Of course he won’t. No professional burglar hits the same place twice, especially when he got caught the first time. I doubt even a strung-out junkie would make that mistake, and whoever my mystery intruder was, he wasn’t that. But the window is unlatched anyway, and a small part of my attention is focused on listening for any creak or quiet groan of the floorboards.
The rest of my attention is on the smooth, soft feel of the leather glove that’s on my hand and casually shoved down the front of my briefs, absently cupping my stiff cock without any real intent. Not at the moment, anyway. My browser is open toa forum that I hate to admit I’ve spent a little too much time on over the past few months.
My new theory…“The Ghost”is Lorenzo Moretti. Think about it! He’s by far the richest man in the city so he’s got the whole Batman angle, he’s obviously comfortable with murder *cough* mob boss *cough*, and it would totally make sense why they“can’t get any leads.”Hello!! No one who knows him would be stupid enough to rat him out!
I chuckle and scroll down to the replies. A surprising number of people seem to be on board with the theory. I should send this link to Enzo. He would get a kick out of it. It might even give him a good laugh and get him out of the funk he’s been in for the past week. I bookmark the post in case I want to come back to it later and forward it along for a laugh, then I keep scrolling.
At least I have an excuse now for the time I’m wasting reading all the wild speculation and re-posts of newspaper articles about the vigilante who’s managed to kill a dozen bikers that we know of. He did a few of them right near the Sleepless Reapers’ own clubhouse and has somehow managed to not be seen by a single witness. No one who’s talking, anyway. That’s the key that I think most of the posters on this forum are missing. Even if any of the Reapers have seen the guy’s face, they’re not going to run to the cops and sit down with a sketch artist. They’re going to want to take care of this shit themselves.
The next post is a breaking headline: “Body number 13 found with a bullet wound to the head, dumped in a ditch a few miles from the Reapers’ clubhouse.” It’s one of their favorite dump spots. I’ve heard some cops refer to it as OD Alley because of the number of bodies they find there. Hard to say if this one was the work of The Ghost and the Reapers dumped the body themselves, or if the ugly motherfucker in the picture crossed the wrong club member.
If it was The Ghost, he’s flirting with a world of danger. That would be the fifth guy he’s killed ontheir turf, and I’m sure the Reapers are good and nervous about this shit by now. Pissed off too, I would assume.
I almost regret mentioning any of this to Lorenzo. If The Ghost makes much more of a mess before we find him, the “conversation”the boss will want to have will be pretty damn one sided and punctuated with a bullet for emphasis.
I wish I knew why I give a fuck about this. It’s not like I know the guy, whoever he is. But for some reason, my brain inserts my intruder’s face over the blank one I’ve been picturing for months, and a sense of urgency makes my heart beat faster.
This guy doesn’t deserve to die. As far as I’m concerned, he’s doing the lord’s work by taking out useless pushers and rapists like the Sleepless Reapers. But the rest of it is true too—he’s too sloppy, fucking careless, leaving bodies lying around and drawing too much attention to Wildcliff.
I lean back in my chair, no longer focusing on the screen in front of me as I move my hand a little faster over my cock. I wish he’d given me a name, a place to find him, fuckinganything.
“Kneel for me, slut.”His words echo in my mind and my dick throbs in my grasp. “Beg for my cock.”
I don’t know how a complete stranger managed to reach into my head and pluck out the fantasies I’ve never had the guts to share with anyone before, but I think he fucking ruined me. A moan builds in my throat, and my brain conjures up a daydream woven together from my obsession with The Ghost, the envy that’s slowly eating me alive over what the other guys have, and those perfect, cold eyes that saw right through me.
I picture my intruder standing over the lifeless body of one of the Reapers with a smug, satisfied smirk on those full lips of his, a pistol gripped in his hand. He raises the other, clad in the black leather glove that matches the one currently sliding up and downmy dick, getting slippery and sticky with my drooling precum, and crooks a finger to beckon me. In the fantasy, I can’t scramble over the dead body fast enough to kneel at his feet.
“There’s a good slut,”he purrs, leaning down to whisper in my ear as he shoves two fingers between my lips.
I moan out loud and my hips jerk wildly. Frustration mixes with the needy, horny feeling that’s throbbing in my cock. I’m a motherfucking mafioso; there shouldn’t be anyone in this goddamn city I can’t find. It’s entitled and fucking ridiculous, but I should be able to snap my fingers and have him at my door, ready to wrap his hand around my throat and demand that I bend over for him like a good little slut.
He should be outside my window right fucking now, just as unable to stop thinking about the other night as I am. If I can’t manage that, what good is all this money and power anyway? I growl and stroke myself faster.
GHOST
“Fuck,” I whisper under my breath, the word muffled by the mask pulled down over my face. I reach down to squeeze my throbbing cock through my jeans, half convinced I’m dreaming this whole thing.
I shouldn’t even be here. I don’t know why I am. I guess I just couldn’t get that question out of my head.Do the Morettis hate the Sleepless Reapers too?And the more I wondered about it, the more sense it made for me to climb up this fire escape again. I can’t remember my exact logic now. I wasn’t going to just climb through the window again and ask the mafioso on the other side how the Morettis feel about the scumbag bikers who crawl around Wildcliff like cockroaches. And I certainly didn’t expect to find myself with my nose practically pressedagainst the window, watching him with his head thrown back and his muscles tense as he strokes himself wildly, bathed in the ethereal glow of his computer screen.
I don’t have a good enough angle to tell, but the cocky part of me wants to believe he has my glove wrapped around his cock, that all the muffled moans I can just barely hear through the window would be my name if he knew it.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but if he’s still thinking about me, if he wants to see me again, that could be my way in to get more information about their relationship with the club. It could even be my in to make the Morettis my allies.
But I still have the same problem. I can’t exactly tap on his window and ask if he’s fantasizing aboutmeat one o’clock in the morning. My best bet might be to follow him for a few days, learn his routine, and find a way to casually bump into him again. Something tells me lightly stalking a mafioso won’t be all that easy though.
His arm moves faster and my cock jerks eagerly, my breath puffing rapidly against the inside of the mask as I swallow a moan of my own.
“Be a good slut and come for Daddy,” I whisper, dragging my gloved fingers silently down the window. Almost as if my unheard words have a direct line to his cock, he cries out loudly and his whole body shudders.
An incomplete sense of pleasure pulses through me and I bite back another groan as I pull my hand off my still-hard cock. He slumps on the couch, and the hand he was using to get himself off comes into view. A smile stretches across my face at the sight of my glove covered in the sticky ropes of his release. He licks his cum off it and my cock jerks helplessly again. I wish I was standing over him right now, grabbing his jaw and licking into his mouth to taste his own cum on his lips.
He uses his teeth to pull the glove off and tosses it down, out of sight again. Then, he leans forward and returns to scrolling through whatever website he has open. I frown. It’s not porn, that much is obvious. It’s too far away for me to see clearly though.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone and pray he won’t notice any light from it shining through his window. I use the camera app to zoom in on his computer screen, and it only takes another minute before another uncharacteristic smile is crawling across my lips.
I recognize the forum he’s on. I’ve been there myself—for a good chuckle more than anything, and just to keep an eye on any news that the cops might actually manage to pull their heads out of their asses and get a lead on me. Not that they’re trying too hard, as far as I know. I don’t think they’re losing any more sleep over the dead Reapers than I am. But yeah, I know the site he’s on, and I think I might be able to use it to my advantage.
It’s a hard fucking thing peeling myself away from the window and climbing back down the fire escape. But at least I have a plan now. A semblance of a plan, anyway.