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This girl, she’s so sexy in her naiveté. Pure but filled with passion. Innocent but filled with wonder.
Pretty sure she’s a little race car. Give her a little fuel and she’ll be doing laps. But that’s not my discovery to make. Yet here I am, luring her down to the edge of the dark forest and sliding my hands down her pants. Wasn’t expecting to find her wearing nothing underneath. Or have her pushing my hands where she wanted them.
Or…
Expecting her to demand a kiss.
She claims she’s saving her virginity for her husband. I know with just a few lashes of my hot tongue on her wet pussy, I could have her begging to have me inside her. At any moment during this trip, I could have her on her hands and knees, begging me to fuck her.
The thought terrifies me.
My loyalty to the family has never been challenged like this. Thank God these men have my back. I’ve been careful; still, they may have picked up on something.
Protecting any other woman would be easy. Why oh why was I given the task of protecting her? Her scent, her taste, her smile. They all call to me in ways I’ve not felt before. I want to know more about her.
She’s loyal, kind, smart.
What else?
Her pussy is tight, wet, the smell intoxicating.
What else?
What do her breasts look like under that cropped sweatshirt? What sound would she make if I were to suck on one of her nipples? Or slide my tongue into her pussy?
What would it feel like to be the first man to have her?
I’m having dangerous thoughts.
Should I call Bronson? Tell him about this insane infatuation I have, risk him slitting my throat while hoping he takes mercy on me and replaces me with someone else? But could I sleep at night knowing that the mafia princess is under anyone else’s watch but my own?
Unlikely.
Or do I take it too far? Follow her lead and give her what she wants. Worship her beautiful body and hope against hope she can take the secret to her grave.
Hand her to her husband-to-be.
And then what happens to me?
I’m forgotten. Used by another pretty little rich girl. Here to serve her till I’m no longer needed, then get lost. Why do I care so much? It’s not like I’ve never been with other women for short periods of time, then moved on, no harm done.
This is not me.
I don’t lie in bed alone at night licking my fingers. I take what I want, satisfy my craving, and move on. And I always, always, always, keep it outside of the family.
Perhaps that’s my problem.
Maybe we’re too close, us both being Bachmans. Maybe I just long for that companionship you find with someone who gets you, gets your circumstance. Maybe I need to hang with the guys more. Get that from them. Tonight, surrounded by Bachman men I call my brothers, my eyes were only on her.
And it wasn’t for the sake of security surveillance.
Hell, with all of my men inside or surrounding the restaurant tonight I was almost able to relax, focusing on her. Instead of studying windows and exits, I was memorizing the shape of her face. Discovering the sun-kissed coppery threads of hair hidden in the dark locks that frame her face. Putting a name to the exact shade of blue of her eyes. Which happens to be the same shade as the walls in my first apartment on Broadway. A little brick dump in west New York for which I had the privilege of paying a ridiculous amount of money in monthly rent.
Broadway blue.
Moving on.
I’m not calling Bronson and quitting the gig. I’m also not going to rob her of her V-card. I’m not going to keep obsessing over her. Which leaves me committing the definition of insanity. Doing the same thing repeatedly but expecting a different outcome each time.
