A Mafia Romance

Alan

ALAN

“Enzo won’t marry me if I’m not a virgin, Chase,” Melissa is purring in my ear. I feel her warm, full breasts slide against my chest in the dark as my d**k comes to attention. “You’ve done so much for me. Do you mind doing...this one last thing?”

“At your service, Princess,” I gasp hoarsely, not sure where my clothes have gone and not giving a s**t.

We kiss, and her mouth tastes like wine. Her voice lowers to whimpers as I run my lips down her neck. I cup the globes of her a*s and feel my c**k rise to brush against the downy delta of her thighs. I lay her down to thrust into her and my eyes open wide in pain as the jeans I fell asleep in flatten a boner the size of Florida.

Reaching for my groin, I roll over, grunting in discomfort—and I forget that I slept on the couch. I fall off and knock my forehead against the plank floor. “Aah—f**k. Ow. Why?”

I finally manage to unzip the fly and ease the chafing pressure of the denim on my d**k, which is blue-steel hard and probably wondering where the lustful n***d chick went. Then I roll over with a sigh, the center of my forehead stinging. “Well that was fun,” I mutter.

I just had to be a gentleman and give Melissa my bed. No chance of joining her. I’m a stranger, even if we felt a spark between us. Besides, she’s exhausted, recovering from the drugs, and fearful.

So, the couch for me. It was long enough but apparently...not wide enough. And that dream...

Guess I like her more than I want to admit. But that’s yet another reason to be considerate.

I unzip my fly completely to sit up. Damn, do I need a cold shower? That’s going to be awkward if my guest gets up for a drink of water.

I get up and turn to face the living room window. The house backs onto a drop-off; across the gap, there’s a three-story brick parking structure. Fortunately it’s deserted now—

A faint sound of something falling onto concrete makes me look up. My eyes adjust to the dim streetlights, and I realize someone is standing on the rim of the parking structure, bent over the edge and reaching futilely after whatever fell down. Someone in a long, dark overcoat—and with long, pale hair.

Woops, woops, just showed a random chick my crank, yay. Just the thing to make myself look like Lloyd’s resident perv. I hurriedly draw the curtains. “Crap.”

The house is small, narrow, and weird, renting cheap because of it despite being a stand-alone. There’s the undersized living room, a kitchen, and a big room I’ve turned into my home gym on the ground floor, with a bathroom, a bedroom, and my office on the second. There’s barely any outside space, but I don’t care; I’ll be moving on from Lloyd at the end of winter anyway.

I walk up the stairs for my cold shower, wondering where I should go after Montreal. It’ll be a lonely New Year’s, unless of course Melissa feels like doing something up in Canada. Might be nice, despite the cold—I bet she’ll warm up to me plenty when she’s no longer running for her life.

I kind of hope she calms down enough to ditch the g*n eventually if we’re going to date, though. It feels eerie having it in the house.

Most guys in the business think I’m crazy for not having a g*n. They assume I’m a pacifist—and I am, to some degree, but not because I won’t meet force with force. A g*n is an ultimate solution to an often temporary problem.

I have enough skills in other areas to control the amount of force to use in a situation—often even when dealing with someone else with a g*n. You can’t shoot someone a little bit. But there’s a big spectrum of options between subduing someone, kicking their a*s, and killing them if your body is your weapon.

I also have some pretty personal reasons for not liking guns. Call it the Batman Motive. There’s a big reason I was raised by my grandpa instead of my dad. And just like Bruce, I saw the whole thing.

Melissa has a pistol she’s using as a last resort. It’s in her bag now. I’m wary of it—but I’m not wary of her.

More like I’m worried about her. On top of wanting her.

My d**k is still hard as I scrub off. I consider taking care of it, but I get distracted by my thoughts. I am about to help a Mafia princess get away from her demon father.

That is dangerous, even for a witty guy like me. But then again, these guys are already pissed off at me. I stumbled into this situation and got on their bad side by mistake.

I figure that I should take the risk of helping Melissa. And not just because I want to f**k her.

I'm not the kind of guy who gets stuck on women often. I love them; they're wonderful and not just to f**k. But I haven’t been serious with anyone yet.

I've never had a bad breakup. Just a string of lovers turned friends, who still sometimes come back for a booty call when they're between relationships, or when their men won't get them off.

From Melissa's story, she's a virgin. My dream made it absurdly clear how much the idea of being her first turns me on. I would totally love to spoil her so she comes back for more. Or maybe...never wants anyone else?

Wait, where did that come from? Come on man, that's your d**k doing the thinking. You’re getting a half a million bucks to take her safely to Montreal. That’s good enough.

Once I'm done with the shower, my slowly relaxing c**k gets in a pair of green boxers, and I stroll quietly into the bedroom, drying off my hair with a towel. I cross to the closet to pull on fresh clothes, looking back now and again at my guest.

In the light from the bathroom, I can see Melissa curled on my bed under a mound of comforters. I smile, remembering her complaining of a chill and me just pulling more out of the linen closet and piling them on until she started giggling.

I'm a romantic. Not a very traditional one, but I've got my ideals, and my feelings on how women should be treated. When I found out she was going to be sold off to a guy who tried to violate her, I had to do something.

Now, though, things are getting beyond business or idealism—and more personal.

Okay, so I’m attracted, sympathetic, and I like her. I still don’t actually know her well.

She lets out a soft whimper. I take a few steps toward her as I catch the gleam of a tear on her cheek. I don't even wonder what she's dreaming about.

I pull my shirt on, and then put decorum aside and reach down to gently shake her shoulder. She gasps awake with an alarmed look and sits up—and then her fingers claw into the front of my shirt and she starts crying.

I go rigid...and then slide my arms around her, burying my nose in her soft cloud of copper hair for a moment before lowering my lips to her ear.

"Melissa? Melissa—it's all right, it was a nightmare. You're safe!" I murmur, holding her close.

"Don't let go," she mumbles against my chest, and my arms tighten around her. She's trembling, her heart beating so fast it distracts me from the soft push of her breasts against me.

Most of me, anyway. My c**k's already waking up as I breathe in her soft vanilla and rose scent. I hope she doesn’t notice.

I run my hand down the back of her hair and feel her relax against me, her sobs and sniffles drying up. “It’s okay,” I reassure. “You’re with me. You’re still free. Everything will be all right.”

It takes her a few minutes to pull herself together as I sit on the edge of the bed and cuddle her, and the whole time, she doesn’t pull away from me. I hold her, my eyes closed, trying to ignore how my own heart is pounding, or how images from the dream leave me shaking with restrained desire.

I could make you feel so good right now, I think feverishly as I comfort her. I could make all of this go away.

But I won’t even propose it. I’m not that guy, no matter how much my c**k aches for her. You don’t have success with women by treating them like meat.

Finally, she lifts her face from my chest and looks up at me. Her eyes are full of humiliation. “Thank you. I’ve got to look a mess right now.”

“You’re beautiful,” I say softly and mean it.

She stops short and blinks at me, a flicker of longing in her eyes again. It leaves me shuddering with desire. Can’t we just...?

“You’re having a really rough night. Don’t fret about not being camera ready. I really don’t give a shit.” I reach down and tuck strands of her hair behind her ear, and she swallows, gazing at me almost worshipfully for a moment.

Those eyes. Wide, blue, full of timid invitation, her gaze affecting me like hands caressing my body. I swallow, knowing at once what’s going to happen if I stay.

“Thank you,” she finally manages, and I feel the soft warmth of her small hand on the back of mine. “For everything.”

“Just pay me and promise you’ll work with me getting you to Montreal. You’ll be with your friends just after New Year’s.” My voice is hoarse.

“Yes. I’ll do all of that.” Her hand. Those eyes. She wants me to stay here and join her.

But if I do, she may not be ready for what happens next.

“I should...go back downstairs,” I breathe, and she frowns.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think I could stop at just holding you.” I gently back away from her, caressing my hand down her back one last time. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” She gives me a sad smile as she withdraws. “You’re the first guy to want me and actually hold off.”

That makes me feel good, even while I ache with s****l frustration. “We’ll pick this conversation back up later.” And I wink and force myself to leave.