Page 18 of The Hitman

I move my hand over my bare sex and caress my clit with the pads of my fingers. My head falls back against the headboard, and my mouth falls open. I sigh contentedly.

Is it narcissistic to enjoy my own body as much as I do?

Ah, who cares?

I circle my clit and caress my lips until I’m wet. Until I’m dripping excitedly. Until I can push two fingers inside myself with ease.

My sighs turn to moans.

My hips circle again, and my fingers sink deeper inside myself.

The woman’s not whining or moaning anymore; now she’s yelling and cursing — I’m assuming — in Italian. I can hear their bodies slapping together, and best of all, I can hear the man’s wild grunts. I like them.

I pinch my left nipple and move the hand between my legs faster. And faster. And faster.

I’m obscenely wet now.

Has Ryan ever made me this wet? Has he ever fucked me hard enough for our neighbors to hear? Why haven’t we ever fucked each other while listening to our neighbors or at least while watching our favorite porn together?

Why did I waste my twenties on a man who boxed me in to protect his own public image instead of letting me be free and growing with me? Thank God I didn’t marry him, I think, just as I come in a wet rush all over my fingers.

9Giulio

She’s crying again.

As soon as the waitress leaves, I shower quickly and crawl into bed. I’m asleep practically as soon as my head hits the pillow, and it’s the best rest I’ve gotten in weeks until the weeping bitch wakes me up. So not only is she keeping me up at night, she’s waking me up too.

“Sta’ zitto,” I scream, and she mercifully stops.

I sit up and stare at the wall, wondering if it could be so easy.

It’s not.

“Fuck you,” she yells and then starts crying again.

“Bitch,” I hiss under my breath and scramble from the bed.

I walk naked into the living room to find the pile of my clothing still by the front door. I throw the t-shirt over my head and shove my legs into my shorts. I grab my room key and pull the door open so hard it slams into the wall.

I’m really not sure where I’m planning to go, but I head toward the elevator. Maybe I should go down to the front desk. Who cares what they think if it means I don’t have to toss and turn in bed listening to her cry? But I pass the elevator and walk directly toward the door of the other — bigger — penthouse suite.

I don’t have a plan. Normally I would set about charming a woman to get what I need. And if charm won’t fix my problem, guns usually will. But neither of those tactics seem particularly useful when the problem is a woman who won’t fucking stop crying. I know I should take a second to think, but instead, as soon as I reach the penthouse door, I pound my fist against it so hard my knuckles hurt.

I can still hear her crying, but it’s faint. “Sta’ zitto,” I yell through the door.

The crying fades away. I pound on the door again two more times, so she knows I mean business. I’m about to turn and walk away when I hear footsteps on the other side.

“Go away,” she says in a quiet whisper.

And I unleash. I spit sarcastically that now she wants to be quiet. I tell her that I haven’t slept well in two days because of her fucking crying. I tell her that this is my first holiday ever, and she’s ruining it. And I even tell her that her room should have been mine because I’m still furious about that. But I say all this in Italian, so she cuts me off mid-rampage.

“Non parlo Italiano,” she says in a tentative voice.

I exhale in frustration.

“Stop fucking crying,” I say in slow, irate English.

The silence on both sides of the door stretches long enough that I start to wonder if she’s still there or maybe she’s calling hotel security.