42. Gabriel
The redhead keeps her word. Five thousand dollars is pocket change for me, and I had no patience for negotiating a price for something Neomi wanted.
I’ve earned millions over the years, being one of the highest skilled hitmen in the world.
I’ve worked for fifteen years in the shadows of the underground.
Even organized crime families like the Marchettis, the Falcos, and the Maravillas don’t know my name or my face.
I work mainly for the elite upper cusp of secret societies, silencing the people who stand in their way of what they call ‘progress.’ And they pay well for it.
When this assignment landed in my lap, I decided it would be my last. I don’t usually deal in intelligence with the option to kill only if needed.
I usually hunt down men to hide information, not bring it to light.
But the price was right and the Marchettis have ruled the Chicago territory for decades, so the challenge to gain information on their inner workings, well frankly, it sounded like the perfect challenge and low risk for a last mission.
I turned forty this year and I’m done with hiding.
It’s a lonely life, full of changing locations and changing faces.
No opportunity to belong to a place or to people.
Once I deliver the one piece of information that I was contracted for, I can attempt to blend back in with society and live a normal life.
This last mission brings me here, seated across from Lars Marchetti and his new, beautiful, blushing bride.
But watching them at this moment, I realize the mission won’t be as easy as I thought it would be.
When the song fades, the entertainer makes her way to our table. She’s in just her black thong and stilettoes, accentuating her long, toned legs. She stops at the edge of the table, offers a coy smile, and waits for direction.
I lift a hand to flag down our waitress. “Another bottle please and put it on my tab with the bar.”
The dancer leans toward me, perfume thick and sweet, gaze flicking between the three of us. I don’t give her much instruction, just a single nod toward Neomi.
“Christy, the lady here requested your company. I believe she needs a dance.”
The redhead’s smile deepens, something wicked hidden behind it. Then the next song rolls in, slow enough to be seductive.
She turns toward Neomi, closing the space between them. Her hands find the back of the chair for balance as she hovers over Neomi, hair falling forward. Her thong sits above the curve of her ass as she slides down until she’s kneeling in front of Neomi.
Her palms glide slowly up Neomi’s thighs, parting them. As the fabric shifts, Neomi’s breath catches. The woman knows exactly how to build anticipation. Neomi leans back against the cushion, eyes dark, chest rising faster.
When the dancer presses upward, her body molds against Neomi’s in a sinful glide until she’s straddling her. The rest of the club fades. The music, the crowd, the lights, it’s all background to the sight of skin and mischievous smiles.
The dancer teases Neomi’s breasts through her dress, and I watch her nipples harden under the fabric in response.
A squeeze, a drag of nails, a flicker of contact that makes Neomi’s head tip back.
When the dancer’s mouth lowers, brushing the neckline like she might bite through the fabric, Neomi exhales sharp enough to hit me square in the chest.
The heat that rolls through me is violent. I adjust in my seat, trying for a sense of composure that isn’t coming easily.
The dancer’s eyes lift. First to Lars, then to me. The look she gives is pure invitation, and she knows it. She’s pulling us in, winding the current tighter around all of us.
Songs blur together. The rhythm lost. Neomi melts beneath her, thighs open, body surrendering to every touch. At one point, the two of them exchange a few words I can’t catch, and whatever passes between them makes the dancer grin like she’s been given permission to go further.
She straddles Neomi again, grinding slowly, hair cascading forward in a red curtain. Then, without breaking rhythm, she reaches across the table—hand sliding through Lars’ hair, a soft tug that brings him closer.
Lars’ breath slips out in a low groan, the sound rough enough to make my dick twitch. His pupils are blown wide, jaw slack, and when my gaze drops lower, the evidence is right there, straining against his pants.
Fuck.
I lean back, letting it all burn into my memory. Neomi’s smooth skin, the redhead’s pale against hers, Lars’ eyes dark and desperate as he tries to hold himself together.
There’s nothing more exquisite than watching two people lose themselves in front of you.
Lars’ grip on her hand is white-knuckled, like he’s holding on for both of them. His chest rises faster now, every breath a battle. The dancer looks between them, mouth curved in wicked satisfaction, and then her gaze lands on me. One heartbeat, then two—and I know exactly what she’s about to do.
Then she reaches, sliding her hand to the back of Lars’ neck again. He goes rigid for a second before she pulls him over until his mouth finds Neomi’s.
Their lips crash together, desperate and rough, and goddamn it, it’s perfect.
Neomi arches up between them, trapped between the dancer’s rolling hips and Lars’ kiss. The sound he makes against her mouth lands deep in my spine.
The dancer glances over her shoulder and catches my eye. Then she winks.
That single flick of her gaze is gasoline on an open flame. My cock throbs so hard I nearly lose it right there, the rush of arousal overwhelming. I grip my thigh under the table, nails biting through the fabric as my pulse roars in my ears.
Watching a beautiful woman push Neomi to the edge while dragging Lars into the fall is perfection. I’m witnessing his control fracture in real time. Watching them both come apart while I sit here—aching, my breath shallow, every muscle wound tight—like I could come without a single touch.
And the worst part is, I don’t want it to stop.