If Mick was anything, he was good to his word.  Even words he didn’t outwardly utter.  Because Joe Ranley, the executive producer of Lean in Love, the play Roz had thought, up until a few hours ago, had been her next big project, got his.  He got it and then some.

First, Mick relieved his trusted employee, Deuce McCurry, of his duties in New York and told him to get a good night’s sleep and then drive the limo back to Philly in the morning.  Then Mick went back into their hotel room, where Roz had packed her bags, and fucked her.  He couldn’t help it.  She was in the bedroom, and has just taken off that shirt-styled gown she wore, and her gorgeous, naked body was right there for him to enjoy.  But enjoying her from afar was never something Mick was able to do.  When it came to Roz, he needed that up close and personal enjoyment.

And he got it.  Roz understood, when she lifted off her gown, that he would want some.  But she had hoped he could at least wait until they got back to Philly.  But she had no such luck.  Mick couldn’t wait.  His dick had tented, and was about to spring out of his pants.

“Just a quickie,” he said to her as he went to her, bent her over, and knelt down and began kissing and rubbing her between her legs.

Roz laid on the bed on her stomach, and Mick opened her wide from behind.  He began licking and sucking her with a passion.  He licked and sucked her until she almost had an orgasm from his licking and sucking alone.  And then he stood up, and entered her from the back.

He pushed into her tightness with a grunt and a shove that caused Roz to let out her own sigh of relief as she felt every vein in his rod deep inside of her.  And he kept on pushing, deeper and deeper into her, as her wetness encapsulated him.  And then he began his glide.

And that was how it felt to Roz: like he was gliding inside of her.  His strokes were just that masterful.  Roz was on her stomach, with her hands clutching the bedding, and he was fucking her at the exact angle that allowed him to keep hitting her g-spot.  She used to wonder how in the world did Mick know exactly what angle to stroke every time, but she no longer wondered.  She just went with it.  Some men had the knack, and some men didn’t.  Every man she’d ever been with before Mick didn’t.  But Mick had the knack.

Roz had what Mick wanted, too.  That was why he always had to have her.  He saw great looking dames all day long.  He would get offers from those women all day long.  But whenever he compared them to Roz, and what that sweet wetness between her legs gave to him, there was no comparison.  It would be like masturbating to Mick whenever he would be with any of those other women.  He wouldn’t be thinking about the woman beneath him, but he’d be thinking about Roz.  Why eat the cherry on top, he thought as he fucked her, as he rubbed his hands across her tight brown ass and fucked her harder, when he could have the cake and the cherry too?

Afterwards, they didn’t try to get some sleep before making the drive back to Philly.  They, instead, grabbed Roz’s bags, tossed them into the Ferrari, and made a quick stop before they made their way home.

Mick drove his Ferrari up to the cordoned off area of the Grove Theater.  After Roz pointed out the producer’s limo, Mick parked just behind it.  The young driver Deuce had been conversing with, the producer’s driver, was now seated behind the wheel of his limo listening to music.

Mick turned off his engine, reached into his glove compartment, and pulled out a loaded gun.  Then he looked at Roz.

She was now dressed in a pair of jeans with a tucked-in shirt, and he was still thinking about how it felt inside of her.  But he was looking at her because he expected her to object when she saw that gun.  She didn’t.  “I’ll be back,” he said.

She looked at the gun in his hand, and then looked at him.  “Just be proportional,” she said.

Mick knew what she meant.  It wasn’t an offense worth anybody dying over.  But she knew it was an offense, and she did want that asshole to get his.  Just within reason.

Mick put the gun inside his belt buckle, to be covered by his suit coat, as he got out of the Ferrari and made his way to the young driver’s limo.  Roz saw Mick tap on the glass, she saw the young driver press down the window, and then she saw Mick lean in, undoubtedly brandishing his weapon.  Then she saw Mick reach into his back pocket, pull out his wallet, and hand the young driver probably more money than he’d ever seen before in his life.  The youngster gladly accepted it, got out of the limo, and took off running away from the scene.  Mick had undoubtedly given him the spiel about how he’d rue the day he was born if he told a living soul, and he’d apparently been satisfied that the young man got it.  Mick didn’t get in the limousine, but stood at its back door with the chauffeur’s hat he ordered the young driver to leave behind.  And waited.

Roz waited too.  Not for long, however, because soon the doors to the theater opened, and Joe Ranley, among others, walked out.  While the others went their separate ways, Mick opened the limo door and let Ranley in.  His driver was new enough, and Ranley was arrogant enough, that he didn’t give Mick a second glance.  He just got in his car.

But instead of closing the door behind Ranley, Mick looked around, decided nobody was watching, except Rosalind, and got in behind him.  The limo windows were tinted, just as the Ferrari windows were, but Roz was willing to bet that Joe wasn’t enjoying Mick’s intrusion.

She’d win that bet.  Joe Ranley wasn’t enjoying it at all.  He, in fact, was baffled.  “Who the fuck are you?” he angrily asked as soon as Mick got into the backseat with him, and closed the door.

“I am the man you’re going to always insist you never met,” Mick said.  He began pulling gloves from out of suit coat pocket.

“What kind of nonsense is that?  Where’s my driver?  Who are you?”

Mick pulled out brass knuckles and put them on.

“I’ll tell you what,” the producer said and moved to get back out of the limousine.  But Mick pushed him back down so hard that the producer suddenly realized this was no gag; this crazy man was serious.

“What is this about?” he asked Mick.

Mick finally looked Ranley squarely in his eyes.  Although one of Mick’s eyes was slightly drooped and his long eyelashes made it appear as if his eyes were closed whenever he looked down, when he looked back up Ranley could still see the fire behind those eyes.  Even the sleepy one.

“What’s this about?” Ranley asked again.

“It’s about my wife,” Mick said as he began closing and opening his fist to get just the right fit for his brass knuckles.

Ranley frowned.  “And who is your wife?” he asked.

“Rosalind Sinatra,” Mick said, staring at Ranley.  “The woman you disrespected tonight.  And you know what I always say?”

Ranley stared at Mick.  Was this character for real?  “What do you always say?” he asked.

“A man who disrespects my wife,” Mick said, “is a very foolish man.  A man who disrespects my wife,” he added, “has a death wish.”

Ranley’s heart began to pound.  He’d heard that Roz might have had some connection to some mob-type figures, and he was certain this man sitting across from him was one of those types.  And although Ranley didn’t have mob ties, he had some street in him.  Bronx-style street.  He was nobody’s chump.

As soon as he thought Mick was ready to do his damage, he decided to do a little of his own.  He quickly reached down, where he kept a baseball bat, and grabbed it.  But as soon as he bought it up, and thought to bang it over Mick’s head, Mick grabbed it from him easily and began beating him with it.  He beat Ranley as if he was beating a rug.  And Ranley was crying like a baby.  He was completely humiliated.

But just before blood began to flow, Mick threw the bat aside and began beating Ranley with his fists and brass knuckles.  He aimed to make an example of this motherfucker for all of Broadway to see.  It was no longer open season on Roz Sinatra.  It was no longer possible for any one of those fuckers to disrespect her ever again, and expect no retribution.  Mick made a spectacle of Ranley the way he had to do in the past for Rosalind.  Ranley was going to be the cautionary tale.

And when Mick finished, he gave him a warning.  “Try to blackball my wife,” he warned, “and I’ll kill your ass.  Nobody, and I mean nobody, mistreats my wife.  Including me.  Got it?”

Ranley was quick to nod through the blood and pain.

“Go to the cops if you choose to,” Mick warned.  “But understand this,” Mick added, staring Ranley dead in his eyes.  “They can’t protect you from me.  But I would love for you to give it a try.  I would love for you to prove me right.”  Then he thought about what this man said to his wife, how he said nobody cared about how she felt or how his rash decisions affected her, and he grabbed Ranley’s head and rammed it several times against the limo’s back door.  Ranley was nearly unconscious when Mick finished.

When Mick got out of the limo, he looked across the street.  One of his New York men, who handled the backup security detail on Roz while she was in town, was leaned against his car.  Mick nodded.  He made his way to the limousine while Mick made his way to his Ferrari.  Mick’s man got behind the wheel of the limo and took off.  His job was to deposit Ranley away from the lights, and to also remind him who he was dealing with.

When he got into the Ferrari, and cranked up, he and Roz drove in silence.  He glanced at his wife, and she glanced at him, but not a word was spoken until they were well on their way.

“I hope you beat his ass,” Roz said calmly, as if it was a very personal hope.

Mick shifted gears and picked up speed.  “I did,” he said.  And then he flew, without the necessity of wings, back home to Philly.