I sighed into the receiver. “Michael Tripp to speak to Anthony, please.”
“That’s Mr. Agrioli.”
Mistah Agrioli. Her accent was annoying.
She cleared her throat as if to add more emphasis to her response. “Is he expecting your call?”
“Why don’t you ask Anthony?”
“Hold please,” she snapped back.
I rested the receiver between my shoulder and ear as I waited. After a few seconds, he picked up the phone.
“Mr. Tripp. It’s been brought to my attention we need to meet.” The voice was distinct and thick with a Philadelphia accent.
“One way and one way only I’ll agree to do this. My office in one hour. Come alone.”
“Your office?” He chuckled. “You think I know where your office is?”
“One hour,” I responded flatly.
I tilted my head away from my shoulder and dropped the receiver into my left hand. As he began to speak in response to my demand, I pressed the phone into the cradle and ended the call.
My eyes fell to the business card.
I had far too much invested in my freedom to give up easily. In my ten years at war I had been shot at by thousands and hit by two. Nothing could stop me from fighting for what I believed to be right, Anthony Agrioli included. If he was going to stop me from trafficking firearms, he would have to either bring an army of men, or kill me.
There were two problems.
He didn’t have an army of men.
And, as far as I was concerned, I had seven lives to go.
* * *
Agrioli was younger than I expected. A dark-skinned man roughly fifty years of age, he was calm, soft-spoken, and polite. Dressed in an olive-colored suit with a powder-blue shirt and gray tie, he appeared to be an aging Italian model, not the heartless killer he certainly was. Nevertheless, I wasn’t impressed. In fact, I was annoyed.
Our meeting was brief, to the point, and almost over.
He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his upper thigh. “A partnership. I like to think of it as a partnership.”
“That’s nice to know, but I’m not in need of a partner.”
With his hands still resting in his lap, he turned his palms up and raised both eyebrows. “Maybe you should. Things happen. Shipments get hijacked. Robberies. Protecting your interest. Look at it as protecting your interest.”
I thought of Cap’s incident at the gas station and laughed to myself. “I protect my interest with war veterans. They’re trained in reacting to such situations.”
He sighed and lowered his head. After a long moment, he raised his chin and met my gaze. “Consider it. Our strength is our reputation. There are benefits. We’d insure your shipments against loss.”
I laughed. “You’d insure my shipments?”
He shrugged. “How’s that for confidence?”
I stood and extended my hand. “Well, that’s nice to know, but I haven’t had a problem yet, and I don’t anticipate one in the future. I appreciate the offer. If things change, maybe we’ll talk again in the future.”
I had no intention of meeting with him again, but was trying to be as considerate as possible.
He stood, shook my hand and glanced around the office. “Nice office. And what a great location.”
“I appreciate it,” I said with a slight nod. “And thanks for taking time to meet.”
“Minimizing your loss is maximizing profit,” he said.
“Again, I appreciate it, but I haven’t got loss issues.”
He brushed the wrinkles from his pants. “The future. You never know what the future holds. Have a nice evening, Mr. Tripp.”
It wasn’t a threat, but I perceived it as one.
The Italian who confronted Cap, the two Italians meandering into my office, and the Italian mafia boss’s visit left me with a desire to get even with the Italian race for their having disrupted my life.
Fucking Terra was the first thing that came to mind as a means to resolve the issue.
I wasn’t there yet, but in time I hoped to be. And when that time came, all I could do was pray she was prepared for what I was sure to unleash.
Chapter Five
Terra
I wasn’t in the habit of going on dates, but the change was more than welcomed. The differences between the personalities of Michael and Vincent were vast, and although I hated comparing Michael to anyone, doing so seemed to happen nonetheless.
Tucked away a few miles from the well-known and overpopulated eateries of downtown, the restaurant we were in was an upscale establishment with a lower-level dining area that included a jazz bar. Me being somewhere my father would never go was important, and as I had no previous knowledge of the restaurant’s existence, I doubted my father did either.
After our meal we sat and drank wine while soft jazz filled the air. A far cry from the Netflix and blow jobs I was used to, I savored each minute as it passed, hoping the night would last forever. Three glasses of wine into the evening, and I was half-drunk, horny and appreciative of Michael’s existence in my life.
“So this isn’t something you normally do?” I asked.
Our eyes met, and he chuckled as he reached for his wine. “I haven’t been on a date in over ten years.”
His response was surprising and I found more comfort in it than I probably should have. “Ten years? Really?”
“Maybe eleven.” His eyes drifted off to the side. “Yeah, it’s been eleven.”
“Wow. That’s a long time. Why so long?”
I raised my glass of wine and took a drink while I waited for his response.
“Well, I was fighting in a war for ten of those years. And, I don’t know. Like I told you that night in the coffee shop, I never found much value in being in a relationship. I knew I’d never last in one, so there was no sense in lying to anyone by going out on a date.”
I lowered my glass. The effects of the wine were apparent. “Casual sex?”
He pushed his glass to the side and grinned. “Is there such a thing?”
His calm demeanor, handsome looks and the bravado he naturally exhibited made it difficult to be in his presence and act like a complete adult. I wanted to reach under the table with my foot and rub his cock.
I licked my lips. “I think so. You know, sex without a relationship. Friends with benefits, or just a casual hookup or whatever.”
His face contorted as if I’d suggested he commit murder. “Don’t believe in it. If I stick my dick in someone, regardless of the arrangement, feelings follow. To think two people can fuck and not have at least one of them eventually develop feelings for the other isn’t wishful thinking, it’s foolish.”
I agreed totally with what he said. It came as a surprise to hear a man say it, though. I finished my wine and wished I had more. “So, you’ve never had casual sex? No hookups? Not once?”
He shook his head. “Never have, never will.”
“So you haven’t had sex in eleven years?” I couldn’t comprehend it. In fact, it seemed impossible for anyone but an invalid or maybe a quadriplegic.
“I didn’t say that. I said I hadn’t been on a date. And, I said I’ve never had a hookup or casual sex. I’ve had sex during that span, just not the meaningless variety.”
“Oh, sorry.”
He reached for his glass. “There was a nurse I thought I was in a relationship with, but it ended up that she was fucking every enlisted man who came in contact with her.”
“That sucks.”
“It is what it is,” he said. “So, what about you? You do the casual sex thing?”
I wanted to say no, but I’d had casual sex on a few occasions. It wasn’t something I did frequently, but I had participated in a one-night stand or three.
I loved having sex and I felt trying to deny it may send the wrong message.
“I don’t do it, but I’ve done it. When I was younger.”
With his eyes fixed on his glass of wine, he nodded slowly as if in deep thought.
Michael wore a suit to work, and from what he said, it was his typical attire for the office. Sitting three feet from me dressed in dark jeans and a button-down with the top two buttons unbuttoned, he looked more inviting than usual.
Maybe he seemed more approachable.
And, it could have been the wine.
“You said the other day you wanted to earn the right to watch me get dressed.”
He looked up. “I did.”
“What if I told you that you’ve earned the right?”
“Have I?”
My eyes found his hands. Wrapped around his glass of wine, they were lean with veins visible on the back sides. His long fingers made them seem remarkably sexy, if hands could be considered sexy. I imagined them underneath my shirt, squeezing my boobs.
Although we hadn’t spent time together—and it was technically our first date—enough time had passed that I was beyond ready. I sighed. “It’s been a few weeks. I think I’m ready.”
“For?”
“Can I see your palms?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “Say again.”
“Your palms, the underside of your hands. Can I see them?”
It was definitely the wine.
He released the glass and turned his hands over. The surface of his palms was smooth and without wrinkles.
“How do you keep them so soft looking?”
“Lotion. And I get manicures,” he said as he pulled them away. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I want to suck your cock.”
He coughed reflexively. “You want to suck my cock? Just like that?”
My face felt hot, and although a small part of me wished I wouldn’t have said it, the largest part of me was glad I did. Regardless, I felt the need to try and recover from my blunder. “Not just like anything. We’re two adults, and we’re attracted to each other. You’ve told me so. I’ve told you so. You said two weeks ago you wanted to earn the right to see me naked. Tonight, I’m telling you I want to suck your cock. It’s what girls do to get guys to put out.”
He pointed at my empty wineglass. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m Italian,” I said. “We speak our mind.”
“And you want—”
“To suck your cock,” I interrupted.
He chuckled. “And you’re not drunk?”
“You’ve heard people say that they have no filter? That expression?”
“I’ve heard it, yes.”
“Well, Italians have no filter. I’m Italian.” I shrugged and reached for my glass. It was still empty.
Shit.
He pressed his forearms onto the edge of the table and leaned forward. “You start down this road and you might end up in trouble. You’ve heard people say that they got more than they bargained for? The expression?”
I leaned forward slightly. “I’ve heard it, yeah.”
He gripped the back of my neck in his right hand and turned my head to the side. As his mouth met my ear, he whispered into it. “Well, I’m good at two things. Defending what I love, and fucking. You sure you’re ready to do this?”
I could feel my heartbeat in my pussy. Wine or no wine, I was ready.
My mouth instantly went dry. I tried to swallow. With my boobs pressed down onto the top of the table and his mouth still against my ear, I noticed the waiter approaching. I pushed my tongue to the roof of my mouth and swallowed, then raised my right index finger.
With his back to the aisle, Michael remained exactly where he was, unaware of the waiter’s approach. His hand cupped around the back of my neck and his mouth at my ear, I really doubted he would have moved regardless.
“Well?” Michael whispered.
The waiter raised his eyebrows.
I held my extended index finger in the air and turned my mouth against Michael’s ear. “You don’t scare me,” I whispered.
I tilted my head to the side and locked eyes with the smiling waiter. “Can you bring us the check?”
The waiter nodded and turned away.
“Are you ready to go already?” Michael asked.
I folded my arms under my boobs and huffed out an exaggerated sigh. “Really?”
He grinned. “I’ve still got half a glass of wine.”
“Well,” I said. “I’m ready.”
He drank half the remaining wine. “You sure?”
I shook my head. “If you could feel my pussy, you wouldn’t ask me that.”
He turned his hand over and curled his index finger into his palm. “Come here.”
I knew what he wanted. At least I thought I did. I glanced left. I glanced right. “Huh?”
“Come. Here.” His voice was stern.
I stood, walked around the edge of the table, and stopped at his side. I fought to cure my overly dry mouth. The simple three-letter word didn’t come easy.
“Yes,” I murmured.
With his eyes fixed on mine, he grinned and reached into his right pocket. A pronounced click caused me to shift my focus to his right hand. My eyes widened at the sight of a folding knife cupped in the palm of his hand.
I held my breath as he slipped it beneath my dress. My eyes nervously scanned the aisle for onlookers.
I felt his hand against my inner thigh. Slowly, he raised it up my leg until it came to rest against my hip. With his eyes still locked on mine, he pressed the back of his hand against my hip, then I felt slight pressure as he tugged against my panties.
The blade cut through the material with little effort. He slid his hand to the other side, dragging his free fingers against my wet pussy in the process.
Again, the knife cut through the material effortlessly. My jaw and my panties hit the floor at the same time. Feeling slightly embarrassed, I started to bend down and pick them up.
“Leave. Them. Lay,” he breathed.
The tip of his finger circled my swollen clit. My eyes darted around the half-filled establishment. The waiter walked toward us, his face covered in a grin.
Michael slipped a finger inside of me.
I gasped. My face went flush.
His mouth twisted into a smirk. I bit down on my lip. He forced another finger inside.
I closed my eyes and gulped a breath.
“My apologies, sir. I’ll come back.”
Shit, the waiter.
I held my eyes closed tight.
Michael forced his fingers a little deeper into my eager pussy. “You’re just fine. Leave it on the table.”
I bit down on my lower lip. Oh God.
“You appear,” the waiter cleared his throat. “Rather busy, sir.”
“Just leave it lay, I’ll get to it when I’m done here.”
“Very well, sir.”
Michael pushed his fingers in deep, slid them out fully, and then poked them back in. He curled the tip of one finger against my G-spot. A tingling sensation shot through me like a lightning bolt. My legs wobbled. I fought to remain standing. The tingling continued for a few seconds, rushing through me from head to toe.
“Thank you,” I heard Michael say.
“No hurry,” the waiter responded, his voice fading as he obviously turned away. “Take your time.”
Michael worked his fingers in and out of my throbbing pussy twice, teasing my G-spot each time. “I certainly will.”
I heard the waiter walk away. I didn’t bother opening my eyes. I wanted to bask in the feeling of him fingering me in the open restaurant. It was the sexiest thing I had ever been involved in, and as
much as I wanted to leave and see what was next, I didn’t want it to end.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
I complied.
His fingers slid free of my soaking-wet pussy. I fully expected he’d wipe them on my thigh or maybe the hem of my dress.
He didn’t.
With trembling legs and a quivering lip, I watched as he pulled his hand free of my dress, held his glistening fingers in front of his face, and then sucked my juices from them.
Oh. My. God.
He opened the leather check holder, placed three $100 bills inside, and flipped it closed with the tips of his fingers. He then stood up and leaned forward, pressing his cheek against mine lightly as he moved his mouth to my ear.
My legs went weak. I closed my eyes, held my breath and waited. His warm breath against my ear caused goose bumps to rise along my upper arm.
“You better hope you’re ready,” he whispered.
I nodded to assure him, but it did nothing to assure me. “I am.”
I wasn’t.
His little finger bang trick beside the table had me feeling like he owned me. Maybe he did.
“Grab your purse,” he said.
I did. And I walked at his side to the door, still in somewhat of a trance. When we got to the car, he reached for the door handle and leaned toward me. His lips pressed against my ear. I raised my shoulder instinctively, but by no means wanted him to stop.
“I’m going to tongue fuck you until you can’t walk,” he breathed into my ear.
Dear God.
The car door opened.
My legs buckled and I fell into my seat.
I was sure I wasn’t ready for the sexual voyage he was prepared to take me on, but I was more than willing to give it an honest try.
* * *
He pressed his hands against my inner thighs, spreading my legs apart a little more. With my mouth agape and my eyes afraid to observe—but incapable of turning away—I gazed past my bunched-up dress at the top of his head until I couldn’t watch any longer.
I closed my eyes.
We hadn’t even made it into my bedroom yet. Lying on the floor in the entry hall of my condo, I reached for the backs of my thighs and raised my ass from the floor slightly, forcing myself against his mouth.