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The dreams torment me. My eyes flick open at 3 a.m. in my hotel room in Queens. My naked body glistens with sweat. My dick stands upright like a dark tree in a shadowy forest. Cockhead gleaming like a searchlight, angry cyclops-eye roving for its treasure.
The sheets are soaked in sweat, sticky with semen from my rage-filled ejaculations that spurted thick ropes of seed all over the bedclothes. I was insatiable after leaving Amelia, inconsolable after making a decision I know was right but feels wrong as fuck.
“Fuck,” I snarl, sitting bolt upright, staring at the red digital clock and then bounding out of bed and pacing like a caged panther, cock bouncing ahead of me like an angry snake, fists clenching and releasing, jaw tightening and grinding. “Should have gone to the airport and flown the hell out of here, maybe down to Atlantic City, spent the night banging nameless whores, exorcising this demon that wants you to take what’s yours, claim your prize, hunt your treasure, pluck your cherry.”
Of course, I already know I’ll never touch another woman the rest of my lonely forsaken life. My cock belongs to Amelia, just like her pussy belongs to me.
Which means I’m kidding myself if I think I’ll be able to go through life without filling that need.
I’m a ticking time-bomb without Amelia.
I punch the air and shout. My mind races with the wildness that comes when you bolt awake from a vivid dream, your consciousness still trapped in some netherworld between darkness and light, reality and fantasy, sex and violence.
And the violence is burning strong in my blood. That stifled sexual energy has turned on itself, transforming to its dark opposite, the energy of creation transmuting to the rage of destruction.
Which means Ralph Romero is already a dead man.
There’s no way I can allow him to touch what’s mine.
All that big talk about walking away to protect Amelia like some honorable knight who sacrifices himself feels like crap now. It’s the reason the dreams roil my brain. It’s why the nightmares boil my blood. It’s why I’m seeing red behind my eyelids, feeling bloodlust in my heart.
It’s the reason I’m still in the city.
I’m not that honorable guy.
I don’t play by the rules of righteous war.
I fight dirty.
I claim what’s mine.
And Amelia is mine.
At least she will be tonight.
Now I’m pulling on my clothes, groaning as I squeeze my stiff cock into my combat pants. My laptop is open on the table, all my tracking apps hooked up to databases on the dark web. I already know Amelia’s in the penthouse suite at the Manhattan Four Seasons. Got the hotel’s blueprints open in another dark-web window, so I know the layout of the building, see every elevator shaft and stairwell, every door and window. Years of experience with mafia protocol tells me Amelia will have a personal maid in the suite’s second bedroom, two bodyguards out in the hallway.
Nobody will be on alert. It’s just standard procedure, not a response to a specific threat. I could disable the hallway cameras, cut down both those goons with my killing-blade, smother that maid if she tried to get between me and my prize.
I shake off the dark thoughts. I’m not killing two Volini soldiers, certainly not smothering some clueless maid who’s probably passed out drunk from the hotel mini-bar anyway. There’s another way into that room where my princess lies in her feather bed, waiting for her knight, her prince, her lover, her assassin.
Ignoring the voice of caution that’s distant and faraway at this time of night, I find myself dressed and ready, the hotel layout memorized, that switch in my head already flipped to the setting where I’ve got a mission, a target, a goal, a destination.
Right between her fucking legs.
I’ve shut out that feeble-minded knight who proclaims the virtues of honor and sacrifice. The protector is very much alive in me still, but to protect what’s mine, first I have tomakeit mine.
Mine in the flesh, not just the spirit.
Mine in the body, not just in the head.
Mine in reality, not just in fantasy.
I almost black out as I allow myself to be possessed by the need to possess. Somehow I make it to the subway station, hop the right train, exit at the right stop.
The streets of Manhattan are never deserted, but right now I’m the only man in the world. Nobody can see me. I’m untouchable, unstoppable, unreachable, unbeatable.
The bright entrance of the Four Seasons snaps me out of my stupor but can’t break the spell. I’m in the fucking zone, a hunter on the trail, a predator on the prowl. Forty-six floors down from the Penthouse I smell her cunt in the night breeze and it fires my desire, stokes my obsession, shatters my reason, shreds my sanity.
