Married to the Mobster

he has the cock to back it up: long and curved, thicker at the base, just the way I like it.
God, I like everything about him.
I like the way he pretends not to hurt. I do that too. Easier to hide the hurts than put up with people making a fuss. I have three older sisters and I’m the baby of the family, a late addition. You better believe I know what it’s like to be made a fucking fuss of.
This guy.
When he shot his load down my throat I found myself thinking, This is a guy I could really fall for.
“I need a cigarette before round two,” he says.
“On the desk.”
He doesn’t look back at me even once he finds and lights his cigarette. He wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looks out over the lights of the city, the dark space of Central Park at night, the moon shining bright in the sky.
I roll off the bed and come over to him. He’s got my cum dripping down his back, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and I like the thought of it just drying there, marking him until his next shower. I gesture out the window. “Look at this city,” I say. “What do you see?”
“Nothing. It’s dark out.”
I chuckle. He frowns, danger in his eyes. I want to see this guy in action. I can see what he has in him, deep down.
If only he could see it too.
“Baby,” I say gently, “you’re looking at your kingdom. Don’t you know you could rule this city, rule the fucking world?”
“You’re high.”
“Yep. But I’m also right.”
He frowns again, but this time it’s not anger. He’s thinking.
Then he moves like a whip, grabbing me by the throat and throwing me up against the window, hard. It shudders under the blow, and I give a strangled laugh. “You call me Lucifer,” he says, pressing his forehead into mine. “But I think you’re the devil, aren’t you? Taking me up to the top of the mountain and telling me I can have the whole world.”
“You can,” I croak. My cock’s getting hard again, even though I still feel like shit from the drugs, and I just emptied my balls all over this guy a few minutes ago. What the fuck is he doing to me?
He holds the lit cigarette up near my face, almost a threat, but not quite. He just takes another slow drag while he stares at me, then blows the smoke deliberately into my face.
I want to goad him. I want to make him throw me through this fucking window just so I can fly for a few seconds before I die; I’ll be thinking about his pretty eyes on the way down.
He doesn’t even know how dark he could go, this one. When I was a kid still running around the house in Boston I saw Mob bosses sitting with my father in his study, and every single one of them got me hard; even those old decrepit ones whose glory days were sometime around when Al Capone was still shitting his diapers.
I’d go down on any one of them in a split second if they asked, because power like that is the ultimate aphrodisiac for me.
Pops doesn’t have power like that anymore. He went straight a long time back. We’re old Irish stock out of Boston, and Pops was close with the Irish Mob when he was young. But when Pops went legit he shored up against his ruin by making a few billion dollars instead. So he has a rep, and the Italians mostly leave his New York businesses alone, as long as he pays up.
Anyway, none of those old Italian fuckers, or the younger ones for that matter, were as powerful as Lucifer could be. Will be, I amend in my own mind. This guy’s a fucking juggernaut; he just needs to start rolling.
“Damn, you’re beautiful,” I wheeze. His hand is still tight on my throat, and I can feel his cock getting hard again too, butting into my stomach.
He eases up his grip, looking me over with curiosity. “You, too,” he says, almost puzzled. “But you’re fucking crazy, angel. You know that?”
It makes me cackle, but it still comes out slightly choked. “Yeah, I know.”
He lets me go abruptly and takes a few steps back. I peel myself off the window and glance back. There’s a sweaty imprint of my ass and back still on the glass.
He’s giving me a strange look, frowning like he’s working on a problem. “I want to fuck you.” But the way he says it, it’s like he means something else.
“Then come and fuck me,” I say, opening up my arms.
The way he stares at me is almost despairing. But all he says is, “Get back on the bed. Now.”
I wake hours later, the sun hot across my face. But it’s not the light that wakes me, it’s a low voice talking from across the room. I crack my eyes open and try to focus.
“I got jumped,” Lucifer is saying, and a tirade worms its way out of the cell phone he has in his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Forget that shit for now, Frankie. Just come get me. We can take care of them later.” Another pause, another question from the other end. “I’m at the Grand on Fifth. Yes, as in Fifth Avenue.” He makes a little movement of his head, as though checking to see if I’m listening.
Of course I’m fucking listening.
“I had some help,” he says in reply to another question, an ironic little twist to his tone. When he hangs up, he turns to look at me. “Good morning, angel.”
“Who was that?” I ask, sitting up at once.
“My brother. He’s coming to pick me up. Can you let the desk know to send him up?” He goes back over to the windows and looks out again over Central Park. “I’ve never seen New York from this high up,” he says