Smut Stories Collection

We are Just Enemies

They call me the Ghost. I've been the best hitman in the business for a decade. No loose ends, no witnesses, no mistakes. Until him.

Viktor Volkov. Russian, mid-thirties, built like a f*****g tank with a smirk carved into his face. He runs the eastern territory for the Ivanov syndicate, and for the past six months, he's been my primary target. My boss wants him dead. I want him dead.

But every time I get close—every single f*****g time—something goes wrong.

The first time was in a warehouse on the docks. I had him in my scope, finger on the trigger, the crosshairs lined up perfectly with the back of his skull. He was talking to one of his lieutenants, completely exposed. Easy money.

But then he turned around. Looked straight up at me. Waved.

Waved.

Like he knew I was there. Like he was expecting me. And then he walked away, disappearing behind a stack of crates before I could fire.

I spent the next week trying to figure out how he knew. Did someone rat me out? Was I losing my edge? I couldn't sleep, couldn't think. All I could see was that smug f*****g wave.

The second time, I set a bomb under his car. A custom IED, tamper-proof, motion-activated. He'd be dead the second he turned the ignition. I watched from a rooftop across the street, waiting.

He walked out of his penthouse, keys in hand. Stopped right next to the car. Looked up at my rooftop. And then he pulled out his phone, typed something, and my burner buzzed.

A text from an unknown number: "Cute bomb. But I prefer roses."

I nearly threw my phone off the roof. How did he know? How the f**k did he know?

That's when it stopped being a job. It became personal.

The third time, I ambushed him in his own safe house. I'd spent a month gathering intel, memorizing his routines, his weaknesses. I broke in at three in the morning, silenced the pistol in hand, creeping through the dark hallways.

I found him in the kitchen. Sitting at the table. Drinking tea.

"Took you long enough," he said, not even looking up. "I was starting to think you'd lost interest."

I raised my gun. "Any last words?"

"Yeah." He finally looked at me, and his eyes were—f**k me—amused. "You need to learn to relax. All this tension is bad for your aim."

I pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked empty.

I checked the magazine. Empty. I checked the chamber. Empty. I hadn't loaded it. I always load my guns. Always. But there it was, an empty weapon in my hand like a goddamn i***t.

"You're very predictable, my friend," Viktor said, standing up. He walked over to me, slow and deliberate, and I stood there frozen, trying to figure out what the hell was happening. "I bribed your weapon supplier. It cost me a fortune, but it was worth it to see your face."

He was close now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and sharp, like pine and leather.

"You're dead," I said.

"Maybe. But not today." He reached out, and I flinched, expecting a knife or a punch. Instead, he straightened my collar. "You need a better tailor. This suit is off the rack. Embarrassing."

I wanted to kill him so badly my hands shook. But I couldn't. Not because I was afraid. Because for the first time in my career, I was curious.

"What do you want?"

"Right now?" He stepped back, that smirk still plastered on his face. "I want you to stop trying to kill me. It's getting boring. If you're going to put in the effort, at least make it interesting."

He walked past me, out the front door, leaving me standing in his kitchen like a fool.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That was four months ago. I've tried to kill him seven more times since then. Poison, sniper, car crash, staged accident, knife in the dark, a fake hitman team, and a goddamn helicopter crash. Every single time, he escaped. Every single time, he left me a message—a flower, a note, a mocking text. He was playing with me.

And somewhere along the way, something shifted.

I stopped hating him. I started... anticipating him. The thrill of the hunt turned into something else. I'd catch myself smiling when I got one of his notes. I'd replay our encounters in my head, not the failures, but the way he looked at me. The way his voice dropped when he said my name.

"Ghost," he'd call me, like it was a pet name.

It infuriated me. It turned me on. I didn't know which was worse.

The eleventh attempt was the breaking point.

I cornered him in an abandoned factory. No tricks, no traps, just me and him and the sound of dripping water. He was unarmed. I had a knife.

"You're out of ideas," he said, leaning against a rusted machine. "This is getting sad."

"Shut up."

"Make me."

I lunged.

He sidestepped, grabbed my wrist, twisted. The knife clattered to the floor. He pulled me against him, my back to his chest, his arm locked around my throat. Not choking. Just... holding.

"All these months," he murmured in my ear, his breath hot. "All these attempts. And you've never once asked me why I let you live."

"Because you're an arrogant bastard who likes to play with his food."

He laughed. I felt it vibrate through his chest, through my back. My c**k twitched.

"Maybe. Or maybe I like the way you look when you're angry. The fire in your eyes. The tension in your jaw." His hand slid down my chest, slow, deliberate. "I've been watching you too, Ghost. You're beautiful when you're trying to kill me."

I should have fought. I should have broken free and slit his throat. Instead, I leaned into him. I leaned into him.

"f**k you," I said, but my voice cracked.

"Is that an offer?"

I turned in his grip, facing him. His eyes were dark and hungry. I saw the same obsession I felt reflected back at me.

"I hate you," I said.

"No you don't."

He kissed me.

It wasn't gentle. It was teeth and tongue and years of frustration. His hands grabbed my ass, pulling me against him, and I felt how hard he was. Felt how much he wanted me. I moaned into his mouth, hating myself for it, needing it anyway.

He pushed me against the machine, tore at my belt, and my pants. I did the same to him, desperate, clumsy.

"Want to kill me?" he growled, his lips on my neck. "f**k me first."

I didn't answer with words. I dropped to my knees.

I took his c**k in my mouth, and it was thick, heavy, the taste of salt and skin. I deepthroated him, gagging, tears streaming down my face, and he groaned, his fingers tangling in my hair.

"f**k, Ghost—that's it—take it—"

I sucked him like I wanted to devour him. Like I wanted to punish him. Like I wanted to worship him. All of it, all at once. He came with a shout, hot and bitter down my throat, and I swallowed every drop.

He pulled me up, kissed me again, tasting himself on my tongue.

"My turn," he said.

He spun me around, bent me over the machine, and spread my cheeks. I felt his breath in my hole, then his tongue, hot and wet, licking into me. I cried out, gripping the cold metal, my legs shaking.

"You like that?" he murmured against my skin.

"Just—f**k—do it—"

He pushed a finger inside me, then two, stretching me open. I was dripping pre-c*m, my c**k aching, and I didn't care about anything except what was coming.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it. I want your c**k, Viktor. f**k me."

He lined himself up and thrust inside me in one smooth motion. I screamed—pain and pleasure blending into something transcendent. He f****d me hard, pounding into me, his hand wrapped around my throat, pulling me back against him.

"This is what you needed," he grunted. "All those attempts, all that anger—you just needed to be fucked."

"Shut—up—f**k—"

He reached around and took my c**k in his hand, stroking me in time with his thrusts. I was close, so close, the pressure building in my gut.

"c*m for me, Ghost. c*m on my cock."

I exploded, c*m splattering against the machine, my ass clenching around him. He followed seconds later, filling me, his teeth sinking into my shoulder.

We collapsed together, breathing hard.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

"That was..." I started.

"Better than killing each other?" He chuckled.

"Shut up."

But I was smiling.

It's been six weeks since then. I still try to kill him. He still escapes. But now, after every failed attempt, we meet. In the factory, in his penthouse, in the back of my car. We f**k like animals, angry and desperate, and then we go back to trying to murder each other.

I think we both know it's a game now. A dangerous, beautiful game. And I don't want to win. I just want to keep playing.

The last time, he pinned me down and whispered in my ear: "One day, I'll let you kill me. But not yet."

"Not yet," I agreed.

And then he f****d me so hard I couldn't walk for a day.

I've never been happier.