The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance)

Chapter 4: 4

A dick is a dick and when you are facing them shoved your way daily by over amorous arseholes who see you as a vessel for their pleasure and nothing else, it kills the buzz and suddenly your best lay is a battery operated boyfriend. At least it won’t smack you around or push itself down your throat and won’t stop until you reach your climax.

My ‘’BOB’’ keeps me happy while I avoid disappointing sex and it’s less messy on the clean-up. It’s also never forced me into anything I didn’t want to do with brute force and I want to avoid any more beatings in my lifetime if I can help it. I have recovered from my fair share, and I am so done with broken bones and fractured limbs.

I am lucky that in all the years and all the beatings I have taken I have very few scars and none that you can really see unless you look hard. Most of my scars I carry on my battered soul.

I somehow think that Mr Carrero might have a few skills of his own in the bedroom department, and he doesn’t strike me as a guy who uses brute force to get his way either. He has persuasive talent and command—I doubt I would say no even if he asked me to let him screw me up the arse on his desk while baldy watched him poke me senseless.

Luciano would probably get off on it; I think he has a hard-on for Carrero himself and his sexuality is questionable. His homophobic rage over the gay bartender downstairs screams of a repressed desire and I wonder if his wife only married him out of pity.

I have heard the bar girls talking about Alexi in the staff locker area at the start of the night shifts. One of the girls used to be his Monday evening boredom fuck—a bit of a kink whore that he tied up and screwed mercilessly. She implied that he likes being in control and likes to be rough…

I wonder if we have ourselves a ‘Mr Grey’ or just a guy who is open to experimentation.

Judging by her disappointment that he didn’t beat her down or inflict pain to get her off, I can only assume he has lines he doesn’t cross, even if he is into bondage. Not all Doms are into beating and whipping, and it sounds like Carrero is more into restraining rather than inflicting pain. He sounds like for him, it’s all about submission and control anyway, and I am sure I can get around that. I’m not really into it myself, being cuffed, tied and abused. It’s like reliving my youth and I have no space in my head for weak little memories and stupid girls who didn’t have the sense to outsmart them.

I have my triggers in certain sexual scenarios, and I have learned to avoid anything that sets me off. I guess that is one area he would find me a disappointment because it’s a no-go any day of the week, but I have other skills I could distract him with.

The doors finally open, and I wander out listlessly, shaking my Tiffany bracelet back down my arm and adjusting my dress as I cross the lobby of the back hall to the bar door distractedly. The noise of the bar seems oddly low, and the house music is off, even though I heard it when travelling down. Now I can only hear hushed voices as though the bar is emptying, and it instantly confuses me.

It’s not even midnight, and this is normally our craziest time on a Saturday night.

What the hell?

‘‘Miss Walters… Nice to see you upright!’’

That voice halts every fibre of my being and I pause with a sharp breath, goosebumps and a complete physical reaction that has been missing from my life. It’s like having warm water poured right over your head as arousing vibrations run the length of your body.

If his voice can do this to me then I wonder what the rest of him would feel like and I can only imagine as my insides erupt in beautiful butterfly type flutters.

Turned on with a voice; boy am I going to like being fucked by him.

His smooth and husky tone, like liquid heat, pours over me from behind and my skin tingles in anticipation as I turn myself precisely and slowly to greet the one thing I have been waiting for.

‘‘Mr Carrero.’’ I give him my best sultry smile and extend a graceful hand, scanning that powerful physique in a pricey tailored suit and tie; he looks all business and immaculate as always. Taller than I remember, even though I am in high heels, so I guess he is over the Six-foot mark easily. He’s a long cold drink on a hot sunny day, and my desire is to lick him all over. I have to curb the urge to bite on my lip, while eye raping the shit out of him. I can barely contain myself and my knees are practically pressed together like they are conjoined.

He regards my hand for a moment before taking it and politely gives me a firm shake, hand enveloping mine with sheer masculine size. A sign of a real man, one of my regulars used to say—a good strong handshake and eye contact mean you will always know where you stand with someone; except I don’t think the rules apply when someone has soulless eyes and a dark depth behind an emotionless face.

I kind of get the feeling he is analysing every detail about me and evaluating how to play me.

‘‘You look better.’’ He makes an open appraisal of me from feet to face and back again, not shy in letting his eyes scan my figure-hugging outfit. I take a moment to bask in that little success and push out my bust subtly for his eyes doing a return trip, moving closer to let him smell my scent. I spend an age picking perfumes that make men think of sex, and my current wear has been bringing bar humping horny boys to the club every night.

Sex is my area of expertise after all and all men can be controlled with varying degrees of it; you just have to figure out the little tells every man has and Alexi, it seems, is a bit of a slender figure man and seems to like what he sees.

‘‘All healed and all forgotten.’’ I smile demurely and for a moment he just looks deep into my eyes as though he’s trying to pick apart my brain, checking for vulnerability or womanly trembles over my awful

ordeal. He obviously doesn’t know me or my ability to bounce back up! I have had more beatings than hot dinners, and I am a very live in the moment kind of girl.

If you let your past destroy you, then you let it define you, and you may as well lie down and die. This content belongs to Nô/velDra/ma.Org .

With a past like mine, I could either choose to do just that or use every part of it to rise above everything they ever did to me and turn the things they taught me into tools instead and get the upper hand. No use crying over spilt milk and all that.

I see the flicker of challenge and stand my ground this time, not the same feeble drugged girl he met in the private room of the clinic his men dumped me in for two weeks. I am back to being me, and power play is part of my forte.

I have on my armour; makeup, killer heels and sexy dress with my newly dyed harlot red hair that is like my calling card. Jessica Rabbit was my ironic idol for my look when I made myself over at nineteen.

I guess facing the one person I hoped would save me from hell and having them throw me from their property really did wonders for my mental state back then. Thanks Daddy, coming to America to find you was totally worth it.

‘’So, I see, I wasn’t expecting stunning under that mess, and yet here you are … If you don’t mind we need to go back upstairs and see Lucie.’’ He extends a hand back towards the lift and I nod graciously, impressed that he isn’t shy with saying exactly what he thinks and high-fiving myself that he thinks I am ‘’stunning.’’

I guess I have a definite chance of bedding me a Carrero after all. It’s more appealing than going back to work the bar anyway.

My eyes scan muscular build and my underwear heats up as I get crazily close to that sexy as sin body. He has a way with women without doing very much at all; I guess he must have a hell of a lot of testosterone swirling around to get me this worked up without effort. Usually, it’s a lot of self-warming before I get ready to screw someone, and I wonder if he would be like an instant switch for me, a new experience.

Most men are not the focus of my fucking, it’s normally the act of getting off—but in this case, I think it would be the exact opposite. I most definitely would be focused on the man doing the screwing as much as the act of being screwed.

‘’By all means, you’re the boss.’’ I smile seductively. I am going for flirty overkill as his brood of black suited men linger in the hall, and he follows me back into the box I only just exited leaving them standing around like lost children.

‘‘Yes, I am. I’m sorry I didn’t come by and settle you into your role, but I had business elsewhere. I’m here now though, and we have a lot to discuss.’’ The doors close on us as he swipes his own gold card and I try to stand as close as possible without being too obvious. I learned a long time ago that you have more effect on a man when he can touch you without effort and smell you with each inhale. Lingering within his grasp and making it easy. Arse out, boobs perked, mannerisms full on seductive and the little tell-tale sex arousers are in play.

Touching my lips, my hair; my eyes straying to his mouth, so he thinks about kissing me as I glance his way, doing a mental checklist of my ‘‘play to win’’ and make him horny techniques.

I am firing on all ‘‘fuck me’’ cylinders and on the full offensive. I have waited two months for this bad boy to show up, and he is getting the full Camilla treatment on supercharge. I don’t waste time when I have my eye on a prize and this one comes with power, money and influence; a nice little puppy in my pocket to do my bidding if I can hone in on his kinks and make all his fantasies come true.

Men are like dogs—you find the treats they like, and they can be trained into obedience and loyalty. It has gotten me this far in life so far, and he is like the golden ticket to pastures new.

‘’Did you enjoy your trip?’’ I flutter my lashes with a slight subtle bite of my lip and I catch the smirk subtly cross his face as it deepens the hint of dimples that only adds to that unearthly gorgeousness he has going on. He relaxes against the wall effortlessly and seems almost amused at my full-on signals. Leaning against me so his body warmth heats my naked arm in my capped sleeved dress. He’s unusually warm-blooded even through a suit jacket and I can only hope it means he’s hot-blooded in the sack. Italians usually are. He’s picking up on signals and I’m thinking he might be an easy win. Quick, clever, and clearly well-trained in recognising come-ons. He seems game anyway and it seems he’s not so different to mere mortals after all—even if he is a formidable player.