Page 3 of Dark Surrender

I’m tired.

So tired.

Not caring what the outcome might be, I jack my cock until it’s nice and hard and wait to see what this new woman, far too young for me, will do.

Throw a shoe at my face?

Scream?

I don’t care.

I really fuckin’ don’t.

I ruin everything I touch, so what’s another thing?

When what’s-her-name wrings her fingers in front of her, I bite my bottom lip and nod to the floor at my feet. Whether or not she does what I need, I suppose she can keep her job since Penelope won’t be finding a replacement. Suck me off, don’t suck me off, I don’t give a damn, but I need an outlet, and fucking Penelope isn’t that. Lately, her moans grate on my nerves. Her voice grates on my nerves. Sure, she’s beautiful. But beauty is only skin deep.

My impatient heart thrashes as I wait for what feels like an hour, though it’s no more than a minute, for this woman to make up her fucking mind.

Ever so slowly, the blonde steps forward, lowers herself onto the shiny marble at my feet, rounds her lips, and takes me into her mouth. Warmth envelops my cock, and for a few minutes, pleasure dulls the ache in my chest, and I don’t have to think about anything but my fingers in her soft hair, her mewling moans, and fucking her throat.

It’s heaven.

It’s hell.

It’s more than I deserve.

CHAPTER THREE

Dark

Thick cigar smoke curls in the air of the private back room at one of my father-in-law Harold’s bars as the man beside me slaps his cards on the table. “Fuck!” he roars, shoving a woman off his lap. She stumbles onto her heels, and I reach past my date to steady her.

“Thanks,” she whispers, tugging down her short, foil-lookin’ skirt, before she flashes me a tight, uncomfortable smile.

Ah yes. Another night of… rich shmucks doin’ rich schmuck things, like betting their entire stack of chips on a pair of tens.

Across the poker table, Harold strokes the side of his latest broad’s tit and grins. “So sorry, Vin, better luck next time.” He nods toward his three-of-a-kind.

With a humorless go-fuck-yourself laugh, Vin pulls the woman back into his lap as if she’s his favorite accessory. She gasps but otherwise stays quiet as he reaches into his suit jacket and tosses a wad of cash onto the center of the table. Our dealer handles the exchange and slides a new stack of chips across the green felt. Harold, or Mr. Grant, as everyone here calls him, smiles like the villain of a B-rated horror movie at the jackass before swinging his attention my way.

“Maxim, how do you like your gift?” Mr. Grant’s eyebrows lift in question, testing my response.

To play the dutiful son-in-law, I wrap my arm around the petite brunette on my lap, even though I couldn’t care less about her presence. He always pulls this shit. When he cheats on his wife with whatever new flavor of the month, I must do the same. I assume it’s to keep me quiet, so I don’t cause a fuss over wherever he dips his wrinkly old dick. But his wife already knows about his laundry list of affairs, so I don’t get why he cares what I think or why he always includes me in pointless arm candy that I have no intention of fucking.

Yes, I know, I got a blowjob from my assistant this morning. That’s different. Harold didn’t personally select her to show me a good time. I don’t trust this motherfucker as far as I can throw him. He’s a snake, as are the people he employs, and that extends to the present arm candy he’s provided each of us tonight.

Pasting on a convincing smile, I grip the young woman’s thigh, and she shudders. “Smokin’ hot. Good choice.”

He hums, looking far too pleased with himself, and kisses his lap candy on the cheek. I’ve seen this woman once or twice before. We had lunch a few weeks ago to discuss our upcoming family vacation, and she was there. Her mismatched eyes are a dead giveaway—one hazel with a patch of dark blue in the corner, and the other brown. Otherwise, she’d blend in with the rest of the young women being pawed by men twice their age. At least I have the decency not to put mine through that, not when I’m pretty sure she’s a fresh buy. Trafficked women aren’t my style. They’re not usually his either, but I guess he’s showing off tonight for our new guests.

Tapping the side of his glass with the chunky ring on his middle finger, my father-in-law sits back and waits for our waitress to refill his wine before he gestures to our dealer to get back to business.

As it typically goes, men lose more money and get shitfaced on expensive booze as the night carries on. When the tray of coke comes out, everyone but Harold and me partakes. Even some of the women. Lips are loosened, and before the evening’s over, more than a few of the jackasses have said more than they should in present company.

“I…I ne-need two…kidneys,” Vin slurs at Mr. Grant, as he fingers his date, or attempts to. His beady eyes swing to her, and he blows her a kiss. “You like what I’m doin’ to ya, baby? You gonna come for me?” The dumbass winks like he’s fuckin’ god’s gift to women, blows her another kiss, and returns his attention to Harold, who’s snickering as he watches this train wreck with far too much satisfaction.

“Two.” Vin lifts his sausage fingers covered in rings and spreads them into a pair of bunny ears. “Two,” he enunciates with his thick New Yorker accent.