I thought the drugs my crew sell were the most potent on the market. I had no fucking idea. Lust is more dangerous than any of the white powders I sell, and that’s before you add Justine’s cock-thickening body into the mix.
I’ve only seen her in a bra and a pair of panties, but the imagine was enticing enough I’m stroking my cock in the shower instead of taking my funk out on my crew’s many whores as I would have only two days ago.
My change in attitude is also why Justine’s apartment is silent. The women I usually go through like underwear were the reason I kicked my men out a little after two o’clock this morning. They can be upset about me saying no, and be opposed to the idea of me being a one-woman man, but they sure as fuck don’t get to ignore a direct order.
I told them no, I told them I wasn’t interested, but the instant I tiptoed out of Justine’s room, they were on me like the tent my cock was pitching in my jeans was for their shelter.
It fucking wasn’t.
Even now, while rubbing one out in the shower like a loser, their fake tits and surgically altered lips aren’t being featured. All I can see is Justine. Her eyes. Her knee-bowing body. Her kissable, pouty mouth I can’t wait to smear my cum over.
The thought of her peering up at me with my spawn on her lips is my undoing. I tighten my grip around my shaft before dragging my hand all the way to the base. My cock pulsates in my palm as it brutally shreds me of any dignity I have left. I come with a growl, my entire body spasming as thick white seed pumps out of the crest of my cock. It’s a never ending orgasm, the backlog of cum compliments to a thirty-six hour hard-on. It feels fucking great, even with it occurring without an audience this time around.
As the water jetting out of the showerhead cools, I loosen my grip on my throbbing shaft. I don’t fully free it from my grip. I give it another three gentler strokes, ensuring not only is every drop of my spawn pumped from my shaft, but also allowing the water rolling off my back time to circle my cum down the drain.
Once evidence of my farce is washed away, I step out of the shower, feeling lighter than I did when I entered it. My cock is still pining for something it can’t have for another two days, but its ache isn’t as paramount.
After throwing on a pair of jeans and a shirt, I make my way out of the bathroom, freezing halfway out when I spot Roman standing in the living room. He has a surveillance tablet in his hand, and his brows are stitched together.
“If you’re watching me beat my snake in the shower, you need to get fucking laid.” Smirking at his gag, I run a hand through my soaked hair before bridging the gap between us. “Luyca was more than eager last night.”
Don’t let Roman’s age fool you. He gets as much attention from the whores as the men in my crew. He’s just never acted on their offers.
Can’t say I blame him. His wife is a fox.
“What are you looking at?”
Even if the bathroom had a camera, he doesn’t need to watch me stroke one out in the shower. He’s seen me in many compromising positions the past ten years, so he has a vault-load of imagery if he ever decides to jump the fence.
My smug grin is wiped away when Roman grumbles, “Nothing. I was just checking the feed.”
He’s a shit liar, and I’m more than happy to call him out on it. “Bullshit. You hate being scrutinized as much as me. What were you really looking at?”
I snatch the tablet out of his hand, log into the backlog of files, then nudge my head to the screen full of video files. He either shows me what he was watching, or I’ll smash his fucking teeth in until he does.
With a testing smirk etched across his face, he taps on the trash icon at the very bottom of the screen before double-clicking on a recently deleted file. Deleting video images from this device won’t stop Vladimir from seeing them, which tells me Roman only wanted to hide this clip from me.
That pisses me the fuck off. He, along with Trey, are the only men I trust to a fault. If they don’t have my back, I’m a fucking goner.
While working my jaw side to side in an attempt to calm my anger, I watch the video. It commences on Roman in the kitchen. He’s seated at the dining nook, enjoying the breakfast I asked the Popov housemaids to make after they returned Justine’s residence to its pre-orgy state.
The pulse in my jaw drops several inches when Justine enters the frame. Her body is covered by a floral-printed dress that shouldn’t look as ravishing as it does. Her eyes widen when she takes in her spotlessly clean kitchen. She appears utterly shocked.
“The Popov housemaids are the best of the bunch,” Roman says on screen, causing Justine to jump.
Justine screws up her nose when Roman shows her the feast being kept warm in the oven. It has everything you’d expect to find at a buffet breakfast in a five-star hotel. Sausages, pancakes, bacon, and eggs.
I grin when Justine mumbles, “The Popov housemaids made me brunch?” Although hard for her to pull off, her daft act is cute.
Roman nods. “Yes.”
“Why?” Even through small tablet speakers, Justine’s squeal shrills in my ears.
Roman appears as if he’s sharing state secrets when he mumbles, “Because Nikolai asked them to after ushering everyone out of your apartment.”
My cock swells as quickly as my chest when excitement flares through Justine’s impressive eyes. “Nikolai asked everyone to leave?” When Roman nods again, Justine proves why a change in degree was best for all involved. She’s too inquisitive to be an architect. “Then why are you still here?” As her mouth falls open, her spine snaps straight. “You’re Nikolai’s protector.”
I glare at Roman over the tablet when he grins like a smug prick on screen. “It's more of an advisory role than a protective detail. As you witnessed last night, Nikolai doesn’t require protection.”
