The honeymoon period

This erotic story excerpt from The Hitman by Katrina Jackson is published with permission.

Erotic sexy story from The Hitman by Katrina Jackson

Listen to this story from The Good Bits erotic audio podcast or read the story below.

I skulk through the restaurant and fall into a chair by a bank of windows with a perfect view of the pool. There’s a family with a small child playing in the shallow end. I don’t even realize that I’m looking for light brown skin and oversized sunglasses until my mood dips when I don’t see the woman from yesterday. Now I’m in an even worse mood. 

“Buongiorno. What would you like for breakfast, sir?”

“Espresso,” I say, before turning and coming face to face with the same waitress from yesterday. Well, face to breasts. My mood lifts immediately. She’s not big glasses and brown thighs and dainty white toenails, but her hungry smile is an open invitation.

“Espresso, per favore,” I tell her.

She nods and turns away. I watch her hips and ass move as she leaves.

I scan the dining room looking for the woman from the pool again. Sue me. There’s no one in the small restaurant besides the servers and an old man chain smoking on the patio.

When the waitress returns, she leans forward, much more than is necessary to put the cup and saucer in front of me. She smiles at me. I smile at her nipples. It’s as if last night never happened.

“I have a break after lunch, if there’s anything else you need, sir?” she whispers in English.

I reluctantly raise my eyes to her face and nod. “I’ll meet you at my room,” I tell her as I raise the cup to my lips.

“Yes, sir,” she says and turns to walk away again.

I watch her ass again. The view is nice.

She passes the front door to the hotel and I see a flutter of silky black fabric and dark sunglasses. My dick lurches just as the sweet, bitter coffee hits my tongue. I can hear the sound of her sandals slapping against the tile floor over the restaurant’s music and the sound of dishes clanking against one another. The background noise fades away, becoming faint as if I’m not in this room, as if I’m out in that hallway following the angry woman with the great legs down the hallway.

And next thing I know, I am.


He’s preening.

It’s pathetic.

I can’t look away.

His body is fucking perfect.

Not like action star perfect. Ryan has a movie star body. It’s a contractual obligation. He spends so many hours in the gym that I used to joke that the rowing machine was his other girlfriend.

The sip of wine sours on my tongue. I wonder if he really did spend all that time at the gym. Maybe he was meeting up with Trisha or someone else. Anything is possible now, I realize. Every part of the life I’d had with him – the life I’d felt sure enough about to wreck my relationship with my sister – is now up in the air. How do I know what was real or not? How can I tell which parts of our life he’d been honest with me about and which he hadn’t? That’s assuming, I realize, if any of it was real. Just as that thought crosses my mind, I feel queasy.

I down the rest of the wine in my glass and pour another. I want to drink this feeling away. I want to drink all the feelings away.

I take another sip and a splash in the pool grabs my attention.

The peacock is doing laps again.

The wine glass stops halfway to my mouth as I angle my head to the side to catch the pert globes of his ass bounce above the waterline as he swims a perfect lap toward the other end of the pool. I’m sweating. Could be the sun. Could be the alcohol. Could be all that fucking dark body hair. Could be all of the above.

Either way, Ryan never made me sweat.

I’m sure that sounds bitter and fake, but it’s not. Ryan made me blush and giggle and he made me feel small in his huge contractually muscled arms. But so fucking turned on I start sweating? Never.

I don’t know what the fuck is up with this man and his tiny swim trunks, but he’s doing it for me. Big time. He’s even sexier than yesterday and I can’t look away.

Okay, never mind, that’s a lie. I know exactly what’s working for me. I love the way his thick, jet black hair looks slicked back on his head. The way the downy soft five o’clock shadow makes his jaw looker sharper. It makes him look dangerous, like really dangerous, not movie star dangerous. And I love the contrast of all that dark hair and that lightly tanned skin.

The rim of the wine glass hits my lips just as he climbs out of the pool, slowly, walking up the stairs as if he knows that my pussy is aching at the sight of water droplets falling from the thick, dark, hair covering his chest and abdomen and legs and arms. I wonder how all that hair would feel against my naked skin.

Ryan’s waxed smooth and I never told him, but I actually hated it. I love a hairy man and this shameless whore in front of me is picture perfect. Also those tiny ass swim trunks he’s wearing don’t cover any of it. Hell, it’s barely covering the thick, hard, rigid length of him.

I’m drenched and I don’t just mean my skin.

He grabs a towel from a stand near the pool and doesn’t even pretend to dry off. He throws the towel over his shoulders and struts around the perimeter of the pool. I take my time sipping the glass of wine in my hand, watching this man behind the big, dark lenses of my glasses, thankful that the pool area is mostly empty, and no one can see just exactly what I’m staring at or how hard. Thank you, Ryan’s MasterCard.

Okay, I’m a little preoccupied and realize my miscalculation too late. I think no one can see me. I’m wrong. I’m so lost watching the gentle sway of this man’s dick in his trunks, that I don’t realize that he’s headed my way until his dripping body is standing at the foot of my deck chair. Actually, I don’t realize that soon enough, I’m too busy licking the rim of my wine glass as I try to visualize every ridge and vein on his penis.

“Do you like what you see, tesora?” he asks in the sexiest Italian accented English I’ve ever heard with the cockiest grin any man has ever had the audacity to muster.

Busted. I should be embarrassed, but I’m half a fresh bottle of expensive wine in, so I’m not.

I lift my head – making sure that I take in the hairy, tanned expanse of his chest as I do, because why the fuck wouldn’t I? – and then make eye contact with him through my dark lenses.

There’s a small tendril of wet hair falling across his forehead, a single droplet of water hanging from the end. It’s sexier than every artificially sexy scene in every one of Ryan’s movies I’ve been forced to endure and secretly hate.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks again.

He can’t see, but I roll my eyes. Zoe always told me that men are much more attractive right before they speak and this is one more thing about which she was always right.

I pull my glasses down the bridge of my nose like yesterday and roll my eyes at him again. I don’t want him to miss the annoyance on my face. “You’re blocking my light again,” I say.

My mouth is dry. I’m almost certainly dehydrated again but also, he’s Sexy. As. Fuck. And that’s not helping my dry mouth either.

“That wasn’t the question,” he says with a smile.

Jesus. No man should be able to make a complete stranger wet with just a smile, but this stranger does. He can.

I am. Wet, that is, just in case it’s unclear. My eyes move down his body again. I can’t help myself. I blame the alcohol and also the fact that Ryan and I haven’t had regular sex in three months. I hadn’t felt strong enough to tell Shae that on the day of my Not Wedding, but it’s true. How could I admit to anyone – even my cousin – that the man who’d convinced me that all the training he was doing for his next movie was fucking up his libido had actually been perfectly fine to fuck my best friend and a stripper? I couldn’t, so I hadn’t. I’d ignored it then, but my body refuses to ignore it now as I swear to God his dick flexes inside his trunks and I watch.

My eyes fly up to his face. The answer he wants is hell fucking yes, I like what I see. He’s not going to get it, though. I push my glasses back up the bridge of my nose and tip my head back to rest against the chair. He can’t see my eyes, so I don’t close them, but I do look away. I have to. All that fucking chest hair? I want to rub myself against him and if I keep looking at him, I just might.

And he knows it. I don’t have to wonder anymore. I know that he knows that I like what I see by the soft burr of laughter that rumbles in his chest.

I scowl at him.

He’s watching me as intently as I’m watching him, the only difference is that he’s not trying to hide it or pretend it’s anything besides naked lust.

And unfortunately, my traitorous nipples return the greeting his dick gave me just a bit ago, hardening to painful points against the fabric of my thin swimsuit.

He smiles at my chest and licks his lips. “I like what I see,” he tells me.

“I didn’t ask you that,” I hiss. I can hear the strain in my voice.

He laughs again, watching me and not leaving.

I need him to leave. I need to leave before I embarrass myself.

Too late.

I rub my thighs together the tiniest bit. I just need the friction to take the pressure off my throbbing clit. I need something to calm my hormones and my pulse.

Unfortunately, he notices and laughs again, but this one sounds different. Can a laugh sound contemplative? If so, this one does. And I don’t have to wonder what – or who – he’s contemplating. Me. My hard nipples. My aching pussy. His lurching dick.

And so am I.

I haven’t had sex with anyone but Ryan in six years and besides the occasional daydream, I haven’t even thought about having sex with anyone else in all that time. But right now I’m thinking about it; really thinking about it. He knows it, I can see it in his eyes. What he can’t see is the conflict I’m feeling about Ryan. Not because I still feel some kind of loyalty to my ex and his community dick, but because in six years Ryan never made me wet just with a look. And was going to marry him! Why? What the fuck is wrong with me?

If Zoe were here, she’d have told me to put my existential crisis on hold and take this man back to my hotel room. My older sister has a very firm belief in sex before feelings. Actually, scratch that, she’s more of a sex, no feelings type of person. She doesn’t believe in coincidences or regrets, and she’s always said that if more women followed their body’s advice on who to fuck – but especially on who not to – their lives would be easier. I usually ignore her and her life advice, but only because I’ve always known she was right, and I didn’t have the guts to follow her lead. My body said Ryan was a good provider, but my pussy’s rating of him was… “Meh.”

My pussy has a very different assessment of this Italian stranger, his short briefs, downy chest and cocky grin.

A drop of water falls from the tip of his chin onto my foot and I swear I have to swallow a moan.

He catches that too. Okay there’s a definitely downside to too much attention.

His eyes watch my throat bob and he opens his mouth, but whatever he’s about to say is lost in the loud intrusion of screeching children.

We both turn to see four kids sprint right into the pool, intruding on the quiet, intense moment we’d been sharing. The quiet, intense moment that was maybe about to end with me fucking a complete stranger on a deck chair for anyone having a leisurely lunch in the hotel restaurant to see.

The intrusion should have doused my mood, but it doesn’t. And even though I never take Zoe’s advice – to my peril – I decide to do so now. If there are no coincidences, then those loud ass kids aren’t an accident. No strange public sex for me, and to cement that fact, I stand from the deck chair in a rush. I set my wine glass down, grab my purse and clutch it against my chest – to hide my nipples – push my glasses up the bridge of my sweaty nose, and rush back into the building.

“Wait, tesora,” the man calls after me.

I pretend that I don’t hear him.







Sexual Pleasure with Anya Lust




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I want to follow her, but I can’t. My dick is so hard that I practically expose myself when I turn to call after her. I wrap the towel around my waist and grab my clothes from the lounge chair I’d claimed and rush back into the hotel. She’s gone.

I consider asking someone at the front desk if they saw a beautiful woman with big sunglasses and the most perfect nipples ever created and if they can tell me what room she’s in, but even I don’t think that’s the best idea. I consider waiting around the lobby just in case she reappears, but Salvo told me to lay low, and stalking some beautiful, angry American around seems like the opposite of that. Besides, my dick is so hard that it’s actually hard to walk, so I slink up to my room.

My room door isn’t even closed before I drop my clothes and rip the towel open. I let it fall to the tile at my feet and dig my hand into my briefs. My head falls back, and I groan so fucking loudly in relief that I hope the person next door hears me. A small payback for the last two nights.

I push my trunks down my legs just far enough to get my balls free and lean back against the door. I give myself an exploratory stroke, squeezing the tip hard enough to hurt and pull back to the root, twisting my hand as I go.

“Ai, cazzo,” I hiss.

My hand feels great. It’s not a warm, wet pussy, but I can get the job done.

And I’m about to. I love a good masturbation session, but this is going to be a great one. I’m already pulling the memory of those sunglasses perched on the tip of a soft button nose and a pink tongue swiping across the rim of a wine glass from my memory.

I’m ready to pore over every second I spent with the Angry American to give myself the messiest solo orgasm I’ve had in a while when there’s a tentative knock on my door.

“Merda,” I grunt, squeezing my leaking tip.

“Va via,” I yell through the wood door.

“Sono io. La cameriera del ristorante,” she whispers through the door.

I pull the door open in a heartbeat. I don’t cover myself. Why would I? The waitress’s eyes and mouth widen in shock, and because I’m a vain fucker, I love it.

I pull her into my room. She mumbles something about not having a lot of time and embarrassingly, I know I won’t need it. I don’t tell her that, of course, I simply pull her into my arms and crush her mouth to mine. My dick is caught between us, and while I don’t love the friction caused by her rough nylon trousers, I don’t hate it either. I walk her back into my bedroom awkwardly, with my trunks still down around my thighs, and then I throw her onto the bed.

She giggles. I don’t like that sound. It’s girlish and innocent, and that might get some men off, but not me.

“Nuda,” I bark at her to cut off the noise. Thankfully, she stops giggling as she does what I say. I push my trunks down my legs and then move, naked, to the closet. I open my suitcase, an errant ray of light hitting the metal of the case where I keep my travel guns. No one can open it but me, but I cover it just the same.

I grab the brand-new box of condoms I bought for the occasion and rip it open. I pluck a foil packet from inside and do the same.  I groan as I roll the latex down my shaft. I definitely will not last long, but I’ll make it good for…whatever the waitress’s name is. I need to protect my reputation just in case there are other waitresses willing to deliver their pussies to me on a silver platter.

“Si, cazzo,” she hisses when she sees me, and I feel the same. She’s not fully naked, but she’s shimmied out of her trousers and underwear, and her shirt is hanging off one arm.

That will have to do.

I pounce on top of her, burying my face between those deliciously full breasts.

lick at her pink nipples and suck them into my mouth in turn greedily. She squirms underneath me, the soft skin of her thighs caressing my balls. Much better.

She runs her fingers through my hair. I want to tell her that she can tug on it a little, just enough for me to feel a sting at my scalp and the base of my dick, but my mouth is currently busy. I wonder if I would have to give that kind of direction to the Angry American. She’d probably be pulling my hair and scratching at my scalp out of general annoyance. Maybe she’d even bite my shoulders.

My hips jut forward at the thought of her teeth sinking, just the tiniest bit, into my skin. Not enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark.

And that does it.

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I flip the waitress onto her stomach. I pull her onto her knees by the strands of her long, mousy brown hair at the same time as I shove my hand between her legs. I circle her clit and wrap her hair around my fist, arching her back beautifully.

Her entire body is flushed, and she’s groaning softly. She shivers every time I move a finger to her opening, pressing against her firmly, waiting for her to open for me. Waiting for her to beg me.

“Per favore,” she whines after a few soft taps of my thumb and I push forward as if I’m going to give her what she wants, before pulling back. She whimpers. “Per favore.”

But that’s not enough, I realize. I don’t just want her to beg me softly; I want her to do it loudly.

My eyes drift to the wall at the head of the bed, and I realize what I want now — besides the angry American’s thighs cutting off my sun and air. I want the bitch next door to be as angry with me as I am with her.

“Píu forte,” I hiss at the waitress.

“Per favore,” she says, shivering as I push my thumb inside her.

“Píu forte,” I bark, moving behind her.

“Dai. Dai. Per favore,” she says louder, but not loud enough.

Her entire body shivers as I take my finger from her wet pussy and place the blunt tip of my dick at her opening. I push her knees farther apart with my legs and then scream loud enough that if anyone is next door, I know they will hear me.

“Louder,” I say in English as I push my entire shaft inside her in a single thrust.

She screams loudly this time, and she doesn’t stop while I fuck her, hard and fast, our skin slapping together each time I bottom out inside her.

I don’t even know if the woman next door is in her room, let alone if she can hear me, but I imagine she is and she can.

I also imagine that the hair wrapped around my fist and the pussy I’m punishing is the Angry American’s.

There are a lot of people in this room. I don’t hate that either.







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My heart is still racing. I’ve showered, changed, and drank the largest bottle of water in the minibar. The last couple of days aside, I’m not actually much of a drinker. A glass of wine with dinner or the rare boozy brunch with my friends is much more my speed. I’ve been overdoing it in my haste to drown my feelings, and I realize that now. Or I realized that when I’d been giving serious consideration to letting a strange man fuck me by the hotel pool.

Like…seriously considering it and about to do it.

I don’t know if this is rock bottom, but it sure feels like it.

I sober up and plop onto the bed, feeling more like myself than I have in days. I’m not going to pretend that I feel normal, but I feel…not like the dregs of a very expensive bottle of wine, and that’s a marked improvement.

And then I hear a loud moan from the hotel room next door.

“Per favore,” a woman yells. No, scratch that. She moans, and that makes me realize my grave mistake in my rush to sober up.

I haven’t masturbated in days, and I didn’t pack a vibrator for this trip.

The woman whines. If she says actual words, I can’t hear them, but I don’t need to. I know exactly what a moan like that means. I imagine whoever she’s with has pushed his dick into her so hard and fast that it took her breath away. I’m jealous. I know what that sound means, but it’s been years since I’ve felt it. It’s been years since Ryan and I have been so overcome with lust that we’ve fucked each other in the middle of the day. Well, it’s been years since I’ve experienced that. Who knows what Ryan and Trisha have been getting up to.

The honeymoon was supposed to help us reset, but I’m here alone.

Alone and horny.

I don’t even think. I crawl to the head of the bed and settle against the pile of pillows. I press myself against the wall I apparently share with some unknown couple fucking each other like rabbits in the middle of the day.

When I’m this close to the wall, I can hear their whines and panting breaths.

I bend my legs at the knees and spread them wide. I shiver as the room’s cool air hits my sex. I’m not even wet, but the kiss of the air conditioning is like a firm slap. I love it. I gently caress my breasts, massaging them, tweaking the nipples, thrilled at my own touch. Thrilled at any touch after the past two days.

The woman moans again, and my hips begin to circle unconsciously. My pussy clenches, unhappily empty. Can a pussy be unhappy? Whatever, mine is. And while I can’t go back in time and make Ryan not be a garbage human being, or even better, go further back to never having dated him at all, I can fill my empty, aching pussy.

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 a moan.

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.

Begging for more? You can buy The Hitman here or find out more about Katrina Jackson.

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