. It must have been a real pain to have this little shapeless urchin constantly in your shadow. When he was trying to make new friends and impress people, I must have made him look shabby.

  Whenever we were alone he said that I was the most important person in the world to him. That was all that mattered.

  A bright patch in those dull days was on the Sundays in summer when Father took all of us up to the public beaches in the Hamptons.

  Roger had only to step onto the beach and there would be half a dozen kids around him in minutes. Most of them were girls. They touched his arm or his chest. When he talked to them they tilted their heads. Touched the sides of their necks or played with their hair as they blinked against the sun.

  Seeing the easy way that he made friends, with girls especially, it always lit a kind of a glow inside of me. A glow that carried some of the mysterious tingle. Every time I felt it from then on, it was always around him. Until he left. Since then whenever I felt it a thought of him would be in the back of my mind.

  In no time at all he’d have a beach football team, with him as the quarterback, of course. He didn’t care about the game or who won, although he usually did most of the scoring, all he was interested in was making the girls squeal and scream.

  Then he’d get the girls organized into beach volleyball teams. As a tanned and busty girl jumped, he’d tell her what he wanted to do to her. Then he’d tell the sexiest girl on the other team he’d only done it to put the first girl off her stroke.

  He had all the girls interested in strokes in no time. When Father and Mother and I went to the cheapest local diner, way off the beach, Roger would stay out into the twilight for an impromptu beach party.

  When I said, couldn’t I stay with Roger, Mother told me, “You’re too young for that kind of thing.” Then Father snorted, “The little bastard will have more little bastards, scuttling like sandcrabs all over the Hamptons.”

  One morning Mother and Father had both left early, so I had to get myself up. Never one of my special skills. Between trying to figure out coffee and something for breakfast, still bleary and in my jammies, I barged into the bathroom. Steam billowed out as soon as I opened the door and I knew this wasn’t right.

  Still, nothing was right that morning, so I fumbled through the mist for the mug with my toothbrush. The shower cabinet door was open. Roger was crouched. Naked and glistening, his huge cock was in his hand.

  His hair was wet, stuck to his face. His eyebrows creased in a steeple. He started to say my name, but his voice was hoarse.

  I dropped the toothbrush and ran. My whole body tingled so much I thought I was going to implode. As I shut the door to my room and leaned with my back against it, straight away half of me twisted in agony, wishing I hadn’t blundered in on him.

  The other half of me wanted to turn and bust back in there. I knew how wrong it would be. Just the thought of it was so wrong that it almost doubled me over.

  That was the beginning of it, I think, where I started to go so very badly off the rails. That feeling of how very wrong it was, I got kind of hooked on it. Wanted it, more and more.

  Roger said, “All of those silly girls in high school.” We sat on the floor by his bed one slow summer Saturday and played Riddick on his X-Box. “All they want is to tell their friends they’ve been with me.” He drawled lazily, “Show off a mark and say, ‘Roger gave me that’.” he winced as he made the cruel impression of our year’s stereotypical ‘popular girl.’ “They don’t care about me, they don’t know anything about me. I’m just a damned trophy.”

  “I don’t care about any of them, either.” He looked into my eyes. “I always wish they were you, sis.” His lip trembled. His face twisted as he wrenched the controller. Flames burst to fill the screen.

  We played console games and hung out in his room a lot. About half of his time he spent out, debauching almost every member of the student body and half of the female teaching staff, and the other half flopped in his room. With me.

  The way that he talked about all of them, it sounded more like they were the ones who were debauching him. He relished in telling me every detail, I mean every tiny detail of what they did to him.

  I remember him sat against the side of his bed with his legs spread wide, his hand held his bluejeans and cupped his balls. He stretched as he told me exactly how and what and where the plump, redheaded English teacher had sucked on him and probed in him with the tip of her tongue.

  His eyes fastened on mine as he described her, stood over him as she slipped her panties down, then settled to sit over his face and press her hot, wet pussy into his lips.

  He made like he didn’t want any of it and I knew that was a lie. When he said, “It’s you, sis. I want to do all of that stuff, but only with you.”

  “Seems I’m the only person you don’t do it all with.”

  “It’s true,” and he looked regretful like a long-eared puppy, “But it’s only you who understands me. You get me, sis.”

  “Only I don’t. They do.”

  He hardly ever even called me ‘Honey.’ It was always ‘Sis.’ On the rare times he did say, ‘Honey,’ it was long and slow, like he did it to tease. Once he was sat in the morning shadow and he got that tone ion his voice. I knew he was going to say it.

  His face was almost hidden, all I could see was the blaze of his eyes and his voice was low and growly. He asked me, what would you do? If you could do anything,” I knew what he was talking about and I squirmed in my little white shorts.

  “What would you do?” I bit my lip and then, when he drew it out, as I knew he would, long and low, “Honey?” I came right there. Without even a touch I shook and I moaned as I crested and burst.

  Those long, agonizing afternoons are still among my most cherished, hidden memories.

  One hot Saturday morning Father shouted from the hallway, “Baz! Deirdre’s here for you.” Deirdre Macon was the old
est cheerleader, and she was the sexiest. This was the girl that all of the jocks and the whole football team panted after, howled at, and slavered over.

  “I haven’t invited her,” he scowled. Then he looked up into my eyes, pleading. “If they throw themselves at me, what am I supposed to do, but really,” his temple creased, “Have these girls no pride at all?”

  Roger pushed me and told me quickly to get inside his closet and hide. I said that I could just slip back to my room, but he said in an urgent whisper, “No, she’ll see you,” as he bundled me into the closet.

  The closet had two sides. A mirror hung over one door, and the other door was slatted. He pushed me into the side with the slats, and I thought he must have made a mistake, because if you looked hard enough you could see inside the closet.

  Deirdre wasn’t looking at the slats, though, so it didn’t really matter.

  She leaned against him, “It’s so great to see you, Roger,” and he winced at her breathy Valley-girl meets gangsta bitch voice. Well, I assumed that was what made him wince as she wrapped herself around him. Whatever it was, his wince didn’t slow the flapping of her eyelashes.

  Roger held her face, pulled her roughly to him by the waist. “Oh, yes,” her voice was extra-dreamy. “Do it, Roger. Do what you want with me.”

  She nuzzled him and put her lips on his neck as his hands slid all over her body. She had on a crisp white shirt and a short pleated plaid skirt over black tights. She cooed into his neck.

  “I know you might want to be rough, Roger. I don’t mind,” She rocked her hips, pressing her sex against the ridge of his cock, “I really don’t.”

  He made her kneel on the floor and face the closet. Looking at the mirror, I guessed. Her nervous eyes flicked behind her and her face was a mass of conflict. He knelt behind her, put his hands over her body. Slid over her shirt, grabbed and squeezed her breasts. Then he lifted her skirt and ran his hands all over her thighs. He bit her neck and her eyes rolled.

  Then he undid the first few buttons on her shirt. Her big breasts heaved, looking like they’d bust out of her black lacy push-up bra. He ripped downwards and the buttons flew off her shirt. Her breath fluttered, and she moaned as he slipped his fingers into the bra. One by one, he scooped her tits out.

  He tweaked and pinched her nipple, then the other. His hand went to her throat and he bent her backwards to plant great hickies on her neck. As he did it, he looked up at the cupboard He sunk his lips to her breasts as his eyes found mine through the slats.

  My breath caught as he yanked the shirt down over her shoulders. Right at the bottom it was still done up, so it was like she was tied up with it. Her neck craned towards him. She planted big, wet kisses wherever she could reach his face or his neck, but he pulled away from her each time.

  I tingled all over as he pulled her skirt right up, enough that I could see her white cotton panties under her sheer black tights. Her stomach rolled. I found it hard to stay still. The tops of my thighs were hot and wet. I ached from my throbbing nub all the way to my own hard, sore nipples.

  When he ripped her tights and rubbed the darkening, damp cotton of her panties, her hips writhed and snaked. Mine, too. As his fingers pressed along the center and the fabric clung to the folds of her crotch, her thighs opened and stretched apart, and I found my fingers had made their way into my own panties.

  I had to bite my wrist to keep from making a noise as he pulled up the wet, white gusset and ripped it. His fingers dove into her swollen lips, hooked inside her and hammered in and out. My own fingers did exactly the same.

  Her back arched, and her head lolled from side to side. She bit her lip as he pulled her thighs wider apart. She leaned back against him. I saw a spark of his wicked grin as looked up at me again and he pushed her back.

  Then he hauled the front of his pants open.

  My fingers opened my weeping folds and rubbed over my thrumming clit as he grabbed the back of her hair. His eyes flashed right into mine as he jammed his cock in her mouth. I don’t know how she didn’t hear me as my dam burst.

  I bit into my arm and gushed into my hand as all of my muscles spasmed in orgasm. I couldn’t weigh then how much I wanted him and I didn’t care if it was wrong or right. I would have given anything to have taken her place, that ungrateful girl.

  We had talked about it endlessly, he and I. “We can’t,” I said.

  He looked very seriously into my eyes. “Not ever. Never.”

  And then, one night there was the most horrible row and Roger wasn’t there the next morning, and we lost touch. Well, I lost touch with him, I guess. I don’t suppose he gave a thought to keeping in touch with me.

  My stupid mother stayed Father. He had some scheme for having Roger declared illegitimate. That would have been easy enough, and he said the DNA would prove it. I got the feeling he’d had the tests done long ago. He wouldn’t take a chance on a thing like that.

  In my life I never met a more penny-pinching, skinflint miserly man but if he wanted something, he had the wealth to get it. When something mattered to him, he would spend any amount.

  His “duty” as he saw it meant that he couldn’t only have Roger made “A certified bastard,” as he put it, without establishing another line of inheritance. To do that would be simple enough, apparently. But it would mean granting the title of ‘Lady’ to Mother and Lord Chatterton hated the idea of that and, maybe even worse, he would have to have me, “the girl” named as the heir.

  For that short time when Roger had been there with is, it was only then that I heard anything about Father’s wealth at all. Until; Roger came I thought “Lord” was just a silly title that he called himself by and it probably didn’t really mean anything.

  Roger used to yell at him about how he kept the family in “poverty.” We weren’t poor by the standards that we saw around us, but Roger talked about castles, country estates and private jets. I couldn’t make much sense of it.

  To me it seemed like there were two completely separate worlds. The one that we inhabited, and another one where Roger had been and maybe Father, but it was never going to be any part of my reality.

  The things that Roger talked about, all the things he said, of course I believed them. I believed everything that he said. Somehow, though, I thought of them as part of a world that I would simply never see.

  When Father wanted me to sign his papers, he tried to make me believe that he was giving that world to me. Not only allowing me to be there and see it, but to own it all. Completely.

  I wanted none of it, I didn’t care about his money or his land or his stupid fairy-story titles. Deep down, I didn’t believe any of it. There was no contradiction, or at least I didn’t see one, in me believing in the world that Roger talked about, but not the one that Father said he wanted to give to me.

  As soon as I possibly could, I got away. I got a place at a community college in Manhattan and a job in a bakery. In Orange, New Jersey, I shared a tiny, dark brown room with a billion roaches.

  Half the time that I had for my studies was in the mornings and evenings, rattling on the train to and from Manhattan. I had to try to read or even write essays standing up and jammed between grey commuters.

  Relationships for me were rare, brutish and short. I had a particularly horrible breakup with a boy who was more interested in my weight than I was—and not from any concern about my health.

  I quickly began to suspect that his focus was much on my shape than the person inside it or anything else about me when he started to come around with big cakes. Then he wanted to watch me eat them. My sense of self-worth was not at the highest then so I agreed to eat a huge cream sponge and to let him watch.

  I gorged on the cake. With with my hands I pulled it apart and stuffed gobs of cake and cream into my face. It felt bad. And in too good a way. The clean, overwhelming sensation of abandon seemed like the most powerful and positive thing.