I cry out as the force of his thrusts shove my face into the mattress. He holds onto the belt loosely, so I can feel it pressing on my throat, but he doesn't cut my airflow as he starts to fuck me brutally. He's still wearing his suit, and he tries to pull it off between thrusts, yanking his shirt open but not getting very far before giving up. His hand that isn't holding the belt digs into my hip as he holds me in place, keeping me from moving away.
Not that I would.
No, not today.
I'm pushing back against him, meeting his thrusts, grunting as he goes deeper and deeper, annihilating a part of me while still, he builds me up.
"You fucking love this, too, don't you?" he asks, his voice low, strained. "You don't need me to treat you like royalty to know what you mean to me. I can fuck you like this, fuck you like you're nothing, and you still know you're everything to me."
I want to answer him.
I want to tell him that's true.
But the words are lodged deep in my chest, blocked by the belt pressing against my throat. All that seems to make it through the barrier are grunts and cries, screams that sound like his name, as he fucks me.
And fucks me.
And fucks me so much I'm on the verge of trying to beg.
Beg for him to stop.
Beg for him to keep going.
Beg for him to fuck me into oblivion.
Beg for him to give me more... more... more.
I don't know how much time passes, or how many orgasms rip through me, before my entire body starts to tremble, while he continues to push inside of me. My breathing is labored, my heart hammering hard, as something inside of me seems to break and I give up. I stop fighting. I stop bucking. I give in and let him do what he wants. My body goes limp on the bed, while Naz's body grows taut.
The belt tightens around my neck, cutting off my airflow once more, as another orgasm tears through my spent body. Naz thrusts hard a few times before coming himself, growls echoing from his chest as he lets loose. The second he finishes, he completely stops, dropping the belt, letting it fall.
I inhale sharply, collapsing into the bed when he pulls out.
He sits there behind me, on his knees, not making a sound or even moving. I'm panting, still catching my breath, as I drown myself in the soft comforter. Holy shit, I can't move. I can't do anything but lay here.
My body is nothing but an aching ball of tingles.
I'm thoroughly fucked.
Literally.
Figuratively.
Who really knows?
After a moment, Naz tucks himself away before reaching over and undoing the belt, pulling it from around my neck. He climbs off the bed, and I hear his quiet footsteps crossing the room.
Rolling over, I look at him.
It baffles me how he looks so unruffled.
His shirt is open, sure, but that's all that's askew. I don't even think he broke a sweat. How the hell is that possible?
He puts the belt away before carefully stripping out of his clothes, tossing them aside, before joining me in bed again. Lying beside me, his hand makes its way to my neck, and I tense, but he doesn't squeeze.
He rough fingertips gently caress the skin.
"Probably shouldn't have done that," he says, thumb stroking my throat.
"Why?"
My voice is hoarse, laced with confusion.
"Because," he says, eyes meeting mine, "you're probably going to have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow."
I laugh lightly, reaching up to lay my hand on top of his. "Yeah, well, I'm afraid I don't own any of those. I don't think anybody does."
"I do."
I gape at him. "You do?"
He nods. "A black one."
"I, uh... what? How come I've never seen it?"
"Because I don't wear it," he says. "It's in my closet somewhere."
I've scoured that closet and stolen clothes.
I can't believe I've never noticed it before.
"Why am I not surprised?" I mutter. "I mean turtlenecks were all the rage long ago... you know, when you were my age."
He squeezes my neck playfully as he glowers at me, and I laugh. He gets so worked up when I pick on his age.
"Keep it up," he says, "and I might end up spanking you before this day is over."
Rolling my eyes, I scoot over in the bed, moving closer to him. He wraps his arms around me, pulling my head onto his chest. Neither of us says anything else for a while. Silence overtakes the room. It isn't long before I'm lost in my head again, thinking about everything.
"Do you ever feel guilty?" I ask eventually, curiosity getting the best of me. Okay, maybe I do want to talk about it.
"Guilty about what?"
"Everything," I say. "Anything."
He pauses before saying, "Why are you asking?"
"I don't know," I say. "I guess I'm just wondering."
"You're wondering if I feel bad about the things I've done."
"Yes."
He's quiet again.
I don't really need him to answer.
That silence tells me everything.
"If I had the chance, I might do some things different," he says finally. "But most of it, I'd probably still do. Do I feel guilty? No, not really. I don't think I have it in me to feel that kind of remorse."
That response doesn't surprise me.
It's about what I expected to hear.
Joseph Gladstone.
They call him Fat Joe.
That's all I really know about the man in front of me—his name—but it's more than enough. Armando dug up an address where I could find the guy, which—lucky for him—turned out to be credible. I don't know when he was born or where he's from, don't know if he has a family or if he lives alone, don't know how much money he makes or if he even has any in the bank. Don't know, and don't care, because at the end of the day, it doesn't make a difference.
All that matters, frankly, is that he somehow crossed the wrong path, walked the wrong line, and offended the wrong man.
Me, namely.
But poor Joe doesn't know that yet.