Last Hit(30)

Snorting, I rise and bring her to her feet. “I will not get caught. I have looked at places with more security than one city police department.”

“I don’t want to know,” she says.

“I will tell you when you are ready.”

At home, Daisy makes dinner while I poke into the internet. A game called Hitman is just released, announces one of the internet ads. Out of curiosity, I click on it. The game is a first person shooter where individuals collect game money for hits that are assigned. Extra points are awarded for crowded locations and high profile individuals such as celebrities and politicians. The president, of course, is the highest achievement but there are large bounties for a female celebrity at an awards show or a driver at a famous race. There is—

“Daisy, is the Mall of America the largest mall in the United States?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“Come and look at this.”

She abandons the kitchen and leans over my chair. After reading silently, she asks, “You think someone’s playing this game in real life?”

“It is possibility. I will do some searching on the deep web, for if it is game, then there must be a way to announce it and be rewarded.”

“That’s really horrible,” she declares.

“Of course. But that is humanity. We are awful beings for the most part save for a tiny few, like you.”

She blushes but kisses me softly, tenderly. “You’re wonderful, too. Don’t forget it.”

What I forget is anything we should be doing, such as following these Internet tracks or studying or working on an art project. Instead, I want to draw patterns on her body with my tongue and fingers.

Abruptly I stand and lift her into my arms. Her hands delve into my hair and she spreads kisses along my jawline, behind my ear, and down the column of my neck.

When I reach our bedroom, I throw her onto the pile of covers. Grasping the back of my T-shirt with one hand, I tug the offending fabric off and toss it to the side. My jeans and underwear follow close behind. She lounges against the headboard, an inviting tangle of bare legs and lush curves. Her knit skirt is flipped up to her thighs, and her deep V-neck shirt parades the erotic valley between her breasts. I keep the apartment warm so that she wears as little as possible inside.

With her dark hair tumbled over one shoulder, she is as enticing as Venus, as alluring as Aphrodite. I climb onto the bed on my knees to worship her. Reaching under her skirt, I pull off her panties. Bringing them to my nose, I inhale her musky scent. Then I wrap her lace and cotton around my full erection. “I fantasized about you. About your body taking mine. About my cock inside your sweet cunt.”

“You’ve a dirty mouth,” she says. The smile dancing around the corners of her mouth is Mona Lisa mysterious.

I draw a hand across my lips. “My words, you mean?”

“Yes. The things you say turn me on.” She curls her fingers for me to come toward her. “But don’t stop.”

Never.

“Your feet are beautifully formed,” I say. I know she is ticklish so I press hard against the pads and then the arch. She moans her appreciation. Encouraged, I provide her other foot the same attention. Then I place both on my thighs and press forward.

She opens and her skirt falls to her hips. I stop only when her cunt is fully exposed to my gaze. My folded legs hug her hips while the heels of her feet dig into my thighs.

I wet my index finger and then draw it down, tracing the folds and swollen lips of her sex. Her eyes glitter with excitement. I take her hands that were braced against the mattress and place them on either side of her thighs. “Hold yourself.”

She does as I order. Her legs are smooth and strong. The lamplight in the room casts a warm golden glow over all the rises and enticing shadows in all the valleys.

I stroke her with that single finger, up and around her clitoris, and then down around her lips. My finger gets wetter with each pass. In my mouth, my tongue feels thick and heavy. It is hard to form words.

“I have studied different masters and their work is undeniable. But even they would have trouble translating the wonder of your body onto a canvas.”

“You are impossibly dramatic,” she chides.

“Am I? Or merely truthful.” I bend forward and pull the V of her shirt until one large, juicy tit pops out. The fabric binds her movements and displays her charms in exaggerated fashion. The hard peak waves in invitation, and I am all too happy to provide it attention. I fasten my mouth over her bud, sucking it into the hollow of my mouth, laving it with my tongue. The tip of my cock brushes against her stomach, leaving a wet trail of my excitement along her belly.

Lust seizes me, and the slow seduction I thought to deliver is swallowed by my need to be inside her.