The Gun Runner(9)

My mouth was dry, my throat was tight, and my pussy was a soaking-wet mess. I fought to swallow and attempted to speak.

Nothing happened.

I wagged my knees back and forth and nodded. It did little to resolve the pussy issue.

“...I want to get up, slowly walk up to you, and take everything right back off.”

I was a horny mess. He had me so turned on that I couldn’t do anything but beg for more. I really needed him to tell me what was next. Still positioned so close I could feel his breath on my face, I gazed into his hypnotic eyes and parted my lips slightly.

“Why?” The word puffed past my lips in an almost silent whisper.

His mouth twisted into a smirk. “Because if I’ve earned the right to do all of that, I’ve damned sure earned the right to stick my tongue in your little wet pussy. The bottom line? I want you to come in my mouth. I want to taste you, Terra Wilson. And tonight? Tonight I decided I’ll do what I have to do to make that happen.”

He leaned back and calmly took a sip of his coffee. He looked different. His short dark brown hair, strong jaw, and piercing blue eyes gave him a more menacing look than before. I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth and swallowed hard.

I was really beginning to like this guy.

“You decided all that, tonight?”

“I did.”

My face went flush. “You want...you want to uhhm...you want to earn that right?”

“I do.”

Well, Michael Tripp, I’m afraid you’re closer than you think.





Chapter Four

Michael

The unfamiliar footsteps approaching could have been anyone. Considering Cap’s recent issue with who I suspected was the mob, I stood, slipped my pistol into my waistband and anxiously waited. In less than thirty seconds, they made their appearance.

One wore a 1980s-style dark blue zip-up tracksuit complete with white stripes along the arms and legs, and the other a dark gray pinstriped suit. They were undoubtedly two of Agrioli’s thugs.

The brawn and the brains.

The one wearing the tracksuit was a few inches taller than his companion, standing roughly six feet tall. The white wifebeater he wore underneath the unzipped jacket made his massive chest apparent, but the rather large stomach hanging over his waistband told me he liked pasta much more than working out at the gym. His dark hair was greased back and pressed flat against his scalp. His sagging cheeks and multiple chins led me to believe he was in his late forties or early fifties.

I nodded toward Tracksuit as I walked around the corner of my desk. “I thought Adidas quit making that tracksuit in the 1980s. Where’d you get that thing? eBay?”

Tracksuit glanced at his partner, apparently seeking approval to launch a comeback to my snide remark. Pinstripe cocked his head to the side and shrugged. While they continued to exchange glances, I looked for signs of either of them carrying a weapon.

Pinstripe met my gaze. His black hair had flecks of gray that didn’t seem to match his age, which I guessed at thirty. “Mr. Tripp, we’re associates of Mr. Agrioli’s. The aforementioned Mr. Agrioli would like to set up a meeting regarding a shipment of military rifles. It’s been brought to his attention you’ll be receiving these pretty soon, and he’d like to form a partnership before they’re shipped out to the end user.”

My response was immediate. “Sorry, you fellas must have stumbled into the wrong office. This is Don’t Tripp, LLC. We’re a solutions-based company that specializes in resolving problems with uneven walking surfaces.”

Pinstripe chuckled. His shoulders did the up-and-down thing again. Convinced it was more of a nervous twitch than an actual shrug, I shook my head and impatiently waited for his response.

Tracksuit reached inside his jacket. I reacted in accordance with my military training and ten years of combat experience.

I pulled the pistol from my waistband and leveled it at his head. “Keep those hands where I can see them or I’ll drop both you motherfuckers where you stand.”

My eyes darted back and forth between them. I was in survival mode. “I’m not fucking around, if either of you two pricks move, it’ll be the last time you do.”

Pinstripe’s eyes grew wide and his hands slowly raised to chest height. Tracksuit’s hands followed.

“You fuckin’ kiddin’ me? This is a peaceful meeting, neither of us are armed,” Pinstripe explained, clearly irritated by my reaction. “And, you’re kinda quick with your hands to be a sidewalk repairman.”

I tossed my head toward Tracksuit. “He reached for something.”

Tracksuit pinched the chest of his jacket between his thumb and index finger and lifted it slowly, exposing the waistband of his pants. Pinstripe was correct, it appeared he wasn’t armed. I lowered the pistol. It didn’t matter if they were armed or not. I had far more experience at killing people than they did, there was no doubt about it. If either of them reached for a weapon, they’d be shipped back to Agrioli in a steel drum.