Chapter 52
DARRAGH
Friends are fucking useless.
Two days ago, my buddy Shane and I landed in Italy for some much needed R & R, and he’s gone down with some kind of stomach bug.
I told him he shouldn’t have eaten those prawns last night, but he didn’t listen, and now I’ve lost my wingman, which has left me a bit exposed.
Not that I can’t handle myself. I can. But I’m here for a holiday, not mafia business.
That won’t stop the Santoros, Italy’s top mafia family, from being suspicious, though. By now, every Santoro in the country will know I’m here, and they’ll have eyes on my every move.
I stroll through the streets of Milan, scanning for a bar. Not just any bar. The right kind of bar. One with a vibe: good music, good liquor, not-so-good women. The bad ones are far more fun.
A thumping beat drifts down the street. I round the corner, and there it is, my entertainment for the night. The place is so packed that customers spill out onto the street, glasses in hand, smoking cigarettes and embracing life.
I grin. Perfect.
Sidling through the crowd, I finally reach the bar.
The bartender clocks me and dips his chin in acknowledgment.
It’s another few minutes before I get served.
I order a large gin and tonic then spin to face the room.
A DJ plays tunes from a makeshift stage, and bodies crowd the dance floor, although it’s more a space where tables and chairs have been pushed to the side.
The bartender taps me on the shoulder. I pivot, pay him and pick up my drink, turning around again.
The place is bursting with stunning women, but it’s one in particular that catches my eye.
Hair so dark it could be black hangs in glossy straight lines down her back, long eyelashes framing brown eyes, but it’s the gold dress that clings to every single one of her ample curves that has my dick standing to attention.
Hello, beautiful.
I knock back my drink and set the glass on the bar. She sees me coming from a few feet away. A small smile lifts her full lips at the corners, and she shimmies her hips and beckons to me.
She says something in Italian. I shake my head and point at myself. “Irish.”
“North or south?”
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” She opens her arms. I slide one hand around her waist, and the other captures the back of her neck. “What’s your name?”
“Darragh.”
“Darragh.” She rolls it around her tongue like she’s tasting decadent Swiss chocolate. “I’m Luciana.”
“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” The old lines are still the best, proven when she smiles. Everyone loves compliments. In this case, though, it’s a hundred percent true.
“I don’t dance with many men.”
“Why’s that?”
Her nose wrinkles like she smelled something bad. “They’re so boring.”
“How do you know I’m not boring?” I’ve been called many things in my life, but boring isn’t one of them. She can’t possibly find me boring.
“I don’t. I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
“How long do I get to impress you?”
A red-tipped fingernail trails over my chest, my abdomen. She cups my dick through my trousers. “I’d say you already have.”
I’m leaking pre-cum already. There’s something so fucking hot about a forward woman who knows what she wants and isn’t shy about taking it.
“Want to take this somewhere quieter?” she asks.
Is that even a question? “Where’d you have in mind?”
She slides out of my hold, crooks her finger, then weaves through the crowd.
I almost trip over my feet in my haste to follow her.
When the bar narrows to a dark corridor, it’s my first moment of hesitation.
I check my gun but leave it holstered for now.
If she’s a plant by the Santoros, I’m ready, although I doubt they’d make a move on me yet or possibly at all.
I needn’t have worried.
“The bathroom?” I arch a brow.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never done it in a bathroom?”
I lock the door. “Several, actually.”
A pink tongue sweeps over her top lip, and she gives me the full head-to-toe treatment. Guess that wasn’t the flex it sounded like in my head.
Okay, then.
I close the distance between us, snap a hand around her neck, and devour her mouth like I haven’t tasted a woman since 1876.
Truth time: I tasted one last week, but this woman. This woman is like Louis Vuitton compared to Penneys department store. Champagne vs. cheap plonk. Silk instead of polyester.
I don’t register that she’s unzipped my fly until I feel her soft palm grip my dick and give it a tug. I groan, my balls getting way too fucking excited way too fucking early. If they shoot their load after ten seconds, I’m filing for divorce.
The slender straps holding her dress up give way easily, and I feast on her breasts, sucking and pulling and biting her nipples.
“God. God.” Her fingers tug on my hair. For all I care, she can leave a bald spot. This is too good. Too fucking good.
I scoop up her dress by the hem and shove it around her waist. “No underwear,” I murmur. “You came looking for this?”
“Didn’t you?”
Fair point. And to prove it, I slide a condom from my back pocket.
She takes it from me, tears it open, and rolls it down my dick with the efficiency of someone who’s done this many times before.
I love a woman with experience who isn’t afraid to take what she wants.
And I am more than happy to let her use me in whatever way she needs.
I grip her arse, and lift her, balancing her weight against the wall. She grips my hips with thighs of steel and guides me inside. Both of us moan loud enough that passing traffic will know what’s going on in here.
I could not give a single fuck.
“Yes! Right there. Don’t stop.”
I bend my knees and angle my hips, driving into her. Not fast. Deep. I pull out slowly and do the same thing again. And again. Her muscles ripple along my dick, quivering, teetering on the edge of her pleasure.
I’m close. Too fucking close. I send another order to my balls that they’re on their final warning, and reach between us, thumbing her clit.
“That’s it. That’s it!”
I increase my pace, wild now, chasing my own release. Her fingernails dig into my scalp, and she comes. Loudly, spectacularly. I thrust twice more and still, savoring the heat at the base of my spine, the way it spreads through my body and makes my thighs quiver.
Gently, I pull out and set her feet back on the sticky bathroom floor. I slide off the condom and toss it into the bin. By the time I’ve put myself away and looked up, she’s fully dressed, hair smoothed, eyes hooded with sated lust.
Mine, too.
“That was…”
She grins. “Pretty fucking good.”
“Yeah. Pretty fucking good.” I dampen my lips. “I’m in town for a few days. I’d like to see you again.”
She holds out her hand for my phone. I pass it to her, and she taps out her details then hands it back to me. “Don’t disappoint me, Darragh from Ireland.”
“Not a chance.”
She kisses me softly on the lips, squeezes my arse, then heads back out into the bar. I hang back, checking myself in the mirror. A faint bruise blooms on my neck. Been a while since I had a love bite. Don’t even remember her sucking my neck. Not that I’m complaining.
By the time I make it to the bar, Luciana’s vanished. I consider having another drink, but it doesn’t appeal. Not much would after sex in a public bathroom with the hottest woman I’ve had in ages as the benchmark.
I exit the bar and begin the trek to my hotel. Maps gives a long and a short route. I decide on the short route through a kids’ playground badly in need of repair. My phone buzzes. I reach into my pocket.
A hood slams over my head.
A fist drives into my side.
When the kick comes, I drop my phone.
The sound of a van door sliding open reaches me. I’m tossed inside. I hit my head on what feels like a wooden bench.
The hood scratches my cheek. Coarse. Cheap. I’m still thinking about that—about what kind of gangster buys cheap hoods—when my skull lights up white and voices around me stretch long and low. Distorted.
“You messed with the wrong fucking girl, stronzo. And now you’re going to pay the price.”
Thank you so much for reading Stolen Rebel.