Page 4

CHAPTER 4

Haze

I’ve crossed many lines I didn’t think possible, but I never thought I’d be robbing the cradle. I’ve left that to the other brothers and players, looking to have my needs met by women my age.

The truth is—I’m a liar. And a terrible one at that. I didn’t take Ophelia because it was the best way to get my revenge against her mother, Leah. I took Ophelia because one day, when I was driving by their apartment and checking out the place where my nemesis lives, I saw her.

She was standing there on the corner of the street, throwing away a bag of trash, of all things. Her hair was tied back from her makeup-free face. She wore an apron and long, blue cleaning gloves. She tossed the trash in the can and closed the lid. Then, she carefully peeled off the gloves, stowing them in the pocket of her apron—like a woman much older than eighteen—before marching back into her place.

She was beautiful, stunning, and breathtaking in her bare-bones beauty. True. But there was something more, something deeper that made me want her in a way I’ve not wanted anything before.

Now, this sweet, young girl is lying over my lap, her body warm and soft against me, and all those other women are forgotten. She’s mine. All mine. I cup her ass, holding her perfect curve in my grasp. I want to see my handprints on her porcelain skin.

I spank her, a smack focused on the center of one cheek. She gives me a gasp and moans. I spank her again, hearing the satisfying sound once more. I’m rewarded with yet another moan and two rosy handprints rising on her ass.

She squirms against me, her body rubbing my already rousing cock. Knowing she can feel how much she turns me on makes more blood pulse through my throbbing cock.

“Your skin turns such a pretty shade when I punish you.” I spank her again on the other cheek, then add two more hard smacks in quick succession. She groans in pain—the spanks sharp and stinging against her naked skin.

I want to feel more of her. I rest my hand on her ass, taking in the heat from her skin. “I want to feel how turned on you get from being punished,” I say, my fingers creeping between her parted thighs. “I want to know how wet I make you.”

Her body tenses, and she grips the blanket, trying to look at me over her shoulder. “Don’t you dare touch me there!”

“I told you: you belong to me now. I can touch you anywhere I want to.” I push between her ass cheeks, my fingers inching their way to her entrance, feeling the heat and slickness there. God, she feels so good. Turned on by how aroused I’ve made her, a deep moan rises from the back of my throat. “You’re so wet for me.”

She moans in shame.

I circle her clit with my fingertip that she coated while teasing her with my words. “I love how quickly your body responds to me. I love how hard your nipples got from being made to strip in front of me. I love how wet you are from being laid over my lap and punished like a naughty little girl.”

“Stop. Please,” she begs, her hips writhing, greedy for more.

I hold my pressed-together fingertips at the brink of her tight entrance. “You want my fingers inside of you, pretty girl?”

“No…” She pressed down against my fingers, wanting me inside her. “I don’t want you anywhere near me!”

“Your body betrays you.” I push my fingers past her tight opening, filling her. Her muscles squeeze around me. I stroke her slick, velvety walls. Her pussy tightens around my fingers—heat and wetness—as she whimpers with pleasure.

She bucks against my lap. She’s greedy—hungry for more. I read her body and follow her lead, touching her the way she wants, the way she craves, till she’s riding on the cusp, so close to the sweet relief of release.

I stop.

My fingers remain inside her, unmoving.

A moment of quiet fills the room, both of us still. Finally, she peers over her shoulder, panting. “Why—why did you stop?”

“You said you don’t want me anywhere near you,” I grin. Torturing her is so much fun. “Have you changed your mind?”

“Ugh…yes…I mean, no! Never!” She tries to remain still so that she’s not giving in to me, moving against me to take the friction her body so desperately needs. Despite her best efforts to resist me, her pussy tightens around my still fingers.

“Why can’t you ask me for what you want?” I give her one single stroke. She moans in desperation. “And don’t forget to say ‘sir.’”

“No.” She gives a weak whimper.

“So stubborn. Maybe a spanking will change your mind.” She tenses as I slip my fingers from her. I give her ass a few hard smacks. “Greedy girl. Ask me for what you want.”

“Please,” she whimpers, her hips twisting. “Touch me.”

I spank her ass again. “You’re forgetting something.” My fingers sneak back to her pussy, circling her swollen clit.

“S... SIR,” she cries, moving against me. “Please. Touch me, sir.”

“Good girl. Now, you may come.” I stroke her ass, enjoying her skin, warm and pink from my hand. “But not like this.”

Lifting her hips, I move out from under her, turning her naked body over onto her back so she’s lying on the bed. Her long hair splays out around her, almost as black and shiny as waves of dark water. Her cheeks are flushed, pink blooming against porcelain skin, her lips red. The three strands of pearls lay woven around her neck.

She looks like an angel.

Slipping my hands under the backs of her thighs, I part her legs. Kneeling on the floor in front of her, I drag her to the edge of the bed. “I want to taste you.”

She pops up on her elbows, eyes wide with anxiety. “No. I don’t like that stuff.” Vehemently, she shakes her head.

I smooth my hands over her legs as I stare up at her, a cocky grin spreading over my face. “You’ll love it when I do it.”

“I don’t think so…”

“It feels so nice—my wet, hot tongue tasting your pretty pussy. Look how wet you already are for me.” I stare at her parted thighs—her glistening, swollen folds. Shame reddens her face as she tries to push her legs together. Digging my fingertips into her skin, I hold them apart. “Don’t hide from me, pretty girl.”

She’s so desperate to come that she throws an arm over her eyes, falling back on the bed with a dramatic, “Oh, god…”

Diving between the tops of her thighs, I find her clit, circling it with the tip of my tongue until she’s rocking her hips opposite my fingers, moaning with pleasure. So quickly, she finds her way back to the crest of that wave.

She runs her fingers through my hair, the sensation sending tingles over the back of my neck. Her gentle touch runs through me. It feels good to have her fingers on me—too good.

I tongue her entrance, tasting her sweet musk. I find her scent, her taste, her moans intoxicating. I find her inebriating. I feel lightheaded and loose, my shoulder muscles relaxing as heat rushes through my core. A tight tension builds below my waist.

I feel so in tune with her body—knowing exactly what she needs and how to give it to her. I curl my fingers around her hips, dragging her even closer. She rises, curling around my body, fingers tightening around the locks of my hair as I bring her to the brink.

She cries out with little shrieks as she comes. She’s repeating, “Oh, wow! Oh, geez!” My laughter rumbles against her as I continue to kiss and lick, teasing another orgasm from her quaking body.

She’s panting, gasping for air. “I... I can’t. I can’t take any more. Oh, god. I can’t.” Her hands leave my hair, pushing at me, attempting to be rid of me.

A time will come when she’s pushing me away, and I won’t stop.

She’s young and new to this life, so I let her go. I stand, remaining at the edge of the bed as I gaze down at her beautiful body. Her gaze is soft and passive as she stares up at me.

The look doesn’t last long.

Grabbing the quilt out from under her, she wraps herself in it, hiding her nudity as she shimmies back onto the bed, pressing herself against the headboard. Her fingers move to the strands of pearls that hang around her neck. Anxiously, she fiddles with them.

I slowly loosen my tie, undoing the satin from around my neck. Taking the wide end of my tie, I wipe my mouth clean, fold it neatly, and slide the material into my pocket. She watches me as she works to catch her breath.

I crawl across the bed to her. Releasing the pearls, she clutches the covers closer to her body. I reach out, brushing her hair back from her face. I lean closer and kiss her. Clutching the quilt to her body, she doesn’t pull away, and she doesn’t kiss me back.

I run my tongue over hers, making her taste her own arousal for what I assume will be the first time. I pull away, but only enough to whisper, “Still don’t like that stuff ?”

“Maybe I was wrong.” She goes to pull away.

I grab her face, pull her in gently, and kiss her again. It takes my tongue to convince her, but she kisses me back this time. She responds further, reaching up to run her hands over the back of my hair.

It feels too good. I pull back, turning away from her. I stand, straighten my clothing, and run a hand through my hair.

“Get dressed,” I say. “We need to leave.”

She shoots up into a sitting position. “When?”

“Be ready in ten minutes.” Without looking back, I leave her to dress.

The bathroom is small, but spotless. I splash some cool water on my face, patting it dry with a clean towel, then wash and dry my hands. I glance up at the oval mirror that hangs above the sink.

I arrived from New York as twenty-five-year-old Harrison Bachman, a lethal young man with a babyface and a dimple to go with my curls. Already fighting my curls, I couldn’t have a childish name like Harry. Needing to establish myself as a man and not a child, I quickly introduced myself in Italy with the nickname my father gave me: Haze.

When I played hockey, I moved so fast over the ice that my father said I was like a haze, causing confusion among the players on the other team. In the end, the name didn’t matter. Within a week, I’d proved myself to the Brotherhood here, and the Italian branch of the family accepted me as one of them.

I stare back at my reflection. Now, ten years later, my face is all planes and angles. My dimple only shows when I belly laugh—which is rare. My dark hair is still thick, but there’s a threat of silver at my temples.

My lips are red, swollen from tasting her, and my hair stands on end from her fingers. The look in my eyes is… feral. Desperate. I’m a man addicted to a young girl who’s half my age.

Am I a monster?

When I return to the bedroom, she’s dressed in jeans and a black sweater with no pearls. Curious. I wonder what she’s done with them.

She wears white sneakers on her feet—probably ready to run.

Her long hair is pulled up in a high ponytail, and the hairstyle makes her look even younger. The girl is already barely legal. Guilt pricks at my conscience, but only for a moment.

I remind myself that I’m owed this. She is my retribution. My revenge.

I go to her small closet, surprised to find every item carefully stored in small plastic bins labeled with her perfect handwriting. I grab an empty duffle bag from a hook in the back of the closet and toss it onto her bed. “Pack your things. You’re going home with me.”

Her eyes travel to the water stain over her head. “This is my home.”

I shake my head. “Not anymore.”

“Home is where your family is,” she argues. Jutting out a stubborn chin, she says, “Wherever you take me, I won’t call it home.”

“Stop talking and pack,” I demand. “Now.”

My words cause her to visibly tremble.

I step away from the closet, moving to the window to give her space to pack her things. She retrieves the bag, turning her back to me as she pulls open the small dresser beside her bed. From the top of the dresser, she takes out neat stacks of underclothes, the teen wardrobe staple of hooded sweatshirts, and a soft cloth toiletry bag, putting it all in the bag.

She moves to the closet with the grace of a dancer. Eying the bins, she chooses a few items, crosses the room, puts them in the bag, and zips the top closed. She stands there, taking in the room for a moment. Then she stares down at the duffle and heaves a sigh.

Finally, she looks at me. “I’m ready.”

“Where’s your coat?” I ask. “It’s late November.”

She shrugs. “I never wear a coat.”

“Get one,” I say.

She eyes me. “You’re not wearing one.”

Lord, give me patience. Is this what fatherhood feels like? I raise one brow to the high heavens.

Returning to the closet, she grabs a dark green bomber-style jacket off the back of the closet door. She shrugs her arms into the sleeves and shoves her hands into her pockets.

Standing in the center of the room, she stares at me. “Happy?”

“Never,” I say. “But at least you’ll be warm.” We’re running out of time. Her family will be returning soon. “Let’s get going.”

She doesn’t move. Instead, she stays firmly planted where she stands, interrogating me. “What about school? I still have a semester left ‘till I graduate. And my job. I’m on the afternoon shift the rest of the week. They’ll be expecting me.”

“You’re already set up to finish school online.”

“That might not be so bad,” she murmurs. “What about work?”

“My wife will only work if she wants, and it won’t be at a fast-food chain. I’ll take care of it.”

She stares at the tops of her sneakers for a moment. Finally, she says, “You’ve made so many demands.” She meets my eyes, her voice steadier now. “I have one for you.”

Holding her gaze, I lower my tone. “You don’t get to make demands.”