ALESSIO #3
And that's a problem. Because despite every instinct telling me to walk away, my attention remains fixed on her.
She keeps talking in a low, focused voice, words about water pumps, cracked housings, and expensive fixes.
I catch maybe one in three. My brain's offline, rerouting every drop of blood south.
In my head, I'm already ripping that crop top clean off her, fabric tearing under my fingers as I spin her around.
I'd shove her face-down over the warm metal hood first, those perfect tits pressed flat against it while I kick her legs apart.
One brutal thrust, and I'd be buried balls-deep in her tight, wet heat from behind, fucking her so hard the car would rock.
She'd moan my name—fuck, I'd make her scream it—while I gripped those hips and pounded into her, watching that ass bounce with every savage stroke.
Then I'd flip her over. Spread her wide on the hood, her back arching, legs wrapped around my waist as I drove into her again, slower this time, deeper, watching those gorgeous tits bounce freely while her dark eyes glazed over with lust instead of irritation.
I'd suck those hard nipples into my mouth, bite down just enough to make her gasp, and fuck her until she was coming all over my cock, clenching around me like she never wanted me to stop.
"See that crack right there?" She points again, leaning further, her tits pressing together and nearly spilling out of that useless top. The sunlight catches on a faint sheen of sweat along her cleavage. Fuck I want to lick it off.
I drag my eyes up, barely. My voice comes out rough, strained. "Yeah. I see it."
I see her. Every filthy inch. And right now, the only thing I want to fix is how empty she feels without me inside her. She finally straightens and catches me looking. Those dark eyes narrow. "You listening?"
"Absolutely."
"What did I just say?"
I smile. She sighs. Apparently, that answers the question. My therapist would probably have thoughts. Not that I have a therapist. Or want one.
After several minutes, she straightens. "Worn water pump."
I stare. She stares back. Neither of us says anything. Finally, she sighs. "You have no idea what that means, do you?"
"Not even a little," I admit, sending her my most smoldering smile, the one that has landed me several blow jobs, one from a very well-known actress and another from our own governor…or is it governess if she's a woman?
My sex fantasy laughs. A short sound. Gone too quickly. My body immediately decides it wants to hear it again. "The water pump failed, which is why the engine overheated. Lucky you shut it down when you did."
"I always knew I was gifted."
"That's not what I said."
"Close enough."
She rolls her eyes. Definitely judging me. Probably correctly. "It'll need parts."
"How long?"
"A day. Maybe two."
Two days. I glance toward the mountains. Toward the tiny town she emerged from. Toward her. A couple of days isn't the end of the world. There's probably a motel. Food. A bar. And apparently beautiful women who insult me for a living. I've endured worse.
"I suppose I'll survive."
"You seem resilient."
"I get that a lot."
For the first time, the corner of her mouth twitches. Victory. Tiny. But victory.
Then a distant sound reaches us. Whump. Whump. Whump. The unmistakable chop of rotor blades. My smile disappears. No. Absolutely not. The helicopter crests the ridgeline a few seconds later. Black. Expensive. And flying directly toward us. Goddammit.
She follows my gaze upward. The helicopter circles once before beginning its descent. Dust explodes across the shoulder. Trees bend beneath the rotor wash. The woman slowly turns toward me. Her expression is priceless. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.”
I close my eyes. "That's what I said."
The helicopter touches down fifty yards away. A second later, the cabin door opens, and Gabriel D'Amato steps out wearing sunglasses and a grin that promises violence. For me. Specifically. Wonderful. Just fucking wonderful.
"Get in, we need you."
When a man like Gabriel D'Amato picks you up in a helicopter in the middle of nowhere and says we need you, there's no sense in arguing. Not in the kind of business we run.
With a regretful curve of my lips, I hand the woman my card and my keys. "Drive it up when it's ready," I wink. "I'll make it worth your while."
As the helicopter rises, I stare at the beautiful woman hooking the Shelby to her rig.
"Kill anybody while you were waiting?" Gabe asks.
"Not today."
He notices that I'm still staring down at the ground, and obviously can't help himself. "She looks hot."
"The previous owner begged for his life. The Shelby begged for coolant. One was easier to replace than the other," I muse.
"I meant the woman." Gabe laughs.
I knew exactly who he meant. And that’s exactly why I'm changing the subject. There's something about her I'm not ready to examine too closely. Not with Gabe. Not with anyone.
What my head thinks of her and what my dick thinks of her are two entirely different conversations. And I'm not prepared to have either. Yet.