4
Vincent
Though it pained me to leave Faith so suddenly, I couldn’t stay a moment longer. The sound of her laughter, the sight of her smile, the feeling of her slender arm against mine, it made me into a beast. The sound of my heart beating reverberated in my ears, and every nerve in my body screamed, grab her, take her, she’s yours! Blood rushed to my cock, and I feared that Faith or Margaret would notice the hard-on raging beneath my zipper.
Though I would have been okay with Faith seeing how much I wanted her…
Instead, I left. I ran away like a fucking coward—not before taking a little…souvenir, though—I’ll never go into her home again, just watch from not-so-afar.
When I reached to grab the leather jacket from the coat rack, I spotted a green and white sweater hanging half beneath it. I checked over my shoulder, making sure Margaret and Faith were not looking at me and pulled the sweater from the rack.
Before I could second-guess myself, I left. Nearly sprinting down their driveway, checking back and forth to make sure that nobody is out on the street. My breath billows into the air in a white cloud, making it clear that I am panting like a dog. I force myself to slow down as I walk the short distance between houses, clutching sweet Faith’s sweater to my chest like a talisman. My cock is still rock-hard, and my pace picks up again the closer I get to my front door.
I fumble for the keys in my pants pocket, my hand brushing against my erection as I pull the keys free. I’ve never unlocked a door faster than I do right now, with the soft, cookie-scented contraband against my chest.
Quickly, I open the front door and close it again behind me. Without even taking off my jacket, I unzip my pants and free my throbbing cock. The tip is swollen and purple, and my balls ache, begging for a release.
I should wait, do this in private, but part of me hopes Faith looks out her window and sees me fucking my hand. I want her to know what she means to me and how badly I want her.
Taking my cock into one hand, I stroke it from tip to base, at first slowly, before furiously pumping the organ, wishing it was Faith’s tight pussy wrapped around it.
With my other hand, I hold the sweater to my face. It smells of cookies, and there are clear stains of flour and butter on it. It makes it all the more perfect. There’s a slight smell of sweat and perfume; I can tell Faith wore this right against her skin.
The thought makes me shiver.
My cock jumps in my hand as I stroke harder, faster. I imagine this cloth against her pert breasts. Her hard nipples rubbing against the fabric. Fuck. I take a piece of the sweater and bite it, wishing I could taste her, too. Wishing my tongue was inside her tight hole. I’d devour her, eating her out until she begged me to stop.
My mind fills with visions of Faith’s slender, naked body, a sight I am already incredibly familiar with. I have seen her naked plenty of times on camera but never been close enough to feel or smell her. Visions of her body, her face, her wide, open smile haunt me.
I bite down on my bottom lip as I grip my erection and pump just a few more times, watching the purple-tinted tip quiver. My heart is thrumming through the muscles of my cock, and I know I’m going to come soon.
Imagining the slight bounce of Faith’s breasts, I wonder what it would be like to put those small, tender nipples inside my mouth. My thoughts swirl, and I think of her hot wet mouth, her ass, and her virgin pussy, how tight it would be around my cock.
Fuck, I want her so badly, want to unwrap her like a gift. I want to take that innocent girl and dirty her up, fuck her holes, make her scream my name and beg for my cock.
With my face buried in the sweater, my knees buckle, and my balls tighten as I release thick webs of cum onto the tile floor. A pleasure I would never, ever know.
As soon as I finish coming, a deep wave of shame overcomes me. I just stole a girl’s sweater and used it to masturbate. What if she asks for it back? What if she tries to insert herself into my life now? Did I just self-sabotage completely to hold a sweater for a few minutes?
Never again, I promise myself and make peace with the fact that what’s done is done.
As I zip up my pants and go to clean up the mess, I think about how my skills as a hitman have, in a way, prepared me for a love like this.
I am adept at making peace with my past sins; I only promise to do better tomorrow. If doing better means sniping a guy who tried to kill Tony Fontana, then so be it.
Once the mess is clean, I pause at the bottom of the staircase and take a breath. Technically, this is a safe house that belongs to the Fontanas’. After I carried out a hit against the head of the Polacks’ uptown, I had to hide away for a bit. It was routine; that is, at least, for hitmen. You got used to the impermanence of everything, including human life.
It is a modern suburban home, more suited for a family of three or four. I can hear my footsteps echo most nights. The kitchen is large and modern and completely wasted on me. Most nights, I order takeout. Too tired to cook.
The house is nicely decorated, in green and brown tones. Very earthy. I’m indifferent to my surroundings, though. I’ve had to stay in much worse places to stay safe.
And hey, this one came with a French press.
I climb the stairs, heading for my bedroom.
Though I could have taken the master bedroom at the other end of the hall, I chose to sleep in the guest room. It’s smaller, and there’s no attached bathroom, but it has a window that looks almost directly into Faith’s bedroom.
If I keep the lights off, my window is far enough away that she won’t see me watching her. Faith is usually pretty good about closing her curtains; most of the moments I see are through the camera. But every now and again, she decides to play or prance around with the shades open.