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Paxton
Headlights flash in the cab of my truck, waking me from my daydream while I follow the yellow lines of the road. The six-hour flight gave me enough time to go through the file and shoot my Alaska contact a quick text for when I’ll be able to pick up my guns and other necessities. I rent a four-wheel drive and meet up with Bill at his survival shop, before heading to a small off-beat motel two hours from Anchorage. I did some digging on my own, and a guy like Salvatore doesn’t stay hidden for long in Alaska. Why he chose to come here, instead of a big city, I have no idea. Something doesn’t make sense. My parents taught me to trust my instincts, and something tells me if “Padre” is any good, he already knows I’m here. Staring at the guns lying on the other bed of the cheap motel, I take a deep shuddering breath. I’ve got two Glocks, a couple knives, a shotgun, rope, and tape to nail his ass.
I grab my phone and shoot Iggy a quick message apologizing for not being home to talk. I get a text back saying he loves me and to be careful. “Fuck, now I feel guilty,” I whisper to myself, throwing the phone on my bed.
I lock the door and press a chair under the handle before stripping naked to take a long shower. Suddenly, a loud boom echoes through the open bathroom window, and all the lights go out. I swear under my breath, trying to feel my way in the dark. The guy at the reception told me there was a big storm heading our way. I grab a towel and dry myself off, before hiking my pink lace underwear over my hips and pulling the white tank top over my head. I might be a hunter for a living, but I still like girly underwear, although I dress in army boots and didn’t grow out of my goth phase.
I grab the loaded Glock from the sink and head into the room, stomping my foot against the side of the bed. “Motherfucker,” I cry out, grabbing my big toe and hopping on one foot to the other bed which isn’t filled with hardware. I place the gun on the bedside table and dig the strap of lace out from between my ass cheeks.
I hear a noise sounding like a chuckle. What the hell? I stop in my tracks, scanning the dark room, then I hear a door slam coming from the adjacent room, and I sigh with relief. Another bang booms and rattles the windows while I pull the covers back. I should have bought candles; I don’t think donut-munching Jerry from reception is going to fix the power outage anytime soon.
I get under the blankets and grab Salvatore’s picture from the nightstand. I know it isn’t professional to want to stare at the guy’s eyes like I’ve done most of the flight, but something draws me to him. I shift in the sheets holy shit; I changed my underwear because the other was damp from my arousal.
I drop the pic on my chest and pull my shirt down revealing my heavy breasts, the paper skims the nipple bar and I suck in a breath. “Fuck,” I whisper in the dark as I trail my right hand down to my already wet and waxed pussy. I know it’s wrong, but he’s the only guy who’s ever got me off, the only one I ever had sex with. I was searching for the same thrill that psycho gave me but couldn’t find. Derick was wrong about the guys I pick up, I may let them go down on me in the back seat of their pickup truck, but they didn’t give me what Jonathan awakened in me; so what’s the point of fucking them when you don’t feel a thing?
“Jonathan,” I say, the words coming out strained. Dipping two fingers under the waistband I swirl them around my clit and hiss, trailing the moisture up and down my folds before focusing on my engorged nub and the piercing there. I knead my breast and rub my clit from left to right applying pressure while the lace digs into my ass, and imagine his hand grabbing my pussy possessively. His brown eyes flash before mine. The balaclava couldn’t hide his intense cold stare as he pressed me into the sheets while he fucked me. His voice was deep and smoky with the hint of an accent I could never place.
“I can’t believe you’re here, amore,” he says, holding my hands captive above my head. I try to knee him in the balls, but he anticipates my move and presses his big body against mine. The bulletproof vest makes it hard for me to breathe.
“Did you come to arrest me?” His deep sultry voice sends shivers to my core. A voice like his shouldn’t make me this wet, but it does.
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, it was an easy job. I was going to arrest the son of a bitch and collect the fee, but after the door slammed shut, and my father and brothers warned me not to go in, I wanted nothing more than to prove I could do the job as good as them.
“Yes, motherfucker, I’m bringing you in.”
He makes a tsk sound while his left hand moves over the contours of my body to check for any weapons. He rips open my bulletproof vest and runs his hand over my breast, my nipples turn to rocks instantly.
“I’m getting hard hearing you say that.” He grunts, and a shudder ripples through me. I try to whip my head back, but he grabs my throat turning my face. “Don’t,” he warns, his hot breath against my lips. “But first things first, I’m going to finally fuck you,” he growls, kicking my legs apart, grabbing my pussy possessively through my jeans.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I whimper, watching as he takes a syringe from his backpack and presses it against my neck, pushing the substance into my veins. My body goes slack, and my eyelids start to droop. I watch as he pulls his balaclava up revealing the most beautiful lips I’ve ever laid eyes on to devour my mouth, his tongue gaining access before I pass out.
I come, the orgasm washing through me like a tidal wave, his name leaving my lips on a soundless scream. My heartbeat hammers in my ears, drowning out any sound. I know it isn’t right to fantasize about the guy who took my virginity in a fucking shipping container before he disappeared for good. And threatened to kill me because I talked when I didn’t. I wouldn’t put the father of my child in harm’s way, no matter what a deranged asshole he was. The hottest and most fucked up thing that ever happened in my life. I know there is something wrong with me. My therapist, hell, everyone thinks the guy raped me, but they don’t know I begged him to fuck me. He unlocked a part of me I didn’t think anyone would ever want. He got the dark fantasy I thirsted after, and didn’t judge as he gave us what I wanted, what I craved.
Catching my breath, I grab my lighter and flick it on, so I have enough light to stare at Padre’s picture. There’s a danger to the guy. I know he’s lethal, he’s killed more men in these last years, if the rumors are true, than any hitman before him. The guy is huge. Stubble marks his defined jaw. Judging by his side profile he could easily graze the cover of GQ in a different life; he looks like a damn model. I skimmed the pages about his preferred weapons of choice; apparently, he likes to slice and dice his victims to get them to talk.
I shouldn’t fantasize about a criminal like him. There’s something seriously wrong with me. I know there is, the night from years ago still echoes in my mind. The danger, his breath on my lips while he fucked me both hard and without mercy. His hand wrapped around my mouth cutting off my screams, while he screwed me from behind and gave me the most intense orgasms of my life.
I groan, taking a sip from my water and flip the picture between my fingers. I can easily see how dangerous this guy is. It’s apparent in the way he holds his head a little to the side, having a drink in some back alley joint. You can’t see his face, but his three-piece black suit screams money. He’s smiling a little, but his eyes are hard and dead. Leaning against the headboard I go through the file and another pic falls out. I hold my breath for a second, this one is in color taken in what looks like a bathhouse. He’s only wearing a towel, his impressive chest on display, little droplets of sweat run down his defined abs. But what draws my attention is his eyes. Why didn’t I see it before? They’re blue like Iggy’s. “What the fuck,” I breathe. Sitting up straight, I let go of the pictures like they burned me. In all the pics he’s wearing black leather gloves but in this one you can vaguely see a black band where a ring should be, the same as I have. “Holy shit.” Must be a coincidence, but my father taught me they don’t exist. There isn’t anything about his past or his family in the file. He came under the CIA’s radar five years ago when he started working primarily for the Sentinel crime family. Rumors are he moved from Sicily to New York, and worked his way up in the family to become their number one assassin.
A boom of thunder makes me shudder, followed by a breeze moving through the room and the lighter goes out. I jump out of bed and close the window. Fuck, I checked the windows, didn’t I? Instinctively, I reach for the gun I have on my hip most of the time, but grab nothing but air, it’s still on the nightstand.
Lightning flashes outside and I hear the sound of a lighter, the red tip of the cigarette glowing in the dark illuminating the man’s face I’ve been staring at the last ten minutes. Holy fucking shit! Sitting in the chair opposite my bed, legs spread wide, with a gun resting on his hard thigh is Salvatore Corlean also known as Padre. Fuck my life!
“Paxton James, that was quite a show you put on,” he says, his voice deep and low, shifting in his seat. He’s wearing those same black leather gloves as in the picture, no tattoo in sight.
A whimper escapes from my lips.
Flashing me a half smile around his cigarette, he taps the gun on his knee making sure I know who’s in charge. “I loved watching you come. I jacked off countless times to your memory,” his voice a dark growl like an animal waiting to strike.
I swallow hard, fear making me shiver. The fucker notices, and his eyes widen while he takes a drag from his smoke before he stamps it out on the table next to him.
“Salvatore,” I breathe, trying to get my panic under control while my eyes dart to his shadowed face. His lips tip up slightly in one corner like he enjoys watching me panic.
I let myself fall back against the windowsill and he cocks his head, licking his lips. I made sure to hide a couple knives in case something happened. He parts his jacket and another gun flashes in the moonlight.
“My enemies call me Padre, but you can call me master until we get acquainted again. I was never into the daddy kink to tell you the truth,” he says, raising a brow like a dare, his dark eyes lingering on the tiny strap of lace covering my pussy.
“How long have you been in here?” I ask, feeling the contours of the windowsill for the knife and trying to keep my voice level. I can’t show weakness with this guy before I stab him in the freaking dick.
