The Gun Runner (Mafia Made) Read online

  His tongue circled my clit a few times and then licked me from bottom to top. He then worked his tongue in and out of me relentlessly. He hadn’t stretched the truth; he was going to tongue fuck me to an early death, and this was only the beginning. I held my eyes closed, and although I made no conscious effort to hold my breath, I’m certain I didn’t inhale once the entire time his tongue worked its magic.

  I couldn’t.

  While my body went into a series of convulsions, he pulled his tongue from inside me and licked my pussy—expertly. The tip of his tongue flicked against my sensitive nub each time, sending a shock through me like it was the last I’d ever have the opportunity to feel.

  Darkness enveloped me. My ears rang.

  He inserted a finger. Then another. And a third.

  Holy. Fuck.

  I arched my back and opened my mouth wide. A few spastic gulps of air later, and I was on the verge of climactic bliss.

  He sucked my clit like a true trained professional. I wanted him to never stop, but I knew if he continued, I’d surely die right there in my entry hall. I released my thighs, relaxed against his mouth, and allowed him to continue with his talented tongue.

  The simultaneous finger and tongue routine that followed sent me into an all-out state of orgasmic ecstasy.

  I lasted all of five more seconds before bursting against his mouth.

  “I’m. Going. To come,” I wailed.

  I felt like it was the first time. In many respects, it was. Everything felt different. New. More climactic.

  He raised his head. I opened my eyes. With his lower face glistening from my appreciation of his talent, he grinned. “Do it.”

  His fingers continued to stretch me wide and his mouth fell to my clit. As soon as I felt him begin to suck my swollen button, everything within me involuntarily released and I cried out into the room.

  My hips bucked against his face one last time. A tingling echoed between my clit and my nipples, causing my entire body to shake. At some point, everything stopped. Confused and flat on my back, I gazed up at the ceiling and wondered if I would ever be the same.

  Ever.

  Eventually, he raised his head and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. I did all that I was able. I spread my arms wide and my legs slightly, just like when I made snow angels on Christmas as a child.

  Michael collapsed beside me. “What are you doing?”

  I turned my head to the side. He did the same. Flat on our backs facing one another, we gazed in each other’s eyes and grinned.

  “When I was a kid I used to make snow angels,” I explained. “I don’t know why everyone else makes them, but for me it was my way of showing God I was appreciative of everything he had provided me.”

  His eyes shifted to my waist and slowly raised to meet mine again. “So what about now? What is this?”

  I began to sweep my arms and legs back and forth. “Sex angel?”

  “Because you’re appreciative?” he asked.

  “Uh-huh.”

  As Michael’s arms and legs followed suit, I turned my head to face the ceiling and closed my eyes.

  Thank you.

  Chapter Six

  Michael

  During the ten years I spent at war, I felt very little emotion short of fear, frustration and occasionally, anger. Since returning to the United States my feelings hadn’t changed much—until I met Terra. I had no real way of knowing why I felt the way I felt about her, at least not in a complete sense. For whatever reason, I felt comfortable in her presence. And, that comfort allowed me to accept her where I had rejected so many others.

  I motioned toward the chair in front of my desk. “Have a seat, Cap.”

  He sauntered toward it and sat down.

  I picked a pencil up from my desk and began to twirl it between my fingers. “Are you still single?”

  He threw his arms over the sides of the chair and rocked it onto the rear legs. “You know I am. Probably always will be, ‘least as long as I’m doing this, anyway. Why?”

  I gazed at the rotating pencil and considered my response. Before I had an opportunity to speak, he continued.

  “You don’t really think I’d compromise our security by bein’ in a relationship, do ya?”

  And just like that, he answered my question without me taking the risk associated with asking it. His belief was not much different than mine used to be; having my focus shift from work to a woman—depending on my clients and current list of subcontractors—could compromise security.

  I glanced up. “I doubted it, I was just asking.”

  He wrinkled his brow, lowered the chair down onto all four legs and cocked his head slightly. “You called me over here to ask me if I was single?”

  I stopped twirling the pencil. “That is correct.”

  I held the pencil firm between my thumb and forefinger, hoping to capture his attention or divert his train of thought from where I suspected he may go. When he spoke, it was apparent my little trick didn’t work well.

  “What the fuck’s goin’ on, Tripp?”

  I shook my head and tossed the pencil onto my desk. “Nothing, just making conversation.”

  “Oh really? Is that how we’re doing it now? Just sittin’ around the office shootin’ the shit?” He kicked the heels of his boots onto the edge of my desk, slumped in the chair, and folded his massive arms in front of his chest.

  He was trying to piss me off. I had no intention of falling prey to his trap. I shrugged and reached for the pencil.

  He leaned forward slightly. “The girl you had coffee with that night a few weeks ago. The one you told me kicked her ex in the nuts, but then you never said another fuckin’ word about her. It’s her, ain’t it?”

  I had completely forgotten mentioning her to Cap. At the time, I doubted anything would develop between us.

  He shook his head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  I stood from my seat and began to twirl the pencil.

  He stood, pointed at my hand, and nodded once. “Put the pencil down, Tripp. You fuck with it when you’re thinkin’. Stop thinkin’ and answer me.”

  I stopped. “I’m not in a relationship.”

  He cocked his right eyebrow slightly. “You fuckin’ her?”

  I shook my head and began to twirl the pencil again. A few seconds later I tossed it onto my desk. “No.”

  “Have you fucked her?”

  “No.”

  “You wanna fuck her?”

  “Nobody’s going to fuck anybody, let’s drop it.”

  He laughed. “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I’m done talking about it,” I said flatly.

  “Well, that answers it,” he said. “One more.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest and flexed my biceps, hoping to discourage him from prying any further. “One more what?”

  “Question,” he said.

  I sighed and tossed my hands in the air.

  “You seen her since that night?”

  I studied Cap for a moment before answering. Dressed in a black pair of military-style trousers and an olive-green T-shirt and combat boots, he resembled a mercenary. Beneath the right sleeve of his shirt, the USMC tattoo on his arm acted as a deterrent to those who would be foolish enough to challenge his 220-pound muscular frame. I didn’t need a reminder of who he was, I knew better than to try to tell him anything but the exact truth—out of respect.

  I met his gaze. “I have, yes. We’ve had coffee and we’ve gone out to eat a few times. That’s it. We’re not in a relationship if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It had only been a little more than two weeks since we met, but I knew with each day that passed I was closer to wanting more from Terra.

&
nbsp; But I didn’t dare tell Cap how I felt.

  His eyes dropped to the floor and he cleared his throat. “Dinner, coffee, fuckin’, suckin’, goin’ to a movie, or skippin’ your happy asses through the park on your way to the merry-go-fuckin’-round, it’s all the same. She’s a woman, Tripp. She’s a distraction. And with those fuckin’ Italians on us, we don’t need a distraction.”

  I was done talking about reasons not to be with Terra.

  I cleared my throat and narrowed my eyes. “Noted.”

  “Noted?” he repeated sarcastically.

  I nodded. “Noted.”

  “All fuckin’ right, then.” He rubbed his palms together. “Guess that’s the end of that. So, where am I headed?”

  I sat down and sighed. “I bought five hundred used AR-15 receivers, and I need to get them picked up, brought in and assembled into weapons.”

  “Location?” he asked.

  I picked the work order up from my desk and studied the address. “You’ve been there before. Trident Enterprises.”

  “And they’re used?”

  I handed him the work order. “As new and still in the wrapper, but formerly owned.”

  The law allowed me to purchase used AR-15 receivers without filing any paperwork, and in a matter of fifteen minutes, I could have one assembled into a complete firearm. The receiver was a piece of aluminum the size of a cell phone, and although regulated and traced by the government in new purchases, used purchases fell into a legal loophole. All of the remaining parts necessary to build the rifles were available to be purchased by anyone, and there was no regulation on buying them, nor was there any legal structure in place to monitor such purchases. A form of identification wasn’t even required.

  This allowed a civilian version of the military M4 to be built for roughly $350 using the AR-15 receivers. On the gray market, the rifles brought between $1,500 and $2,500 each, netting me a considerable profit. If the rifles were sold on the high end of the scale, I would profit over a million dollars and do so in a matter of weeks.

  It was no wonder Agrioli wanted to get his hands in my business.

  He gazed down at the work order and chuckled. “Used. But new. Just the way we like ‘em.”

  “Roger that.”

  He nodded and turned away. “All right. I’ll get out of here, then.”

  At the threshold of the door, he paused and turned to face me. “But we’re not done talking about the girl.”

  And, as much as I hated to admit it, I knew he was right.

  Chapter Seven

  Terra

  Michael’s home was overly neat, and organized in a manner that made me feel like touching or moving anything was out of the question. The large living room was decorated with nice white leather furniture, but the entire room was symmetrical and everything was perfectly placed. The bare wooden floors and off-white painted walls only added to the already neat appearance.

  The room seemed clinical.

  The house had an open floor plan, and he was in the kitchen. I was standing at the edge of the living room taking everything into view. I gawked at the magazines perfectly situated atop the coffee table. GQ. Vanity Fair. Men’s Health. Kiplinger’s. Traveler. I glanced around the huge room. The walls were decorated with abstract oil paintings and various pieces of art, but no photographs.

  It was almost eerie.

  The absence of any family photographs whatsoever took me by surprise. “You don’t have a single picture of your family.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  I turned toward the kitchen. “You should get some.”

  He walked up to my side and handed me a mimosa. “Drink this, you’ll feel better.”

  I had been out with my girlfriends the night before and got ridiculously drunk. Being away from Michael on Friday night wasn’t as easy as I thought it was going to be, and being drunk seemed to dull my desire to be with him. After I shared with him that I was dying of a hangover, he invited me over for mimosas.

  When I arrived, I interrupted him from his midday workout. He looked so much different in his T-shirt and sweats. His shirt clung to his well-defined chest, and accentuated his broad shoulders. The sweatpants did little to show off his athletic body, but were cute nonetheless.

  I took a sip of the drink and glanced around the room. “I bet your mom would give you some if you asked nicely.”

  “Let me rephrase that,” he said. “I don’t have any family.”

  All of a sudden I felt empty. I was afraid I didn’t want to know any more of what he was more than likely going to say. I drank half the drink and turned toward the living room. The void inside of me quickly filled with sadness.

  “When I was six, my parents were killed in a car wreck. I lived.”

  My eyes felt swollen.

  “See this scar?” He lifted his shirt, exposing his upper body fully. My eyes were immediately drawn beyond his well-defined abs, and focused on a six-inch scar on the left side of his upper chest.

  I took another drink, fighting the urge to cry. “Yeah.”

  “That’s my reminder. I don’t remember any of it. Hell, I don’t even remember them. I try to, and sometimes I tell myself I do, but I think all my memories are false. Just shit I’ve made up in my head over the years.”

  He released the hem of his shirt and took a drink of the mimosa.

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  He shook his head. “Only child.”

  “Grandparents, aunts, uncles?”

  He tilted his glass toward me as if making a toast. “How about foster care?”

  I felt sick. Regardless of my family’s involvement in organized crime, I was raised in a home filled with compassion, kindness, and most of all, love. For me to completely understand a child living in an environment without those crucial elements was impossible.

  Michael’s military career made perfect sense. The Marine Corps was his family and the war was his home. When the war ended, he probably felt that his family dissolved.

  “I’m sorry.” The words seemed insufficient and shallow. It was all I could offer.

  He sat down on the couch. “Don’t be.”

  I sat down beside him, feeling like dismissing the subject was insensitive. On the other hand, talking about it would have made me an emotional mess and I was sure I couldn’t offer him anything he hadn’t already heard.

  “Well, I am,” I said. “And I’ll leave it at that.”

  “What about your parents? You never mention them.”

  I needed to tell him something that would support my not having introduced him to them, and the fact that I never really discussed them. “I don’t get along with either of them, really. I just do my own thing.”

  It was true. Kind of. My mother always nagged at me for not being married, and my father was a gangster and never wanted to talk about anything for fear of revealing a secret.

  “I see,” he said. “So, how was your night?”

  I laughed lightly though I still felt like crying. “It was interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “I went out with the girls, and I thought I was going to have fun, but I spent the entire night wishing I was with you.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I sat in the office getting caught up on paperwork, and thought of you the entire time. It’s weird. I’ve never really been this way.”

  I turned toward him and cocked my head to the side. “Which is?”

  He stared back at me, seemingly confused. “Huh?”

  “You said you’ve never really been this way. What way are you talking about?”

  “You know, obsessed or whatever you want to call it.”

  “With me?”

  “Yes, with you. Who else would we be talking about?�
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  The feelings of sorrow all but vanished. Suddenly, I was filled with a warmth and something that resembled hope. I finished my drink, couldn’t decide what to do with the glass, and eventually placed it between my legs. “So, what is it that we have? I know it’s only been three weeks, but what would you call this?”

  He crossed his legs and offered me a shitty grin before taking a sip of his mimosa. “Call what?”

  I exhaled sharply. It sounded almost like a cough. “Our situation? You and me.”

  My father would kill me if he found out what I was doing, but Michael was so much more than a novelty to me. He was everything I wanted in a man, but he wasn’t Italian and I didn’t think he was Catholic—and my father would settle for nothing short of both. Convinced I didn’t care what my father thought, I wanted Michael to put a label on what it was we had between us.

  “Oh. I don’t know. A discovery phase?”

  I sat up in my seat. “A what?”

  “Discovery phase.”

  I steadied the glass between my legs and sat up straight. “What the fuck is that?”

  The Italian girl in me had been unleashed. A discovery phase sounded like something curious teenagers did nervously in the basement while the rest of the family was upstairs watching television.

  He leaned away as if I’d insulted him. He shrugged. “Trying to decide just what it is we want from each other. You know, discovery.”

  “What do you want from me?” I snapped back.

  “Fuck, I don’t know, but I think you either need another drink or a fucking nap. Somebody’s got an attitude.”

  I stood up and spun around to face him. “Damned right I’ve got an attitude. Discovery phase? Sounds like a teenager giving out hand jobs in the basement to me. I discovered you in the parking lot of Starbucks one day. That was the discovery phase.”

  My lips were pursed. I was breathing through my nose, and sounded like a bull preparing to charge the matador.

  “Settle down, Terra. Jesus. Okay, same question to you. Where are we? What have we got between us?”