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At our next meal, he makes me pancakes and lets me wear his shirt the whole time. When I’m full, he pulls me into the hall where he’s set up a wooden dummy and teaches me to slash and cut with a knife. “I’d prefer you never need to fight in close combat. But better to be prepared.”
He has me throw knives at a target until my arms are tired and rewards me with a shower and an easy, slow fuck against the tiled walls. Then he uses a straight razor to shave me. Once we’re clean and dry, he props me on all fours in the bed next to a black towel with a tube of lube and a small black plug on top of it.
He strokes my bottom. “Are you going to fight me?”
“I don’t know.” I glare at him over my shoulder. “Are you gonna put that in my ass?”
“Would you prefer to do it yourself?”
“What do you think?” I let him plant a hand between my shoulder blades and push me down so my cheek is flush with the bedspread, my ass high in the air.
“Push out,” he orders and probes me with lube-coated fingers before replacing them with the plug. I blow out a breath at the alien feeling, but it’s not so bad. What’s worse is how he uses his free hand to play with my pussy, and how quickly I grow wet for him.
“Now what?”
“Now a reward.” He twists his fingers into my pussy, finds the rough wall above my entrance, and rubs it. “Do you want me to tie you down?” But I’m already rocking into his hand, the plug adding another dark dimension to my climax.
Much later, he makes me what I think of as a late lunch—thick steaks cooked to perfection. He sits on a bar stool next to me and feeds me bite by bite. And I let him because the meat is too amazing to refuse. Melt-in-the-mouth buttery.
It’s super weird sitting on a stool with a plug in my ass. But it’s not that bad. At least I’m not bound with clamps on my nipples.
It’s the little things.
He pours me a glass of wine, a Châteauneuf-du-Pape that’s beyond compare to my cheap merlots. I lounge in the armchair, tipped onto one hip so I don’t jar the plug in my rear, savoring the smooth but complex red while he does the dishes. Just another episode of Life with a Hitman: Domestic Edition.
It’s been a while—at least a week or two—since I’ve had anything alcoholic to drink, so a few sips go to my head.
“You’ll be happy to know I made contact with men who can find Stephanos,” Victor tells me, speaking over his shoulder from his spot at the sink.
“You did?”
“Yes. They have not yet led me to him, but they will.”
I stare at the ripples in my wine. Having this conversation with Victor is weird. I’m used to thinking of him as an enemy united with Stephanos.
“I asked them who the mole is.”
“Did they tell you?”
“No, but I will tell you when I find out.” He dries another dish. “Your cousin is looking for you.”
“Of course he is.” I can imagine my cousin now, standing with arms braced on his desk, barking orders to his men, and only taking breaks to comfort Leah.
“He’s intensified the search. Offering a reward for any proof of life.”
“Can I get word to him?”
“What would you say?”
That shuts me up. What could I say that Victor would allow? “Wanted: tall blond hitman. Likes to torture people. If spotted. . .” I hesitate.
“Shoot to kill?” Victor dries his hands on a dish towel hanging neatly on the oven handle. The dish towel is a creamy white, decorated with little yellow ducks because why not?
“Maim,” I say. I don’t sound certain. Victor prowls over, holding the wine bottle. He tops me off, then sets the bottle down and scoops me up, only to sit with me in his lap. And I let him. I’m more worried about spilling the wine.
I settle into his arms like we’re a couple decompressing after a long day’s work. A half-naked couple, him only wearing soft slacks and me in nothing—no bra, no panties—but his shirt. And a butt plug.
For a while, Victor does nothing but stroke my back and watch me sip my wine.
