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With a hiss, I pull out my cock, tapping my fingers on the soaked tip. I'm leaking already. I want nothing more than to wake up Monroe and have her suck the seed right out of my goddamn dick. But I fight the urge to do it. I have to.
I have no business getting involved with someone, least of all a little whore like Monroe. The memory of giving her that money is too fresh. To her, I'm a client and nothing fucking else. And if I did want to start something with her... it would be dangerous for her. I have a lot of fucking enemies, and I don't want the waitress's blood on my hands.
Right now, though, her blood is the least of my problems. I'm more worried about my own. About the fact that my cock is swollen, ready to fucking burst with the weight of cum in my balls. I want to spill it all over her. I want to watch her wake up and realize she's soaked in my fucking seed.
The thought consumes me, and I grit my teeth, jerking my cock, fast and relentless. I'm getting harder, the veins of my cock angrily pulsing with blood and unspilled seed.
My mind is racing. I don't let shit like this happen. I don't get hard-ons for little sluts who'll suck anybody's cock for a couple of hundred bucks. Yet I'm fucking enthralled, enticed by this vixen.
"Fuck," I mutter again. "Fuck, sugar."
My motions become faster. I stroke myself, bringing myself closer to an inescapable orgasm. I know I'm going to fucking come before it even happens. And the moment it does, I stop fucking holding back.
Positioning my cock over Monroe's sleeping form, I jerk myself faster and fucking faster. With a groan, I massage the tip of my cock right over her face. Just inches away from her parted, sweet mouth.
The first rope of cum is unexpected. It spurts out, landing on Monroe's innocent face. She stirs in her sleep but doesn't wake up. I keep fucking jerking because it's too late to stop now. I'm too far fucking gone.
Monroe's tongue darts out between her lips. In her sleep, she lets out the smallest of moans and licks the droplets of cum from her mouth. I groan and keep fucking jerking. Another rope of cum spurts from my tip, landing on her shirt. Then more on her thighs. I position my cock so it goes all over her, licking my lips and fighting the urge to wake her up and make her clean herself while I continue to stroke myself.
I'm in-fucking-satiable.
And my phone's going off again.
With a hissed curse on my lips, I pull out my lit-up cell. A restricted number. Fuck.
I have to go. I have work to do. When the Lombardis need a kill, this is how they get in contact. Soon enough, I'll get a text in code with my victim and location. I haven't prepared for this because it's supposed to be my night off. Yet I can't say no, not to these men.
Looking around the room, I spot a mirror above Monroe's dresser with her makeup lined up under it. I grab a lipstick, unscrew it, and write her a message on the mirror.
I'll be watching you. -A
Taking a step back, I admire my work. She'll be so fucking scared when she wakes up covered in my seed with that cryptic message on the mirror. I wish I could be around to see the fear in her eyes as she comes to the realization I did this. I'm the one fucking with her. I'm the one she should be afraid of.
I make sure everything's as it was when I came in. I walk back to my car and take off my black leather gloves. I switch from feeling like a horny teenager to the ruthless murder machine my employers expect me to be.
Someone's going to die tonight.
I'll take special pleasure in watching their blood spurt, coloring the walls dark red.
It’ll be like therapy. Therapy for my fucked-up heart that wants nothing more than to go back inside that cramped apartment, put my hand over Monroe’s mouth, and fuck her senseless. Therapy for my black fucking heart that bleeds when I see girls like her, girls with a bright future, selling their perfect bodies for a couple of thousand.
The world's a sick fucking place.
And I'm only making it worse.
4
Monroe
I wake up with the oddest feeling. It's like a sixth sense telling me that something is not right. I open my eyes and stare at the familiar white ceiling of my bedroom. A brown water stain is the only thing standing out, but that’s been there since I moved in.
Frowning, I push the thin blanket off my body. Cool air washes over my heated skin, and that’s when I feel it. Something is on my face. My hand flies to my cheek to touch the spot. I run my fingers over the dried substance that’s caked onto my face.
