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She gazes at me, her pupils blowing wide as I drag two fingers against her clit. I feel the pucker of her cunt, the way she longs to buck on my fingers even as we openly talk murder. Her cute sensibilities wither up in the wake of the heat burning between those long legs. She turns back to her cards, and then, doubting her next move, glances at me.
I tap against her clit and look to her chips.
She leans forward to raise, taking care to grind into my hand as much as those tiny motions can.
“No point in wasting time on dead men,” Noctus agrees, tossing a couple more chips onto the table. “Andreev, though, that was a different story. Inconsolable. He kept saying he just wanted his boys back. He knew they were dead, of course. I guess he wanted to bury them. The problem was—”
Noctus’ voice breaks on his laughter. Marcel loses his composure, too, snickering into his glass until he has to set it down. He rubs his hands over his face, skewing his glasses, as if bracing himself for the rest of the tale.
“We’d already taken the bodies up to Albany for processing, and the pigs had got through both of them. We found—what, a shoe?”
Marcel shakes his head. “Two. Pigs ate the Jordans—left the Adidas.”
Noctus almost chokes on his drink.
“I still think about that sometimes,” Marcel admits, “One of those questions that just keeps me up at night. Why the Jordans?”
Contessa has gone very still against my fingers, her head bowed over her cards. I can feel it, her urge to resist my touch while my men laugh openly about ugly business. The tale has attracted others to the group, more men gathered around to watch the game and listen.
I watch the table closely, subtly massaging her pussy when her hand is favorable. She wins the next round, to the cheers of some onlookers. Unable to see her face, I have to trust that she’s not giving either game away.
“Those shoes were all we had left. When we told Sal, he said to send the boys back to Andreev anyway. I thought he was losing it, or maybe he didn’t understand me. No. Middle of the night, he has Marcel and I in the front seat of an F-150, driving down I-87 with seven steel drums of Russian-laced pig shit in the truck bed, heading straight toward Andreev’s house.”
Contessa turns an affronted stare to me. I match it with calm, indifferent eyes and curl my fingers up inside her. She nearly breaks. I see it spread through those pretty features, shocking her as much as it arouses her. She covers with a cough and turns away from me, her face pink, eyes watering. She looks devastated by the tale of some poor dead Russian mobsters, but I know the truth as her cunt twitches against my fingers.
“We covered that man’s yard, the front of his house—everything in sight—in that shit. Literal shit. You can’t fucking imagine the smell.”
“Pigs and Russians,” someone comments, whistling lowly.
“Broke the old bastard,” Marcel sighs.
“Wasn’t that,” Noctus says, “Well, wasn’t just that. He stuck around for a couple years after, but every year, that yard would break out in that nasty orchard grass from all the pig shit.
Like a weed. Couldn’t fucking get rid of it, the ground was so fertilized with it. It just kept coming back. An eyesore and a reminder. I think that finally sent him over the edge. Burned his whole yard up with gasoline one day and tucked tail back to Russia.”
“That’s legend by this point,” I dismiss, “Nobody knows if it’s true. It’s just one of those things people say.”
“Saw the grass myself, that shit was real enough,” Noctus insists.
The men have swallowed the conversation up. Contessa has gone quiet. I can’t read her well like this, with her back to me, but her hips are still, all the tension hardened like iron in her thighs.
Her mood has changed somehow, no longer playing our little game.
I coax her into a solid gamble with a full house, prompting some excitement from the others. Marcel throws down pocket Queens as if they’ve personally offended him. Contessa says nothing, not moving, even when I feather my index finger around her clit just how I know she likes it. When they start shuffling for another round, I ease the girl up out of my lap.
Something’s amiss.
“We’ll give up our seat before Contessa starts gunning for Marcel’s credit card number.
Have someone else come and make him go broke for the rest of the night,” I say.
I give a few regards around the room.
Contessa waits for me, stony-faced, her hand tense at her sides as we walk together upstairs.
“You—”
“Not here,” I interrupt. I never trust the house to be as vacant as it seems, especially not with this many people under its roof. She bites back her words, high heels clicking as she stomps up to her room.
