The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance) novel Chapter 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.