Roman
Present
I’m beginning to lose myself.
I feel it happening more with the passing of each day, and it scares the shit out of me. During rare moments of self-reflection, doubt creeps in, and I question objectives that should be irrefutable.
For a man like me, this is a precarious situation.
Over the last three years, I’ve done everything in my power to keep her at a distance. I’ve been a bastard. I’ve been rude. I’ve tried ignoring her. I’ve withheld my friendship. Most days, I’m barely civil to her, because I know all hell will break loose once the floodgates open.
None of my tactics douse the spark that flares to life when we’re in the same room. I’m a moth dancing too close to the twisting flames.
One of these days, I’m going to get burned.
Or end up with a bullet in my head.
A solitary image of her flickering through my brain is enough to make me grow unbearably hard.
I’ve found myself on the verge of reaching out to slide my fingers through the glossy strands of her dark hair too many times to count.
Because I’m a sick and twisted fuck, I often fantasize about wrapping the thick, rope-like length around my palm and pulling it taut. I want her lush, naked body bowing like a supple tree branch and bending to my will. I want her rendered incapable of doing anything other than submitting to my dominance.
The thought of her on bent knees, ass high in the air, cheek and chest pressed against the mattress as I hold her pinned, puts me on the brink of blowing my wad.
Sofia can’t figure out why I act like such a bastard. I see the silent questions lingering in her eyes. If I were a lesser man, I’d fall to my knees and beg for absolution. But that’s an impossibility.
I know the truth, even if she doesn’t.
You’d think she would grow to despise me because of my churlish behavior. But she hasn’t. Not yet. She may have learned to stay away from me, but she doesn’t always abide by what she knows is best for her.
Sofia doesn’t understand the feelings I stoke to life inside her. Nor does she understand the attraction vibrating in the air between us. But I do. I recognize it all too well. She wears her emotions across her heart-shaped face. And she doesn’t realize that I feast upon them like a starved monster lurking in the darkness.
They’re much too tempting for me to resist.
Something primitive inside me enjoys the way her body reacts to mine. Without meaning to, she displays her sexual desire for me. She flushes when our eyes meet. Her nipples harden under clothing. Her breath hitches, causing the pulse in her neck to beat erratically like the wings of a trapped bird.
I want nothing more than to claim her and make her mine.
But that will never happen.
Sofia Valentini will never belong to me.
I can’t get her out of my head. I’ve tried losing myself in dozens of other women over the years. It isn’t difficult to find a willing woman in this city. Not when you work for the Valentinis. Our reputation precedes us wherever we go.
And the pussy flows freely in response.
It makes no difference how high or low you rank in the organization. Name recognition is more than enough to get you whatever you want. These women want to live vicariously through you. Money, drugs, blood, and violence are powerful aphrodisiacs.
It’s surprising how drawn some of these women are to a dangerous lifestyle. They want to singe their wings without getting burned. They want to dance close to the fire without getting torched.
But Sofia is different.
She’s a princess who was born into this lifestyle, and now that she’s free to make her own choices, she wants nothing to do with the Valentini empire. She would prefer to come from average, middle-class parents. Not one of the most well-known crime families in the United States, whose power and corruption dates back generations. And not one that resides in a multi-million-dollar compound on twenty sprawling acres of prime real estate along the shore of Lake Michigan.
Sofia Valentini is an exotic bird trapped in a gilded cage.
I’ve tried fucking women with the same olive-toned flesh. Big-breasted, generously-hipped, angelic-faced women I pretend with in dark rooms as I empty myself into their welcoming bodies.
But it’s no use. No matter how hard I try, I can’t forget that these women are nothing more than a poor substitute for the one I really want.
I’ve gone the other route, too, and screwed females who look nothing like her. Blondes. Redheads. Brunettes. Ones who are slim as reeds, with no tits to speak of. And ones who are tight and athletic and limber as hell.
You’d think a woman who strokes and plays with my balls as I slam into her from behind would be enough to make me forget Sofia.
It’s not.
When Sofia should be the last thing occupying my mind, she pushes her way inside. Then I ejaculate in a blind outrage with a roar of frustration. Instead of providing relief, the release fuels the fury and lust boiling within me.
It also forces me to acknowledge and accept that I have no fucking control over my own thoughts, feelings, or body where Sofia is concerned, which pisses me off more than anything else. I take pride in being able to turn my emotions off as if they were a light switch. I couldn’t do my job if I didn’t have that kind of self-control.
But that capability is rendered useless with Sofia.
She’s my weakness
While I might not be able to possess her, I’ll be damned if another man lays claim to what’s mine.