The Mob Gave Me a Week to Leave, So I Took Over Dorchester novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Third Floor

The night of the funeral Kathleen asks to be carried up, and Marek takes her against the third-floor wall and then on Irena's fresh-made iron bed; at six a.m. a broom handle thumps the ceiling and Irena calls everyone to breakfast.

He carried me up the last flight with my legs around his waist and my mouth on his neck.

The stairs creaked under every step, and I did not care.

I had buried my husband that morning and eaten ham and potatoes with two hundred people in a church hall.

At eleven that night I had gone down to the second floor and found Marek at his kitchen table.

His coffee had gone cold.

I had said, "I still want it."

He had stood up so fast that the chair fell over.

Now he pushed open the third-floor door with his shoulder and kicked it shut behind us.

The room was dark except for the streetlight in the window.

The iron bed was made up with white sheets that smelled of sun and lavender.

His mother had told me at supper that she changed them every Tuesday, in case somebody came.

I looked at that bed once, and then Marek set me on my feet against the wall and I stopped looking at anything but him.

"Slow," he said. "Tell me if it's too much."

"It's not going to be too much."

"Kathleen."

"I'll tell you," I said.

He took off his flannel shirt and his undershirt, and I put my hands on him.

He was enormous.

His chest was wide and furred with black hair, and a long old scar ran down the side of his ribs.

His stomach was hard under my palms and his arms were thicker than my thighs.

I had never touched a man so big, and I had never wanted to stay so close.

"What's the scar?" I asked.

"A winch cable. I was twenty."

I put my mouth on it.

His stomach muscles jumped.

I kissed my way down his ribs while he unbuttoned my dress, and then he pulled it over my head and let it drop.

He took off my bra with two fingers.

He took off my underwear and knelt to get it past my feet, and kissed the top of my thigh on his way back up.

By the time he stood, I was shaking.

I reached for his belt and this time he let me.

I got it open, and the button, and the zipper.

I pushed his jeans down and his cock sprang free into my hand.

It was thick and heavy and very hard, with a dark flushed head that was already wet.

My fingers did not close around it.

I tried, and I could not make them meet.

"Marek," I said.

"I know," he said.

"I don't think it will go," I said.

"We'll go as slow as you want."

"I don't want slow," I said. "I want you to be careful and I want you to give me all of it."

His face changed.

He kissed me hard enough to bend my neck back, and his hands went down my body and cupped the backs of my thighs.

He lifted me.

My back hit the wall, and my feet came off the floor, and he held me there with one forearm under each knee.

I was open to him, and I felt the head of his cock slide against me, up and down through the wet.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked.

He pushed in an inch.

I gasped and my nails dug into his shoulders.

The stretch was huge and slow, and nothing in me wanted it to be smaller.

He waited until I breathed out, and then he gave me another inch.

"More," I said.

"You're so tight."

"More, Marek."

He pushed the rest of the way in one long smooth stroke, and I felt him in my belly.

I cried out.

He held there, buried to the root, shaking, with his forehead against mine.

I had a man inside me who weighed twice what I did, and I had never been held so gently in my life.

"That's it," he said. "You took all of it. You're doing so well, mała."

"Move."

He pulled out slowly and pushed back in.

The wall at my back was solid, and his arms under my legs were solid.

I hung between the two with nothing to do but feel.

"Brendan used to pin me," I said, breathless. "Against walls. I hated walls."

His rhythm broke.

"Kathleen."

"Don't stop. This is different. You're holding me up. He held me down."

His eyes went dark and fierce.

"I'm holding you up," he said, and he drove into me.

The sound that came out of my mouth was raw and loud.

He fucked me against the wall, steady and deep, each stroke dragging along every nerve I had.

The head of his cock hit a place inside me that made white light flicker behind my eyes.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

"Harder," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Please. Harder. Fuck me."

He gave it to me.

The wall shook and the picture frame beside us rattled, and I did not care if his mother heard it two floors down.

I came with a scream into his shoulder, my pussy clenching around him in hard pulses.

He groaned and kept moving through every one.

Before I had finished, he turned and carried me to the bed, still inside me.

Every step sent him deeper.

I clung to his neck and whimpered.

He laid me down on the white sheets with great care, and he followed me down.

His weight came over me, braced on his forearms so I would not feel it.

I spread my legs wide around his hips, and he began to move again.

This time he went slowly.

He kissed my right cheek, my mouth, my neck.

He rolled his hips in a deep, grinding circle that pressed against my clit on every stroke.

"Marek, I can't, it's too good," I said.

"You can," he said.

"You're going to kill me," I said.

"Not yet."

His hand slid between us, and his thumb found my clit and rubbed it in time with his thrusts.

I came again, quieter this time, and more deeply, and I heard my own voice break on his name.

He pulled out of me, and I whined at the loss.

"Turn over," he said. "Hands on the rail."

I rolled onto my stomach and crawled up the bed to the iron headboard.

I wrapped both hands around the cold bars.

He knelt behind me.

I felt his hands spread across my backside, and one thumb dragged slowly through my wetness.

"Look at that," he said, very low. "Look how you want me."

"Then take it."

He took hold of my hips.

They were small in his hands, and he lifted them to the angle he wanted, and I felt him line up and push in.

I buried my face in the pillow and shouted.

It was deeper this way, and slower.

When he was all the way in he bent over me and laid his chest against my back.

His arm came around my waist.

I felt his breath at my ear and the whole length of him inside me.

I could not tell where he ended and I began.

"Mine tonight," he said. "Just tonight."

"Yours tonight."

He moved.

He took me in long, slow strokes with the bed frame knocking the wall in time, and I held the iron and let him.

My thighs shook.

His hand slipped down to my clit, and I begged him, and he did not stop.

I came a third time, hard, my whole body locking around him.

He groaned, and rested his forehead between my shoulder blades, and held there, shaking, not moving, until I stopped trembling.

"Roll over," I said, when I could speak.

He blinked, and then he did.

He lay on his back with his arms flung wide, huge and flushed and wondering.

I kissed down the long scar on his ribs, over his stomach, to the dark line of hair below it.

He was slick with me, and I took him into my mouth and tasted both of us together.

He swore and fisted the sheets.

"Kathleen, you'll finish me," he said.

"I want you to stay hard."

"That's not going to be a problem."

I sucked him until his hips came off the bed and his breath turned ragged.

Then I let him go with a wet sound and climbed on top of him, a leg on each side of his hips.

I took him in my hand.

I sank down onto him slowly, inch by inch.

I watched his face the whole way.

His mouth fell open.

His hands came up to my hips and spanned them entirely.

"Kathleen," he said.

"Let me do this."

"Anything you want," he said.

I set my hands on his chest and rode him.

"Tell me what you want," I said, rolling my hips. "Out loud."

His fingers dug into my thighs.

"I want you in my bed," he said. "Not this one. Mine, with your things in the drawers."

"Keep going," I said.

"I want to feed you in the morning and watch you eat," he said. "I want you with your hair like that, in my hands, every night."

"What else?"

"I want to hear my name like you said it in the kitchen."

I said it.

I said it again, louder, and he lifted his hips to meet me.

I moved the way I wanted, up and down, slow and then fast, grinding against him when I needed it.

He watched me with his whole face open.

"Look at you," he said hoarsely. "God. You're beautiful."

"Say it again."

"You're beautiful. You're the most beautiful thing I ever saw. You're going to ruin me."

I was close again.

I leaned down and kissed him, and my hair fell around us both.

"I have an implant in my arm," I said against his mouth. "Two years. He never knew. Come in me."

His whole body went tight.

"Kathleen," he said.

"Come in me, Marek."

His hands tightened on my hips, and he thrust up into me from underneath.

I rode him through it and felt him swell.

He came with a long shuddering groan and my name in his mouth.

The heat of it filled me, and the sight of him undone sent me over with him.

I collapsed against his chest.

His arms closed around me.

We lay tangled in the lavender-smelling sheets, our hearts pounding against each other.

After a long time I touched the left side of my face.

"Brendan did this on the third of January," I said. "With his fist. Don't say anything."

He said nothing.

He turned his head and kissed my right cheek, very gently, and then my forehead, and then my hair.

I slept for the first time in twenty days.

At six in the morning a broom handle thumped on the ceiling below us, three times.

"Marek!" Irena's voice came up the stairwell. "The girl eats breakfast downstairs!"

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