9. Damian
DAMIAN
N o amount of work seems to make me able to stop thinking about Sienna. Not even the job tonight, where I took five men to track down three of Russo’s, could drive her from my mind for long.
It’s been two days since Konstantin sent a message to Giovanni, and he’s heard nothing back. So, despite his distaste for violence, he agreed to let me send a message. I knew where three of Giovanni’s men would be, bringing in a shipment down at the docks, and we took them by surprise.
Their blood is still under my fingernails as I stride back to my waiting car, my knuckles sore from the interrogation.
They didn’t know anything about Giovanni’s interest in the porn business or human trafficking, but they were happy to give up anything else they could think of—none of it useful.
We killed two of them and cut two fingers off the third, one for each day that Giovanni has kept Konstantin waiting.
He didn’t tell me not to, and I thought it seemed like an appropriate message.
Now, I feel irritated, restless. I should go home, get some rest, gear up for tomorrow when there will be more meetings with Konstantin, more plans to be made on how to address Giovanni’s silence, how to prepare for the potential of an attack.
But all I can think is that if I go home, all I’ll do is lie in bed and think of how Sienna is just down the hall, a temptation I can’t allow myself to think about for too long.
Fuck .
I drive back the long way to the mansion, intentionally putting off my return.
I’ve mostly avoided her these past couple of days.
The mansion is large, and I’ve spent a lot of my time away from it, and for the most part, I haven’t seen her.
Security has let me know she’s there and safe, and that’s all that should matter to me.
Except for the fact that I shouldn’t need to stay away from her at all.
I drag a hand down my face, gritting my teeth as I feel a throb of desire just at the thought of her.
What kind of man am I, lusting after a girl who’s barely twenty-two?
Konstantin ran a dossier on her the first day after she arrived, and seeing her age in black and white made me feel even worse than I already do.
She’s over fifteen years my junior… I shouldn’t want her like this. I shouldn’t want her at all.
I should think of her as something to protect and nothing else, an innocent life that nearly got snuffed out in the violence that she accidentally got caught up in.
I need to get laid. It’s been a while, and my hand is normally no substitute for an actual woman in my bed.
Right now, with my lust surging out of control around Sienna, jacking off isn’t helping one damn bit.
I’ve already come twice today, unable to stop myself from thinking about her both times, and I can already feel my cock twitching just at the thought of her sleeping down the hall from me.
I take a sharp left turn, heading back into the city. What I need is a drink and a soft, warm body to lose myself in, and I know exactly the place to get both of those things.
Neil’s Rusty Nail is a dive bar I’ve been to quite a few times in the past, and dive bar is a generous name for it.
It’s a one-room establishment with a bar that can seat fifteen at the back of it, a few shitty booths and tables scattered around, and the rest of the space taken up by pool tables.
It always smells like cigarettes and sweat, and it’s a far cry from the shining, glittery, neon downtown of Miami .
It’s a good place to get a beer and find a woman with no expectations. And I see exactly the kind of woman I had in mind the minute I walk in, perched up at the bar with her black hair hanging loose around her shoulders in thick waves and a red, scrunched-up dress barely covering her shapely ass.
“Damian,” Neil greets me before I’m even halfway to the bar. “Want the usual?”
“Sure.” I grab an empty stool to the right of the bar, and before Neil’s even popped the top off of a cold bottle for me, Stella is sliding into the stool next to mine, that red dress showing so much thigh that I can almost see the color of the panties between them.
“Damian.” She purrs my name, grabbing the bottle from Neil’s hand before he can put it on the bar in front of me. She lifts it to her lips, pursing them around the mouth of it before handing the bottle to me. “In case you forgot what my lipstick tasted like.”
“Stella.” I take the bottle, fighting the urge to wipe off the red smear across one side of it. I turn it instead, not wanting to upset her. She’s an easy lay, one I’ve had before, and if that’s what I want tonight…
I wouldn’t even have to go home with her.
One beer, and I could have her up against the back wall of the bar.
She’d probably suck my cock. I could come down her mouth, or let her suck me until I was tired of it and then flip her around, pound her doggy-style up against the concrete, and then go home with empty balls and a clearer head.
She already knows I don’t do sweet nothings, and I don’t make love.
So there wouldn’t be any unmet expectations.
We’d make each other come and I could get the fuck out of here—hopefully with the reminder that there’s plenty of pussy in the world that doesn’t make me feel like there’s something wrong with me for wanting it.
“You look tense.” She lays her hand on my thigh, a half-inch from my cock. “I could help you with that.”
Fuck . What the hell is wrong with me? Her long red nails are practically scraping my cockhead through my jeans, and I don’t feel so much as a twitch. Normally I’d be halfway to hard right now, anticipating a hard, no-strings-attached fuck to work out the tension of the night, but there’s nothing.
I’ve been rabidly hard for days now, getting an erection every time I so much as get a whiff of Sienna’s shampoo and the sweet scent of her skin, and now that I’ve got a willing woman next to me, I’m soft as taffy.
She takes a sip of her drink, pursing her lips around the edge, and then leans in, her warm breath ghosting along the shell of my ear.
“What do you say, Damian? I miss that big cock.” Her hand slides between my legs, her fingers searching out the ridge of my cock and not finding anything to run her nails across.
“Did I ever tell you you’re the only man whose cum I like the taste of?
Every time I’ve sucked you off I just can’t wait to get more. ”
Her lips press against my skin, just behind my earlobe. “We could sneak back to the bathroom. I’ll get down on my knees for you if you promise to make me come once before we leave. And then you can fuck me back at my place?—”
What the hell is wrong with me? I feel almost repulsed by her touch, by the thickly sweet, artificial scent of her perfume, the waxy, powdery smell of her makeup.
I’ve fucked this woman before and enjoyed it.
I know just how filthy she can be, how she’ll let me do just about anything I want and get off on it, and not expect me to call her the next day.
It’s always been good. So what’s missing?
And why can’t I stop thinking about Sienna’s delicate face and the pointed upturn of her chin when she glares at me, the soft fall of her strawberry-blonde hair, and the leaf-green of her eyes?
Why can’t I stop wondering what it would taste like if I ran my tongue over her skin, stop thinking about how I could connect her freckles with one long lick, making her moan as I?—
My cock stirs to life. I feel a rush of desire, my shaft thickening along my leg, and Stella lets out a soft hum of pleasure as she runs her fingers along the ridge of it.
“There you are,” she murmurs. “God, I miss how this feels inside of me… ”
I push away from her. “Not tonight,” I growl, reaching for the beer and taking a long drag off of it. “That’s not what I’m here for.”
She pulls back, clearly startled, and I can’t blame her. "Since when do you turn down a sure thing?"
I run a hand through my hair, glancing over at her with irritation. “Since I’m not in the mood to fuck tonight, Stella.”
She chuckles, pressing her hand against my thigh. “This tells me something different, handsome.”
“Leave me the fuck alone.” I twist away from her, grabbing the beer and downing it before yanking a twenty out of my pocket—ten times the cost of the beer, but I don’t care—and tossing it onto the bar for Neil. “See you, man.”
“Damian!” Stella sounds audibly upset, but I can’t bring myself to care. “Hey, fuck you!” she yells after me as I stride out of the bar, but I ignore her, walking quickly back to my car.
Well, I’ll probably never fuck her again.
Or maybe she won’t care, once she’s had time to cool off.
The thing is, I can’t bring myself to care whether I do or not.
What’s worse, she was a sure thing. A good time, no expectations, no need for anything other than mutual pleasure. And now I’ve gone and fucked that up.
Outside, the humid Miami air does nothing to help. If anything, it only makes me feel more agitated, sweat prickling at the back of my neck as I drive to another bar.
I hit up that one, and then two more. At all three, I get approached by women who make it more than clear that they’d be happy to take me home, or suck my cock in the bathroom, or bend over the hood of their car for me in the parking lot.
None of them seem to want anything other than to get fucked by the muscular, tattooed, brutish guy who screams criminal .
They want to go home and tell their friends about the bad boy they fucked in a rundown bar bathroom, want something to giggle over at brunch later.
I’ve never cared before, but suddenly all of it turns me off entirely.