Lucien
There is a kind of fluid grace in her as she moves away and makes to get up, gently freeing herself from his restraining hand and floating to the bathroom as she disappears from view; at least, that is what it looks like to him as he lies, spent, his c*ck limp, his eyes on her.
He is tired. He has drunk more than he intended to. And he has just killed a man, shot him, for being a traitor.
*
The news reached him that Orif Karimov, a man he did business with, another arms dealer from Uzbekistan, had been feeding information to the Monk. Without wasting a minute, Lucien had driven down to the wh*re house where the man had parked himself, secure in the belief that the Mafia Don would not find out about his treachery.
*
Lucien had walked to him, as Karimov lay sprawled on the bed, with three wh*res servicing him. His large eyes had almost bulged as the door was thrown open and Lucien Delano had entered with his men.
‘What…hey man…’ the man had spluttered in his thick English accent, trying to hide his nakedness before the cool, dismissive gaze of the man before him.
Lucien jerked his chin and the women scampered away, grabbing their clothing, trying to cover themselves. He heard them tumbling down the wooden staircase of the fancy, old-fashioned brothel, as they ran away.
*
“Hey, man, what the f*ck..’ Kasimov began, having managed to pull on a shirt and cover his limp, flaccid c*ck.
But Lucien Delano had already covered the distance separating them and one of his men had pulled Karimov to his feet, as the sweaty, stench of the flabby man reached to him.
“The Monk. What did you tell him,’ growled Lucien coldly, in a tone that seemed more bored than menacing.
But Karimov was not fooled for a minute.
Straining against the hands that held him, he shuddered as he squealed,
‘I didn’t…no…’ Lucien thrust his hands in the pockets of his well-ironed trousers. One of his men stepped forward and held Karimov’s arms locked behind his back.
The fat man was blubbering, peeing as he stood, and Lucien stepped back in disgust.
“You want to prolong it?’ he asked, his pale eyes expressionless. The man was sagging in the arms of burly Luca who was holding him like a man holds a teddy bear.
‘He …he knows of Mustafeyev… the meeting…’ sobbed the man who was howling with pain and fear now. The stench of urine, which was puddled at his feet, made him look pathetic.
But Lucien felt his shoulders stiffen.
*
Aziz Mustafeyev. He was the man the Capo was on his way to meet. Mustafeyev had shifted the meeting at the last minute to his hometown, a remote place in the mountains. And the Capo was in the air, unreachable.
His aircraft would touch down by a little after midnight.
*
The Mafia Don stepped forward and gripped the man, pulling him to his hard body, and emptied his revolver into the man’s stomach.
He stepped back as the man’s body sagged in instant death.
“Contact Philippe,’ he barked as he left the room, ignoring the shocked looks from some other patrons as he left, his white shirt soaked in the dead man’s blood.
*
Now
It was not a good day; he has received news that one of the Monk’s people has infiltrated his group and Lucien is livid. His trusted Capo has left for the Continent. The youth is loyal and to be trusted, a man who sees and hears, who is polite but totally in the web of young Ria, who Lucien suspects he has loved for years.
The Boss grunts and is about to stand up when his wife returns to the room. In the pale light from the window, he notices her drawn expression; Proserpina is unhappy.
But he knows his Woman. She will hide her sorrow from him, welcoming him with her love, and her lush body, making him as comfortable as she possibly can.
Again he is filled with anguish; does he even deserve her? She loves him so completely and it is still a very foreign emotion for him, he who was brought up on the streets, no, not brought up, who brought himself up, to be precise.
And today, he owns everything in Hollowford, openly or otherwise; he has a finger in every business here, in this city, the city that once rejected him for being the son of a wh*re.
Lucien Delano’s tentacles have spread to other parts of the world too. Yes, he has made a name and tons of money, for himself and his children…
*
His eyes move to his wife. She is wearing her thin cotton shift again and he feels ridiculously turned on as he sees the outline of her dark nipples through the nearly transparent material. She moves to lie beside him and he grips a fistful of her long brown hair, the color darker than his own tanned skin.
Her eyes, cocoa-colored and soft, meet his.
“Suck my c*ck,’ he growls.
She does not hesitate. His member is already rearing up, the scent of her body, the fragrance of her hair, it is his undoing. He can come many times in one night and he is like a rutting animal in heat when he sees his half-naked, tantalizing woman, submitting to him.
She obediently moves and her small tongue begins to lick and then tease him. He groans, his fist tightening in her hair, holding her head in position. He should keep her locked in a chamber, he thinks, wildly, where he would go to her every hour, to be pleasured.
Slowly, her hands begin massaging his balls: he feels his c*ck growing harder. Her warm mouth caresses his stiff rod and he groans, vulgar oaths spilling out of his mouth. Proserpina looks up at him, reproachfully, her lips wet and swollen. She kneels beside him, still in that ridiculous shift that is barely hiding her body. Her nipples appear darker and larger for she is feeding the child, the large breasts that drive him mad with desire are fuller and heavier and he wants to leave his mark on her paler skin.
“Lucien…’ she whispers and he knows that she hates his swearing. But tonight, he is in a wild mood, angry, ready to hit out, ready to hurt.
He reaches out to jerk the shirt off her body and her eyes widen, alarmed.
Slipping away, she shrugs it off, murmuring something with a sigh, about how many he has torn with his impatience.
“Get the f*ck here, wh*re, and service my c*ck,’ he snarls, holding his member, angry and raw with his need.
She meets his eyes, and there is a nanosecond of rebellion, as she hesitates and then she is lowering herself gently onto him and he still cannot believe that this beautiful, much younger woman has remained faithful to him all these years, despite everything. His large hands lock on her waist, sliding her hips up and down as he moves her on his hard c*ck, and she meets his eyes, blushing slightly.
That is something precious for him; she remains shy and hesitant after all this. After having been f*cked by him almost publicly, on the terrace that night when he was horny. He grunts and grips her neck, making her lean forward, her large breasts on his hirsute chest, the tips grazing, and then rubbing against his chest, as she kisses him, soft, gently, tenderly.
But he is too hard now. The feel of her wet pu*sy, gently massaging, squeezing his ramrod-stiff member is too much for him and the sight of the only woman he has loved as she is mounted almost helplessly on him, her moist lips parted, her eyes wide …It’s way too much.
With an oath, he grips her hips, making her moan as he lifts his strong legs, ramming into her, impaling her on his staff. He is merciless. His pale eyes are narrow as he watches her flop helplessly, her large breasts shaking uncontrollably as she is swept away in an orgasm. He goes harder if that is even possible. Wetness, slippery and musky, her juices, he thinks in triumph, flood his c*ck, his balls. He leans forward and takes a tender bud in his mouth, even as her breasts jiggle, his teeth hard on the nub and she gives a whimper.
“Master, you are hurting me,’ she pants, her eyes castigating him as she feels the pain which is also pleasure.
He looks at her, his unshaven cheek has already left a mark on her full pale breast and he likes it.
“You will take what I give you, Woman,’ he commands with a grunt, squeezing her ample behind roughly, for he can feel his climax approaching.
The sight of this woman with her sensuous body, perched on his c*ck, riding him, utterly at his mercy, makes him feel whole and with a shout, he rams into her, his arms around her like bands of iron as he comes. The fierce rush of his come floods her womb. She is holding onto him, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back, sobbing his name, and then, he pulls her down onto his sweaty, massive chest as they rest in each other’s arms.
“I cannot live without you, Woman,’ growls the Boss hoarsely, after a long while, his mouth seeking hers, and she opens her eyes tiredly, her womanhood still throbbing as she whispers back,
‘I know, my Master. ‘
And they lie like that, in each other’s arms, sated. Her hand is on his chest, stroking the crisp chest hairs as she drifts off into a slumber, sated and loved, in the arms of the man she cannot live without. He has thrown a heavy leg across her and keeps her tied to him, even as they sleep.
*
She does not want to tell him of her problems with the children; she senses that some turmoil is happening within the Boss’ mind; something he is not willing to say to her about.
Tara will be all right, she tells herself, she will find a way to deal with the girl.
And Lucien holds her anchored to his side, for he does not want to tell her that he has received news that the Capo might have walked into a trap…