She's not going to call him Gang Friend, but she's reaching the limit on how long she can think of him as 'that guy' because she is thinking about him, and not just because he's owed his payment. It's probably exactly because she's thinking about him - hyper aware - that she notices the shadows passing in her garden a little before noon and makes it over to the door, yanking it open, to the three of them. This is the first time he hasn't just appeared in her house and she relishes the shifted dynamic - even if it's fleeting - before he speaks.
He's behind the others but his voice arrives over them:
"I'm here to collect."
The guy with the beard and face tattoo is closest, almost inside the door already as she stands there. She looks up at him, and gives a short and sharp smile as a greeting, before trying to look around him, back to find him. They press onwards inside her home and so she turns to follow them, speaking as they enter.
"I don't have it," she blinks - neutral - and she doesn't think it sounds rehearsed.
He's got his back to her, looking around her kitchen as his guys watch her. As her words land, he turns around to face her and pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket. She faces him and closes the door with one hand behind her, softly, without looking at it.
She tries to stay unreadable, holding his eye contact as her head rings with the decision she made - back when she wasn't feeling the weight of his actual presence - and she can feel her heart pulse out a staccato rhythm as she tries to get a grip on what she has and hasn't said out loud yet and whether she can back-pedal. She's expecting something, anger possibly, but he's silent and unreadable. She blinks again, Fuck it.
"Can we reach another arrangement?" she says, lightly, as she walks in front of the kitchen counter and leans back against it, repositioning herself so she’s at the centre of the space and of them.
They watch her and she sees it on their faces first, and it takes a moment to catch up that she's come out with it too soon. She cringes, hotly. She was too obvious. She was trying to push through the fear but the effect is one of haste. She flushes with embarrassment, but it's done now - the hard part. The ball is in his court. Stilling herself, she puts a hand to the pendant around her neck and fiddles with it.
A frown crosses his face and he looks down away from her, composing himself. He licks his lips and nods to no one, at the floor. It's not the first time he's been propositioned like this, hasn't been for a long while though. Years. And it's usually someplace seedier, from someone either more desperate or more entitled than this woman. So this is a familiar predicament, another thing he can artfully navigate - within his repertoire. Except she looks like a fantasy. Looks straight out of the opening scene of a porno - one that you don't fast forward in the rush for flesh. Something to unwrap. something to seduce. His feels his cock thicken in his jeans and he realises his mind is already made.
"You want to me to fuck you," it's not a question but she nods in response. He’s definitely thrown her a handful of suggestions over the weeks and she's clearly needy, but still his ego squares up - not because he’s flattered, but because he knows what he can do to her. For a flash he wonders if he shouldn’t be more wary - that he’s come round so soon - but then he’s thinking about that porno again and knowing what her tits look like, and so he looks up and communicates wordlessly to his guys What the hell, right? They turn around, moving to stand just outside the archways of the open plan room. They’ve done some fucked up shit together, run through a lot of scenarios, and they know the drill for things like this. As he turns back to her and moves his hands to undo his belt she says:
"They can stay." Her voice is light but controlled, she sounds like a kindergarten teacher.
And this bitch keeps just keep surprising him. He manages not to scoff, they weren't exactly gonna leave him alone - people get smart ideas in rooms with knives - but he doesn't even think that's her meaning. He's fully hard now. She's so attention starved - she wants them to want her. He approaches her, slowly, and her eyes flick down to his hands as he undoes his belt.
"They don't watch," he smirks. He's close enough to look down on her as he says "Take off your panties."
She reaches under her skirt and tugs her underwear down over her hips with a wriggle, until they drop to the floor - bright blue satin and lace against the cold clean tiles, he knows they’re still warm. He licks his lips as he watches her step out of the tangle of them, still in her heels.
He nods at the kitchen counter and Beth pulls herself back up onto it, clumsily. He moves between her legs, pushing them apart. He runs his hands up her thighs, under her skirt, then back over her ass and pulls her to him until she’s on the edge of the counter. He pushes his jeans and underwear down and pulls his cock free. Her purse is on the counter and she reaches out to it, he follows her hand with his gaze - she fishes out a condom and holds it out to him. He mumbles something barely audible, shaking his head as he makes quick work of slipping it on. He's standing over her again fast, the head of his cock pressing against her without warning. For a fleeting moment Beth wonders if she's in too deep, but he's so close that she can taste his cologne and she thinks she'd like to bite him and it must show because he cups her face in his hand and runs his thumb over her lips before pressing it between her teeth.
"Yeah?" he pushes and groans at how easily he slips into her.
The feeling of his thick cock filling her up unleashes a hunger in her that she hasn’t felt in years - what was a lustful fantasy is now a primal and urgent need.
”Please...” she says, without even realising she’s spoken, and he pulls out from her again.
"You want them to watch you get fucked? You want them to see you owned by me?”
And yes, that’s what she wants. She wants to be fucked so that she can’t think, and she wants to be owned by him and wanted. She wants him to come tasting her flesh, her body.
He pulls at the neckline of her dress “Show me.”
She fiddles with two hands at the buttons on her blouse and her stomach flips as he literally licks his lips when her bra is exposed.
“You gonna tell your PTA group about how you fucked a gangbanger?”
“My husband,” she says.
He says something in Spanish that she doesn't understand but she's knows it's filthy from the way he's looking at her and the way his mouth twists - he repeats himself "Your husband ever fuck those big tits?"
"Of course not," he punctuates his words with a thrust into her cunt so deep she whines involuntarily, "he doesn't know what to do with you. I'd be buried in them every day. Don't worry darlin', I'd know what to do with you. I'd make sure you didn't go to waste."
He's fucking her with slow forceful pace, enjoying the bounce of her soft body against him. He knows how this is going to go: for her this was a risk, for him it's a worn out script. He licks the pad of his thumb, presses it alongside her clit as he watches her, she squirms under him - trying to move him to the right spot. He shakes his head.
"I want you to think about that for years to come, how you came easy for me, how I owned you on your fucking breakfast plates"
He moves slow firm circles around her and she groans, he feels her contract around him and his lust hurtles to a peak again. He distracts himself with the feeling of her thigh under the grip of his left hand and he fucks long slow lengths in her as he continues to stimulate her clit. Yeah, so he's playing with her - having a little fun - he didn't see her bringing this out of him but it's been a while. She reaches suddenly to grab his wrist, her mouth is open and he can't stop looking at her tongue, and he flicks his thumb faster until he sees her eyes glaze over.
"That's it sweetheart," he pouts condescendingly.
She comes so hard that she almost forgets she's fucking a criminal on the cold hard surface of her kitchen island. She almost forgets that her husband is a fraud, and that she stole money at gun point, and that she never felt more alive than the weeks since she faced her own death, at the hands of this man, in this very kitchen. He interrupts the final crest of her orgasm by grabbing her hips with both hands now, and fucking her in a way that is purely about his need. The sound of her wetness almost embarrasses her.
"This is what you wanted?" he's out of breath as he says it.
"This is what I wanted."
He lets out a low gasp before he growls, "and you're going to get it darlin' don't worry."
He puts his thumb in his mouth, tastes her, then licks again to make it wet. He's slowed his pace and she shifts her hips towards him, seeking more - more fucking, more cock, less thinking - just as he reaches under himself to push his thumb into her asshole. She tries to squirm away in shock but he holds there, grips his other hand tightly on her hip until she relaxes a bit. He holds her eye contact and presses harder, up to the first knuckle, until she stops bucking. He enjoys her grimace - returning it with a sardonic smile as he picks up his pace again. He'll give her something to fantasise about. Two out of three holes ain't bad. He thinks. Maybe he can get her to suck him clean, and the thought of how he has her now - how he could take more if he wanted - sparks a surge of lust in him that pushes him over the edge. He enjoys every moment of the rush to his orgasm, he enjoys the look on her face now that the reality of his fuck has settled in, he enjoys wielding his power in this adolescent way for the first time in a while, he enjoys the perversity of her creamy skin and her Martha Stewart kitchen as he rocks his thumb inside her asshole - and he enjoys making sure that she feels him as he surges forward and comes hard inside her, swearing.
Once the world has steadied, she pulls herself off him and lowers her feet to the ground. He steps back, pulls the condom off, ties it, and drops it on the counter beside her with a cold flourish. She picks it up then reaches down to pick up her panties, rubbing her fingers into them before running them like a washcloth up the inside of her soaked thighs. She walks to the sink, her heels clicking against the tiles, drops her underwear in, and the condom in the bin underneath, then rinses her hands.
"You still owe what you owe," he says, doing up his jeans, not looking at her. She turns to face him.
A moment of silence passes - she watches him as he wipes his hands on his back pockets and she fastens the buttons on her blouse. He wonders how pissed she is. And then:
"The cash is in the drawer," she says, softly, nodding to the dresser and he does look at her then. His nearest guy opens the drawer - pulls out the stack of 100s. He raises his eyebrows at her - amused, curious. Then he licks his lips, straightens his face and walks out, followed by his guys.