Dubious (The Loan Shark Duet 1)

Sweat beads on my brow and torso. My skin is on fire. Her breaths explode from her chest.

“Gabriel…”

It’s a plea for mercy. It’s moving too slow. I can drag out the discomfort or make it hurt hard and quick before fucking it all better. Pulling back until only the head of my cock is held in place by the stretching muscle in her opening, I hold on to her face tightly and drive home. Tearing through feminine tissue, I bury myself inside her body as far as I can go. It’s the moment I’ve been dreaming of, of hearing her sounds, seeing her surrender, inhaling the scent of our sex, and feeling her body stretch for my cock. She’s shaking, her fingers digging into my hips.

“It’s almost over, beautiful. It won’t hurt for long.” I kiss her jaw and move, taking her with long, careful strokes until her body surrenders just like her mind, her tight channel embracing my dick rather than pushing it out.

Her moans turn to panting. It’s music to my ears. When she throws her head back, I let go of her face, holding only her eyes. I play with her body, petting her breasts and clit as I stroke deeper and faster, taking everything she can give, everything that makes Valentina a woman. I knead and massage until she’s soft and pliant in my arms. She molds like wet, earthy clay under my touch, until her hips start moving to the rhythm of my fingers on her clit.

And then it’s over.

She breaks.

Her body sucks me deeper, catching my cock in a trap of painful ecstasy. Her pupils dilate like shooting stars, and her gaze flies away from me like a comet as she comes and leaves a burning trail in my soul. In this moment, she can ask me anything, and I will bust my balls to give it. I’ll fetch her the moon and the stars, if that’s what she wants, but she only says, “Hold me,” and I give her what she desires.

* * *

Valentina

Gabriel’s arms are safe around me. He’s given me uncountable orgasms, but this one was different. This one was deeper and more intense, stirring the buried emotions I haven’t had the courage to look at for so long. After my assault, I shied away from men. The event prevented me from exploring my sexuality. I was afraid to go down that road in the fear of uprooting everything I experienced that awful night, but what I shared with Gabriel was nothing like that. It was a carnal, guilt-free, and necessary need. He took my freedom and made my body a slave to his, but right now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. This is where I belong. This is where he belongs. As much as he took me, I took a part of him, too. I took something of him for myself, and I’ll always keep it in my heart. I feel connected to him as I lie in his embrace, enjoying the afterglow of my orgasm. Now that I’ve had him inside me, I’m hungrier than ever for more. I’m starving for information that goes beyond the sex we share. I want to know why his beautiful physique is broken. I want to know everything about him.

I slide my hand down his body to trace the scar on his knee. Maybe he’ll tell me tonight. “How did this happen?”

“Got my kneecap shot away by one of our rivals,” he says matter-of-factly.

“And this?” I stroke his hip.

“Baseball bat.”

“And this?” As I’m about to cup his cheek, he catches my hand.

“Shrapnel. Explosion. A debtor tried to blow us up with the building where he was laundering the money he stole from us.”

“Did he survive?”

He gives me a forced smile. “What do you think?”

“Have you ever considered having it fixed?” I ask as gently as I can.

He replies in a cold voice. “This is fixed.”

Horror, not because of the ugliness, but because of the sadness, invades me. How did he look before, if this is after?

He utters a small sigh. “My bones were crushed. Underneath the skin, there’s mostly metal. The risk of the muscles collapsing with more plastic surgery is too high.”

I wrap my arms around his waist, holding him tight to me. Saying his mask of pain doesn’t bother me will only sound frivolous, even if it’s true.

I rest my cheek on his chest. “Your foot?”

All of his muscles go tense. It takes him several seconds before he relaxes under me again. Just when I thought he wasn’t going to tell me, he says, “My mother shot me.”

I barely manage to swallow my gasp. “Why?”

His tone is flat. “When I turned twelve, she gave me a gun and told me to shoot a man. I couldn’t.”

A lump in my throat restricts my speaking. I can’t imagine the kind of childhood he had. A part of me relates to that and understands. There’s quiet accord between us as we hold and comfort each other, two damaged people with different scars.