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Madison Avenue Ch. 01

By: ArousingApathy



I don't see the sense in lying. It's 3:49 a.m. as I sit in front of the glow of my computer monitor in my otherwise unlit apartment. I've had a few drinks — gin as I recall — and I've been thinking, the way I always do this time of night (or morning if you feel like being anal about time, and if you do, perhaps you should have joined me for a drink or seven) and this time of year. 

Drinking and thinking. Have any other two rhyming words gone together worse? Don't answer.

Don't worry, though. The drinking never impairs my ability for recollection. It only enhances it, makes the memories more vivid, makes me more capable of ascertaining details — both real and imagined. But when you're thinking back on the past, don't "real" and "imagined" usually become wrapped together in an indecipherable blur? Maybe it's just me. Maybe when you think of your past you're capable of putting everything together in a neat, perfect, linear form. Maybe I'm the only one who has a hard time remembering. Maybe I'm the only one who forgets — or chooses to. Nah. You forget, too. Even simple details gets washed around in the cleansing of time. Even if you don't want to, you forget. Smells. Tastes. Background noises. Right? No one can remember those things all of the time.

Of course, part of that has to be the way we look back on the stories we tell, the way we know what happens next — and after that and after that. The story is always spoiled when the narrator knows what's coming. There's no way to look back at a situation and remove those things that have happened since and allow yourself to just tell the story. Everything between the occasion and the narration contaminates the story, altering it forever, making sure that no telling of a story is ever the same as the one before, pushing each rendition further and further away from actuality until every story, without fail, is fiction to an ever-growing degree. 

All obituaries should come with this caveat: Based on actual events.

Fortunately, though, this isn't an obituary (fortunate because I'm not just yet ready to be done with the joys and pains of life). No, it's just a story, a man remembering as best as he can, accepting his limitations, that he's but human and therefore capable of forgetting. Of course, some things we don't forget, sometimes to our unending benefit — I happen to be fantastic at trivia games — but often to our detriment.

So, then. Let's take a walk. Well, you stay seated and read. I'll walk. 

She did always enjoy going for walks.

*********

-December 17, 2006-

You know what I love most about bars? It's not the booze; after all, it's always been cheaper to get drunk at home. It's not the noise or the terrible songs people play on the jukebox. It's not the bartenders being nice for tips, the waitresses occasionally remembering to stop by your table when they're not busy arguing with their boyfriends on their cellphones or flirting with the hot new busboy. It's not the smoke or the food, not the beer or the whiskey or anything else.

It's the crowd. I love a crowded bar more than I love anything, and that's saying a lot, because I've got a deep passion for baseball games, for cheesy music from the 1980s, for lip gloss, kissing in the rain and eating breakfast at 10 p.m. I love bad action movies and doing crossword puzzles while waiting for my laundry to finish in the dryer. But I don't love anything the way I love the crowd in a bar. I'm a people-watcher, always have been, hope to always be. And there's no place in the world better for watching people than in a crowded bar. I've had people tell me that shopping malls are better. For lack of a more articulate and intelligent sounding argument: Fuck that. Bars are where it's at, where the different people all mix together, everyone looking for something: a release, some relaxation, a one-night stand, to get so drunk they don't remember her, to relive glory days. Something. And watching people when they're looking for something, man, I'm telling you. It doesn't get better than that.

So that's our setting. A bar. It's a Sunday in northeast Ohio, cold as imaginable outside, but that's why we're all inside. Let's call it a sports bar. You know, lots of shit hanging on the walls, jerseys and pictures of guys playing kids games and baseball bats and autographed this and that. If they were clocks and bells, we'd call them knickknacks, but they're memories of serious tough guys, so we call it memorabilia. Whatever. Keep your semantic debates to yourself.

Why is a sports bar crowded on a Sunday? Well, for one thing, it's Ohio. What the hell is there to do once the sun goes down? And also, it's December, which means colleges are out, college kids are back home, and people are at bars. Does that really matter?

Characters. Well, there's me, and goddamn if I didn't just realize I hadn't introduced myself. You sure stuck around a long time for a story with a main character you didn't know. Anyway, I'm Christian. That's my name, not my religious affiliation, otherwise I might have more useful things to do than be sitting at a bar on a Sunday. You need more details? Well, then I was 24, two years removed from my undergraduate studies, six months removed from telling graduate school to fuck off and four years removed from moving out of state. Got all that? I graduated high school, went to college around home for two years, skipped out of town, and as the story picks up, have only recently returned. (And the professor in my freshman "Intro to Fiction Writing" class said I needed work on foreshadowing. Pssh.)

" 'C,' I still don't get it. If they offered you a better job, for more fuckin' money and your own office and everything, why the hell would you come back ... here?"

That's Paul. Calls me "C," has ever since we were kids and he got his teeth knocked out and couldn't say my whole name. He's my cousin, same age, same school, same hometown. He's like a brother to me. He drinks a little and gets philosophical, thinks he knows what everyone should do all the time. Good guy, though, loyal as hell and that's really all that's ever mattered.

I just smiled, shaking my head, looking at Damien and shrugging one of those "he's drunk again" shrugs that friends can share. Damien is my best friend. We met my freshman year in college before I left the state, just one of those things where people click.

"Whatever. I'm glad you're back," Damien said, looking around the bar, shaking his nearly empty glass softly in his hand, wondering whether we'd ever see our waitress again. "Three and a half years of drunk text messages about indiscretions and rare visits home didn't cut it, you know?"

"I know. You've been saying that for six months," I said, smiling at Paul. "What? You're not happy I'm back? You'd rather be drinking with your asshole brother at your apartment?"

Paul shrugged silently, looking down at the table. I knew what he was thinking. Before I left, we'd had a long talk, one of those talks where we'd had a few beers and gotten real deep and meaningful. At the end of it, we both decided that there wasn't anything here for us except bad memories and worse futures. He hated that I left, told me so, in fact. But he hated more that I came back.

"Anyway," I said, my gaze drifting around the bar, looking from one group of people to the next, looking for familiar faces -- not people I knew, just people I'd seen before in here, wondering if they were doing what they'd been doing before, noting habits and momentary lapses in general demeanor.

"Damien, we still on for tomorrow night?"

He wasn't looking at me. His eyes were narrowed — not in the angry, defensive way, but in a curious, pensive manner. He didn't respond, eyes following whatever target they'd locked onto. I looked in the direction of his stare, not seeing anything that immediately grabbed my attention, no tremendously beautiful young woman, no perceived enemy of his.

"Damien!" I snapped my fingers, eyebrows raised inquisitively.

"What? Oh, tomorrow? Yeah." His eyes never came to mine.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Paul rejoined the conversation, apparently done pouting, laughter in his voice.

"Nothing," Damien said, shaking his head slightly, as if trying to figure something out. "I just thought ... nah, never mind."

"Bro, you need another beer." Paul's voice was serious, like a doctor prescribing rest or medication. "Yo! Waitress!"

Paul was waving at anything wearing a uniform, trying to scare up another round. I was looking at Damien, who looked, for lack of a better phrase, like he'd seen a ghost.

"Service around here blows." Paul was whispering to himself, shaking his head. For a guy who wanted to be a clinical therapist, he wasn't real patient (no pun intended).

Damien looked back up at us for the first time since he'd lost himself in whatever it was that he'd lost himself in.

"Yeah, tomorrow night. We're definitely on. I figure we'll meet at your place since it's between mine and Paul's and take my car up to Cleveland, catch the Cavs game, hit a few bars and stay at Marty's. He's meeting us at the game."

Was a long-standing tradition for us to head up to a game before Christmas and party in Cleveland. We'd been doing it since high school when our buddy Marty moved up there. Marty, coincidentally, had gone to the same high school in the Cleveland area that Damien had before he moved down here to go to college, so they knew each other even before Damien and I had started hanging out.

Paul, now completely out of his temporary funk, was rocking back in his chair, laughing as he retold some story from last year or the year before. Even when I was out of state, I still always came back for the trip.

"... And then Damien looked at the waitress and said, 'Darlin' I don't know how ya'll Yankees make a Mah-guh-ree-tuh, but down in Jaww-juh, we usually put some damn' — What the fuck?"

Damien and I, both chuckling at Paul's impression of Damien's fake southern accent, snapped up, looking back and forth between him and each other, confused.

"Paul, that's not how the story ..."

"Shut the fuck up, 'C.' " Paul's teeth were clenched, and his eyes were in the direction that Damien had been staring off to. "That can't be who I think it is."

Damien snapped to attention, his head whirling around as though someone had hit him in the face.

"I fuckin' knew it," he growled as I sat back in my chair, lounging as casually as a confused man could.

Both of them stared, angry, defensive, like guard dogs sensing an intruder.

"Guys, I don't see anyone that looks ..."

And then she caught my eye. Her hair was darker, longer than it had been the last time I saw her. She still had that smile, though. The infectious one, the one that spread through a group of people like lice through a first grade class. Forgive me for attaching such a negative connation to something that's supposed to be thought of as beautiful, but sometimes a man tires even of a sunset, pleasing to the eyes as it may be. I felt my fingers grip the edge of the table as I looked her over. 

Her. 

Taller than average, almost 5 feet, 10 inches of her, with her auburn-streaked chocolate hair done up in a loose ponytail, a few stray strands dancing carelessly around her face, eyes still radiant enough to be noticed across a crowded, noisy bar, slightly upturned button nose wrinkling at a joke, fingers playing with her earring the way she always did when she was bored or disinterested.

They were right. It was her. I shook my head, taking a deep breath and exhaling loudly as I turned back to my friends.

"So what? So she's here. It's not like she doesn't live around here. Who cares?"

I ran my hand through my hair, brushing it out of my face and finishing off the beer in front of me in a long, slow sip, steadying myself, eyes closed, before setting the empty glass down on the table.

"Yeah, bro. Who cares?" Damien was looking at me appraisingly, trying to gauge my reaction, the look in his eyes telling me he was wondering whether we'd spend another long night in his garage next to the wood burning fireplace, draining beers as he listened to me go on and on about the reasons I didn't even think about her anymore.

"It's been what, four years?" Paul asked, sneering at her one last time even though she didn't seem to notice him. "There's no way she'd even recognize you."

"He's right," Damien said with a nod, turning in his chair so that his back was to her, as though he were snubbing her.

"Yeah," was all I could say, tapping my fingers on the table. It was true, really. The last time she saw me my hair was much, much shorter, I didn't have any tattoos, I was clean shaven, and I weighed 50 or so pounds more. I took another long, deep breath, feeling my fingers coming to a rest, done playing their imaginary set on the table piano.

Just then the waitress popped up, three fresh beers in hand.

"Glad you could make time to wait on us ... waitress." Paul had a way of saying things like that with a smile, making you wonder whether he was an exceptional asshole or just really, really weird.

"Sorry guys," the waitress said with a less than concerned tone. "I was on break. I totally forgot you were still an active tab."

"If you forgot about us, how did you remember our order?" Damien looked confused. Paul and I joined him with quizzical stares up at the waitress.

"Oh, I didn't. These are from her," she said, nodding over Damien's shoulder as she set the beers down, spun on her heel and left without further conversation.

Damien seethed. I didn't look up. Paul shook his head, confused.

"It's you guys," I said quietly, reaching down to pick up the beer. "She didn't recognize me. She saw the two of you and realized that you wouldn't be at a bar together if I wasn't the third, slightly familiar yet not exactly recognizable guy."

It was true. Sure, they knew each other through me and always got along when we were all together, but they weren't the kind of friends that would hang out without me around as the buffer.

Damien shrugged and picked up his beer, clinking the neck against my bottle with a look mixed of confusion and concern on his face. I just shook my head and raised my shoulders, a motion that meant I didn't have any clue what has happening either. We both just took a sip, happy to have cold beer replace the room temperature ones that had been hanging around our table. Paul, though, just looked up, mouth open slightly, eyes open wide, hand wrapped around the base of the bottle in front of him.

I've seen too many times the way a man reacts to watching her walk across a room, and I knew from Paul's expression that was exactly what was happening. I couldn't help but smile knowing that he wasn't the only one so affected. I didn't need to look to be able to picture it in my mind, heads turning to follow her as she strode confidently, eyes locked on whatever her destination was. I've read other people try to describe the graceful gait of a goddess, and it doesn't come close to the vision of her walking and moving. That's not criticism; I can't do it justice, either. The way her head is held high, one hand relaxing in the front pocket of a pair of jeans I'm sure look as though they were made to be worn by her, clinging to her mile-long legs, wrapping around her hips and the ass she loved to show off. Her lips would be curled upward slightly, smiling the way only a beautiful woman can, knowing that she can have and do anything with a look, a longing stare. And if she was still the "her" I remembered, she wasn't wearing a bra, knowing that the hypnotic sway of her full, firm breasts would capture the attention of every man, even if each knew he'd never have her. She always walked like a woman who knew she could invade your dreams and fantasies and at the same time, as if the very thought of that had never crossed her mind.

"Damien," she said, her voice slightly scratchy the way it always got when she was around people who were smoking, but still with that soft lilt as though she were about to giggle at a joke only she had heard. "Paul."

Paul swallowed. Damien nodded up at her. I ran a fingertip around the lip of the bottle on the table in front of me, knowing that she would wait forever for me to acknowledge her, that she'd never so much as even say my name first. Both Paul and Damien looked at me for a few moments and then at each other. Damien nodded toward the bar, and Paul scrambled to his feet clumsily. They left without saying a word.

I took a deep breath, my mind telling me that I could smell her perfume despite the illogical nature of such a thought, considering we were surrounded by people, most of them smoking.

"Hello, Madison."

*********

-January 19, 2000-

"C'mon. Hurry up, Chris."

Madison is the only girl I've ever known who was more anxious to get into bed with me than I was with her. Not that I wasn't excited, mind you. But as she tugged on my arm, pulling me toward the front door of her parents' house, knowing they'd be gone the rest of the night, I couldn't help but smile at her eagerness, at the excitement in her voice and her actions. We hadn't planned this or anything, but at dinner a half-hour or so earlier, she had been bouncing in her seat like someone who had a secret she couldn't wait to let out of the bag. When she whispered into my ear that tonight was going to be the night — THE NIGHT — I had dropped my fork and immediately signaled the waiter to bring the check. I had a little bit of experience and wasn't a virgin, but she was, and all of her experience had been with me, a startling fact considering how gorgeous she was, especially compared to me.

"I'm coming, Madison," I said with a chuckle, letting her drag me along like a petulant child.

"Not yet, you're not," she said, looking back at me with a wicked grin. "But I plan to rectify that soon."

The shedding of coats and shoes and scarves and hats and gloves in the foyer is one of those moments I always look back on fondly. It was comical, the sort of real-life scene that makes you think that the ridiculous ways people act in bad romantic comedies might not be all that absurd. 

By the time I had kicked off my boots, she was clinging to me, arms wrapped around my shoulders, lips dancing across my neck and ears, giggling as her feet dangled off the floor when I stood up, arms wrapped around her back and holding her against me up in the air. I might have mentioned that she was taller than average, but 5'10'' isn't real tall next to a young man who stands 6'4'' and was a large as I was. By large, mind you, I'm not suggesting that I was obese. I certainly had the shoulders, chest and height to make the 260 or so pounds of muscle and leftover baby fat an 18-year-old football player has seem intimidating and not disgusting. So she wasn't much of a hindrance to me hanging from my neck and wrapping her legs around my waist as I carried her through the house, one hand gripping her ass firmly through her jeans and one hand in front of me, feeling for walls and couches and anything else that might turn the experience from something special to something involving pain and a hospital.

She was whispering in my ear, her voice husky and eager, telling me how long she'd been wanting this, wanting me to be her first, needing this moment. And when she whispered, "We're going to make love, and then we're going to fuck, and then we're going to make love again," I was grateful to have reached her bedroom door, because there's a good chance I'd have spoiled her fantasy of having her first time be on a bed by taking advantage of the stove or the kitchen table or whatever I reached first.

I pushed the door open with a gravelly growl, flicking the light on and moving quickly into the room, leaning forward and laying her softly down on the bed, leaning down as I did, making sure to be gentle. I kissed her neck up to her chin and then skipped over her mouth, brushing my lips against the tip of her nose. I pushed myself up, hands next to her shoulders, still leaning down over her, my face hovering over hers.


Madison Avenue Ch. 01



"I love you, Madison," I whispered, saying the words for the first time, smiling as I watched her eyes light up.

"You're just saying that because you think you're gonna get some," she said with a giggle, running her hands up my chest and resting them on my shoulders.

"No, I already know I'm going to get some," I laughed. "I'm saying it because it's true."

"I know. This wouldn't be happening if I didn't love you, Chris." 

To this day she's the only one to call me Chris. And to this day, I've still been unable to wash my mind of the way she looked as I stood up, towering over her as she lie on the bed below me. I smiled, running my hands over my freshly shaved head, feeling my fingers shake as they raked over the stubble on my scalp, my body doing its best to betray the calm, collected aura I was trying to project. But then a man is capable of but so much, and any man in my position, looking down at a beautiful young woman whose eyes looked up at him with love and fear, passion and innocence, desire and tentativeness — all of it wrapped into one — he'd have to admit that his hands were shaking, too.

Her hair was splayed around the bed, soft golden streams of brown framing her delicate face, a face highlighted by that smile and an occasional biting of her lower lip. Her fingers traced over her stomach, toying with the buttons of the silky lavender blouse she wore, pulling it out from her jeans as she pressed her knee against mine.

"I'm ready," she whispered almost inaudibly, so quietly that had I not been able to read her lips, I might've wondered what she said.

"Me, too."

I know we're supposed to look back on important moments in our lives and think of how dignified we acted, how we talked so intelligently. But I didn't. Those two words were all that I could force out as I reached down and pulled the T-shirt I was wearing up over my head, grateful to feel the cooler air of the room on my bare chest as my skin had already started to flush, feeling so hot as though it might just melt off. 

I reached down for the buckle on my jeans as she started to inch her way back on the bed, her eyes never leaving mine as she undid each button on her blouse slowly, starting from the bottom and snapping one after another free, revealing inch after inch of her stomach to me. I snapped the buckle free as she shook her head to the left and right, reaching up to motion with one finger for me to join her just as she popped the last button loose, the blouse lying lazily over her chest, stomach exposed, her lack of a bra apparent to my lusting eyes.

"You've already started to unwrap my present," I said with a wink as I climbed onto the bed between her legs, crawling up to draw her face even with mine. "I'll unwrap the rest if you aren't opposed."

I smiled, pressing my lips down against her forehead, feeling her skin warm and smooth against my lips, a shiver running from my neck all the way down my back as I felt her fingernails softly dragging against my bare chest. I pressed my forehead to hers, looking into her eyes, one hand cradling her neck as I felt both of us breathing heavy, the weight of the moment, the heat of one another's skin too much to ignore.

Without a word she ran one hand down my chest and over my stomach, looking into my eyes as she wrestled the belt free and undid the button and zipper of my jeans. I felt the cool air rushing into my pants, my body at once on fire and chilled by the moment. With one hand still cradling her neck, I traced the fingers of the other hand over her cheek and across her lips, feeling them press up against my touch, so soft and full, a gasp struggling out of them as she slid her hand inside of my jeans and gripped the base of my hardening cock. With a soft moan, I pressed my lips down, kissing her softly and tasting her again. I don't care what anyone says; a woman tastes beautiful — her lips, her tongue, the way she sighs into a kiss.

I reached down and pulled her hand up from between us, holding it above her head as I kissed her, deeper and more passionately, reaching down to brush her open blouse away from one breast, feeling her press up against my hand. The tiny nipple sitting atop her soft, warm breast was hard, and she groaned against my lips as she arched her back, pressing it into my waiting palm. And for a moment, I lost myself, kissing the woman I loved, feeling her express her desire for me, everything perfect and calm and patient, the way love ought to be, the way her first time should be — no clumsiness, no awkward moments, just two people awash in a breathless, exquisite moment.

It was Madison who broke the kiss, pulling her lips away from mine and looking up at me. I ran my tongue over my lips, tasting her vanilla lip gloss and her kiss and her love.

"Thank you," she whispered, her fingernails dragging up and down my bare back as I lowered myself, feeling her hard nipples raking against my bare chest. "Thank you for waiting, for showing me you think I'm worth it."

I wanted to say something about waiting lifetimes, about her being worth decades and centuries and measures of time that I didn't even grasp, yet alone the six months we'd been dating. I wanted to tell her how I'd have waited so much longer, that the time was well worth it, that none of this even mattered. I didn't. The words got jumbled in my head. So I just nodded. I nodded and blinked, and tried to focus my eyes on hers as they sparkled up at me, and I hoped ... hoped that the words I couldn't say found themselves a way to her through the look in my eyes, the tenderness in my touch.

I'm not sure how long it was that we stayed like that, me lying atop her, staring into each other's eyes, silence the defining sound in the room, even if the thumping heart in my chest made it impossible to hear. But eventually I remembered where we were, why we were there, what both of us needed, and I brought my lips down, kissing gently along her jaw line to her chin, my lips fluttering across her soft, smooth skin as both hands came up to cradle her neck. I moved my lips lower, exhibiting patience I didn't think I had, putting on the impression of being an experienced lover that I knew I wasn't, as I kissed down her neck to her collarbone. It was strange to me at that moment how calm I had become, how willing I was to experience everything, each inch of her skin, when I'd waited for so long to be in a situation like this, where she'd given me the green light, where I was free to take what I so badly wanted and give what she so clearly desired. And yet there I was: lips dancing ever so softly along her collarbone, down lower, in no hurry to get to any place in particular, realizing that wherever I was at any given time, so long as it was with her, was exactly was where I was supposed to be.

And when I heard her gasp as my lips started to move over the considerable swell of one of her full breasts, it almost shook me out of that patience; the soft moan that came from above me as my lips encircled one impressively hard nipple nearly brought me right out of that calm patience — the need to hear more, to feel more almost too much for a young man of 18 to allow himself the prudence of tapping the brakes, of slowing down. Yet somehow I managed (to say I trudged on seems insincere of the situation, and yet that's what I was doing, forcing myself to fight off my hormonal outbursts to allow her to savor the moment of being fully, completed desired). So I steadied myself with strength I never knew I had, sucking that delicious, perfect nipple between my lips, gently pressing my teeth around it and sighing as I felt her hands running over my bare scalp, her breath growing ragged.

"Such a tease," she whispered, fingernails scratching against my head. "I'm supposed to be the tease."

I released the nipple from between my teeth, smiling up at her.

"You're not very good at it." I chuckled softly. "Just thought I'd give you a tip or ..."

I paused, moving my lips to her other nipple, circling it slowly with the tip of my tongue, dragging my lips back and forth across it as she giggled and whimpered beneath me.

"Or two." 

We both said it at the same time and laughed together, the tension of such a weighty moment lifting almost automatically. I caught my breath, leaning back a little and holding myself up on my palms. She smiled up at me, biting her lower lip as she shrugged the blouse off her shoulders, tossing it aside.

"Don't tease me anymore, Chris." Her eyes smiled at me and her lips were pursed as she ran her tongue along the bottom lip, causing the lip gloss to sparkle even more. "If you don't take my jeans off — and yours — I'm going to have to hold you down and do it my damn self."

She always liked to joke about things like that, about being stronger than me.

"Well, on any other occasion, I might just hold you to that," I said with a smile, leaning back onto my knees and stepping back off the bed. "As things currently stand, let's skip that part and just get down to what you want."

I winked at her, reaching down to pull the zipper of my jeans down completely and let them fall to the floor at my ankles, her eyes momentarily dropping down to the tent in my boxers before looking back up into my eyes.

"Oh? What I want? I guess you don't want anything out of this situation."

I shrugged, hooking my thumbs in the waistband of my boxers. It certainly wouldn't be the first time she saw me completely undressed, but I never got tired of the way her face would react.

"I'm just along for the ride," I said, smirking.

I slipped my boxers down, bending down to step out of them and my jeans, kicking them aside and rising back up, hands at my sides, my cock standing out proudly in front of me. I don't care what any man says; when a woman's eyes lock on to your erection and they widen and a smile crosses her lips, there's nothing in the world that feels better.

"Gonna be a fun ride," she said, looking back up into my eyes and then sitting up, crawling toward me on her hands and knees, her breasts swaying softly beneath her as her eyes locked onto my cock, staring hungrily. "I just need a quick sample before you get to riding, or I get to riding or ..."

She paused, looking up at me.

"I just need to put something in my mouth to keep me from rambling on," she said, reaching out with one hand and wrapping her fingers around the base of my shaft. Her eyes followed suit. "So thick."

I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, facing the ceiling just as I felt her tongue flick out across the head of my cock. If there was one thing I knew, it was this: It took every ounce of willpower to last when she went down on me, and watching her do so made said willpower null and void. I heard her lick her lips, knowing she was tasting me, and I felt her lips open wide over the tip, locking on as she settled herself on the bed, balancing herself with one hand as she leaned forward, the other hand holding my shaft steady as her soft, wet lips glided up and down the first few inches, her tongue in constant motion, dragging back and forth along the underside of my shaft. She was passionate about it, fully intent on making me feel good, completely the opposite of a woman who does such a favor for a man because she feels she has to; she wanted to because she knew how much I enjoyed it, and she did so as though she enjoyed it, moaning and sighing as she took as much of me in her mouth as she could, coating the swollen, throbbing shaft with her saliva.

After a few long, deep breaths, I forced my eyes open, looking down at her, watching her work, so beautiful and passionate, so wonderfully involved in the act. It wasn't a chore; it was an act of love. And I could've gone on forever like that — well, not really — but the whole night had been too much of a buildup, and I really, really didn't want it to end like this.

I smiled, reaching down with one hand and brushing a few loose strands of hair from her forehead, placing my fingers along the side of her head and guiding her back, my cock exiting her mouth not on its own volition, but because of my need. My hand was shaking as I held her head and looked into her eyes.

"Somebody too excited?" Her eyes giggled up at me as she licked her lips.

"Can you blame me? Could anyone?"

She smiled a little wider and rose up on her knees, dragging her fingertips up my hips and my sides, causing goosebumps to rise up across every inch of my naked body.

"No blame, no worries," she whispered, leaning in to kiss my chest as her arms wrapped around me, her breasts pressing against my stomach. "It'll always be like this. Us wanting each other so much, loving each other so much."

Her tone was soft and yet matter-of-fact, like she just knew. And how could I have argued?

"Of course it will, Madison. What other way is there? How could I need anything else when I know what I can have with you?"

I've always found it funny to think of the way we spoke in that moment. I can't explain what she was thinking, but I can explain what I was thinking: I wasn't. I wasn't bullshitting or lying. I wasn't trying to hustle her. I didn't think. I said what I honestly felt.

"Now."

One word. Three letters. Two soft, brown eyes looking up at me. An eternity — that's the amount of time that passed between my heartbeats. Another nod. So much for being articulate.

She reached up behind her head and undid her ponytail, shaking the golden brown locks free and letting them cascade down her slightly freckled shoulders, and then she reached down between us, unsnapping her jeans and leaning back, pulling her jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, her actions trying to tell me that she wasn't as nervous as the look in her eyes. She kicked them free as she rested back on the bed with a deep breath, her head on the pillow as she looked up at me. My eyes made a slow, appreciating journey up and down her body, from her slightly parted lips down to the breasts rising and falling with each slow, unsteady breath, over her stomach, where both hands rested, fingertips brushing back and forth along the skin around her bellybutton, down to her hips and the neatly trimmed patch of brown hair and her thighs, which were slightly lifted up off the bed and pressed softly together all the way down to her knees, one leg stretched out toward me, the other slightly bent, both knees rocking back and forth ever-so-slightly.

I took a deep breath, exhaling loudly and swallowing hard. I'd had sex, but I wasn't sure I'd ever made love, and I knew for damn sure I was about to. It was a lot for an 18-year-old guy. I swallowed again, my mouth feeling dry as I leaned down, placing my knees on the bed at her feet and my hands on the outsides of her thighs. As I crawled forward, I couldn't look any place other than directly into her eyes; if I hadn't been able to feel her legs opening and her knees moving out alongside of me, I'd have never known. Then again, you could've set a bomb off in the living room and I'd have been none the wiser. I reminded myself over and over to breathe, reminders that fell on deaf ears as my face reached hers and she tilted her head upward, kissing me as her arms wrapped around me, my cock pressing against her stomach. It was the world's most perfect kiss taking place at the universe's most perfect time, and her tongue danced with mine in a way that made me lose track of time, place, setting, dialogue, everything but co-star.

When the kiss broke, my eyes stayed closed for a moment before fluttering open, finding her looking up at me, so much love in her eyes that a big, tough guy might've cried — well, if not for what he was about to do. My eyebrows raised, and she smiled, snaking one hand down between us. I lifted my hips slightly, allowing her to grasp my cock and place the tip at her entrance. I could feel the warmth and the wetness coming from between her lips, and it felt as though it would envelope my entire body the way it soaked through me. I stayed still, though, more patient than a man my age should've ever been for anything, especially his first time with a woman who looked like this, who loved him like she did, whom he loved as he did. And when she pulled me forward, slipping me so very slowly inside of her, my heart stopped, my breathing stopped, and all that existed in the world was her eyes on mine, and me inside of her.

And yes, she grimaced. And yes, it hurt. And even more yes, it broke my heart to hurt her in any way. But none of those details matter compared to the way she kept her eyes on mine as I pushed gently inside of her and as her body allowed me to, not fighting too much, as though a greater power knew that this needed to happen. I don't believe in fate and have no use for destiny — and don't even get me started on God, or any reason she might be interested in the coupling of two people — but it happened as it should, and it was complete, and I felt her body relax beneath mine, fully entwined with mine.

"I couldn't have fallen in love with some 5-foot-6 scrawny guy," she whispered with a soft laugh as I stayed still, allowing her to get used to me. "You don't have to be perfectly proportioned, you know."

"But then I wouldn't be so perfect in every way."

She laughed again. And I fell in love again.

"Make love to me, Christian."

I know. It's redundant. But I nodded again. Silently again. And I did exactly as I was asked. My hands came up to her cheeks, thumbs brushing back and forth across her lower lip as I slowly withdrew from within her. The tight, wet walls of her pussy gripped at my cock as I backed out, almost as if they didn't want me to leave, and they opened up for me as I returned, welcoming me back like an old friend, with a warm embrace. And it was the same over and over, her body regretting loss and needing return, and receiving both, as I made love to her in long, uneven strokes, pausing to kiss her, my rhythm certainly no metronome but perfect all the same, perfect because of who she was, of who we became.

She lied. We didn't "make love and then fuck and then make love again." We made love once, on that bed, and then I held her for hours, stroking her cheek and talking with her, joking and laughing, making plans and promises, falling deeper into love.

*********

-December 17, 2006-

"Hello, Madison."

The words came out easier than I would've thought; perhaps it was that they felt they had to.

"Christian." Her voice was almost too familiar.

She moved around from beside me and sat in the chair previously occupied by Damien, looking over at them curiously as they stood at the bar, pretending they weren't watching everything that was happening. My eyes stayed down, focusing on the label of the beer bottle in front of me.

"I suppose I shouldn't have expected them to thank me for buying a round." There wasn't the slightest hint of venom in her voice; it was that same matter-of-fact tone she always used. Sarcasm wasn't her thing. "I take it I'm still Public Enemy No. 1 in your circle."

She paused, her eyes coming over to my face.

"And with you?"

I looked up, shrugging, attempting to use diffidence as a shield.

"Water under the bridge." I knew nothing would piss her off more. She hated when I talked in clichés, because she knew I only did it when I was trying to be difficult.

She didn't react.

"You look good. I never imagined you with facial hair ... or such long hair, for that matter."

I raised an eyebrow, exhaling through my nose as I laughed.

"You know I hate John Lennon."

"Funny."

I took a long sip of the beer, emptying the bottle and setting it down quietly against the table, looking into her eyes.

"Something I can do for you?"

She smiled sweetly — not "almost too sweetly," not "wickedly sweet," just sweetly, just enough to bring up that dimple on her right cheek.




Madison Avenue Ch. 01



"I'm just surprised you haven't gotten up and walked away. Thought that was your thing." Again, the lack of sarcasm, of anything other than sincerity, was almost bothersome.

"Guess I'm feeling generous."

"Oh, is that it? Or maybe you just realize you've been wrong about me all these years."

I swallowed hard, my eyes narrowing. Wrong. About her. The fingers in my right hand clenched tightly, and I took a deep breath.

"Ask my father if I'm wrong."

"Chris, you don't know what you're talking about."

I looked away.

"You don't get to call me 'Chris,' anymore, Madison." I looked back at her. "You gave up that right when you sent my father to prison."

I stood slowly and nodded, an effective goodbye. I looked up at Damien and Paul and motioned toward the door. I didn't wait for them to join me, and I didn't feel the biting cold wind nipping at my face as I walked to my car. It's tough to feel an Ohio winter when your heart's already frozen.



Madison Avenue Ch. 02



Feedback and criticism (preferably constructive) always appreciated.

Chapter 2 picks up the day after Chapter 1 ended, so it'd probably be a good idea to start from the beginning.

-December 18, 2006-

The knocking on the door woke me, but surely my screaming bladder wouldn't have waited much longer to rouse me from the sort of half-drunk, mostly exhausted, terribly needed sleep I was trying to enjoy. I rubbed my eyes as I slipped out from under the covers and swung my legs down on the bed, my throbbing head seemingly keeping rhythm with whoever was so persistently pounding on the door outside my condo. I blindly ran my hand over the bedside table, knocking over a picture frame and tipping an empty glass down off the ledge to the carpeted floor before finally finding my cell phone.

10:26. In the morning. Monday morning. I was on vacation. Shit. The rustling under the covers behind me would've startled me if I hadn't been in that position too many times before — shaking off the cobwebs of a restless sleep on the edge of the bed with Katie still happily dreaming behind me. Katie. Always there. What's that Foo Fighters line? "Gave me something I didn't have but had no use." Yup. Sums that up nicely.

"Fuck. I'm coming," I mumbled under my breath, not yet ready to deal with both Katie and whoever was pounding on the door.

The knocking on the door was pissing me off, enough that I stopped at the bathroom first. Anyone that interested in seeing me would wait another minute. I grabbed a T-shirt off the back of the couch on my way to the front door, hoping that it was important, for the sake of whoever was on the other side of the door.

A quick glance through the peephole sent a shudder down my spine. Cheap, poorly tailored suit. Red hair cropped tightly. Big ears flagging out from each side of a sharply angular face. Eyes hidden by department store sunglasses.

I swung the door open slowly, pulling the T-shirt over my head and leaning against the door frame.

"Dick." I smirked as I said it, watching his eyebrows tighten. "Oh, I'm sorry. I mean Agent McAllister."

I crossed my arms over my chest as my eyes flicked over toward the much shorter, much younger, not especially unattractive young woman standing next to him.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Us? We were just in the neighborhood," McAllister said. "And it's Rick, Christian."

"I'm so forgetful."

"Aren't you going to invite us in? I know you've got such a long history of supporting and cooperating with law enforcement." His tone reeked of arrogance. It always did. Pissed me off.

"No, Rick. I'm not. Or did you bring a warrant?" I pushed away from the door, standing up over both of them and brushing my hair out of my face.

"No warrant. We just heard that Christian Moretti was back in town, and well, needless to say, the agency's curiosity was piqued."

I took a deep breath. I hated trying to stay calm around a man I hated so deeply. But the last thing my father would want is for me to give the prick a reason.

"You know damn well why I came back," I said, keeping my tone level.

"I do, in fact, know why you came back," McAllister said, taking off his sunglasses and slipping them into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "And I was sorry to hear about your mother. I'm sure the services were lovely and ..."

"You'd know. You were there." I cut him off with a raised eyebrow.

He ignored the comment.

"What I don't understand is why you're still here, Christian, why you've taken a job, why you're hanging out at the places you used to hang out at, with the same people. Didn't you have an offer someplace else?"

"Does the FBI offer occupational counseling these days? I didn't know you were a temp service, too. Must be part of some interagency cooperation, right?"

"Just let us in," he said, nodding at his partner and looking at me with a look that said it would be quicker if they just came in and got whatever they wanted.

I shook my head and shrugged, turning my back to them and walking into the living room, leaving the door open for them to follow. I stopped at the coffee table in front of the couch and grabbed a rubber band that I reached up and wrapped around my hair, holding it in the back and out of my face. I sat down heavily on the couch, not bothering to put on pants. If Dick and his partner wanted to talk to me, they'd have to live with me being in boxers and a T-shirt.

"What do you really want, Rick?"

"Cup of coffee?"

"Hate the stuff."

"Glass of water?"

"Bathroom is the first door on the left."

He smirked and gestured toward his partner to sit in one of the two chairs opposite the couch. He paced around the room for a moment, looking things over, before taking a seat in the other chair.

"Christian Moretti, this is Agent Gutierrez."

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." I forced a smile as she nodded back at me. She, unlike her partner, was dressed sharply and clearly cared about how she presented herself. Perhaps it's tough for a younger female in her field — I'd guess she was about 30. Either way, she wasn't hard on the eyes, relatively short but definitely curvy, even if she tried her best to dress conservatively. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she wore barely any makeup, allowing the crisp lines of her face to stand on their own, every angle sharp, from the point of her nose to the high rise of her cheekbones — everything save for a full pair of lips that would have almost seemed out of place, if they hadn't looked so good on her.

"You're Angelo Moretti's son?" It was the first words she had spoken, and there was a hint of fascination in her voice, like she'd studied my dad's case school or something and here she was, sitting in front of his only heir.

"I am." I smiled at her again, nodding. I was proud of my heritage, regardless of what these people thought. I looked back to McAllister, and the generous mood she brought out it me faded. "Are the questions going to get any tougher, Rick?"

"I already asked the question I came here to have answered, Christian. Why are you back in town? Or, more succinctly, why are you still in town? No one raised an eyebrow when you came back to bury your mother, but your prolonged stay — which currently seems indefinite — bothers some of the people I work with." 

He shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and running his fingers up and down the arm of the chair. I didn't respond, so he continued.

"See, I try to tell them that there's no way Christian Moretti came back to take over his father's business ..."

"We sold the restaurant, Dick."

His brow tightened, but again, he ignored my interruption.

"... That there's no way such a smart kid, one who proved himself to have a healthy respect for the law, despite the way he was raised ..."

"Raised? You mean church every Sunday, respect for elders, a value for doing the right thing and education?"

"... By a known criminal and a mother ..."

"McAllister, I swear to God, if you say one thing about my mother ..." My voice trailed off, and I stared him hard in the eyes.

"Look, Mr. Moretti," Gutierrez cut off our growing tension. "We're just stopping by to see what your intentions are. You have ties to certain individuals, and we want to make sure you're not planning on, well, getting involved with them. No one's saying you don't have the right to live wherever you choose."

"But it would be easier on a lot of people if you'd have stayed away," McAllister said, looking out the window. "I've never put a father and son in neighboring cells, but I will if I have to."

"Oh, you'll lie in court and produce false evidence to a jury hungry to say it had something to do with taking down organized crime and looking for any Italian name to put behind bars?"

He smirked again as he brought his eyes from the window back to mine.

"Mr. Moretti?" Gutierrez regained my attention, and I tore my eyes from McAllister to look back to her. "We just want to know that you don't have any motives for being here that would cause concern."

"I missed my friends, my family," I said, reaching down to scratch a phantom itch on the tattoo running up the length of my left forearm. "I'm here because I choose to be. I have a job, a home. I'm a productive, tax-paying, law-abiding member of society. I have no motives."

"How are your friends? Damien? Marty? Your temperamental cousin, Paul?" McAllister reached up to rub his right temple as he mentioned Paul, no doubt remembering the time Paul slugged him outside of a gas station.

I smiled, remembering the look on McAllister's face as he hit the ground.

"Paul's good. I'll tell him you send your regards."

He smirked back, raising an eyebrow. "And Madison, seen her since you returned?"

The mention of Madison by anyone would probably bring up some anger, but coming from him, I felt myself on the edge of boiling over.

"Go fuck yourself," I said through pursed lips, the muscles in my arms and chest tensing as I fought to keep myself seated.

He raised his arms defensively, palms toward me, but the smile still on his face.

"Easy, son. It was an honest question. I always thought very highly of the young woman."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Just then I heard Katie getting up from the bed, her feet padding softly across the carpet to the bedroom door, opening it slowly.

"Oh, is that her? Is that why you were so upset?" McAllister's eyes lit up as he looked down the hallway toward the opening door and shrugging as Katie stepped out. "Oh, guess not." His voice sounded disappointed. I couldn't tell if he was mocking me or not.

I heard Katie cross the hallway and shut the bathroom door behind her.

"She's cute, though," McAllister said, looking back to me.

I shook my head, staring past him toward the window, breathing in and out slowly, hoping that this little "meeting" was about finished.

"What does that say?" Gutierrez spoke up, breaking the momentary silence. 

I looked at her and noticed she was gesturing toward the tattoo I had been scratching a few minutes earlier. The word "antiproiettile" was written in script letters from the crook of my elbow down to my wrist.

"It's Italian," I said, pronouncing the word for her, "for 'bulletproof.' "

"It's a much prettier word in Italian," she said, smiling. It's too bad she was an FBI agent. She seemed to be a genuinely nice person. "But then, I suppose most words are."

"Spanish is like that, too," I said with a slight smile as I heard the water stop in the bathroom.

"Yeah, the Kevlar Don here thinks quite highly of himself," McAllister said, piping in with a snide comment to break any semblance of a civilized conversation. "But that one might actually be true. How many was it? Three?"

"Four, Dick."

"Four what?" Gutierrez asked, looking back and forth between us.

"Young Christian here was shot a couple times a few years back."

I hated that he said it like that, so vaguely, almost willing to let her think that it had something, anything to do with my father, his friends or his business associates.

"By who?" Her voice shook slightly, clearly the thought of a person getting shot wasn't something she'd made her peace with yet despite being someone who carries a gun while working.

"Our young hero here came across a couple guys having their way with a young woman and stepped in to save the damsel in distress."

As McAllister spoke, Katie came walking into the room, wearing one of my dress shirts and I'm not sure what, if anything else. Her appearance clearly drew the attention of McAllister, as he stopped telling the story to give her the once-over with his eyes. She scowled in return and sat down next to me on the couch.

"Aren't you going to introduce us to your lady friend?" McAllister asked, a sly grin creeping across his freckled face.

"She's none of your business, Dick."

Gutierrez looked back and forth between the three of us before speaking back up.

"Wait, why isn't him getting shot in his file?" she asked.

"It's not in my FBI file because it took place in Georgia, not Ohio, and it in no way ties into organized crime — and since I'm a Moretti, the only thing the FBI is interested in is my connection to the mob."

Katie squirmed in her seat next to me. She was clearly uncomfortable in their presence. Gutierrez just looked at me. She wanted to know more.

"So, two guys ..."

"Three."

"With guns?"

"Just two of them."

"Still, three guys, two armed, why are you still alive? Where were you shot?"

I lowered my eyes, running my fingers over the scar on my neck, a few inches below my right ear, and looking at my chest.

"One here, one in the leg, two in the chest."

"At close range?"

"Not close enough, apparently."

"Seriously, Christian, what happened?" It was the first time she hadn't called me "Mr. Moretti."

"I was walking back to my apartment after a class one night, and as I was passing a restaurant with an alley alongside of it, I heard a commotion, a girl's voice begging for help, but quietly, like she was being restrained. I walked down the alley slowly, trying to gauge the situation — how many guys, what kind of weapons."

Katie leaned against me as I told the story, placing her hand on my chest.

"I'd been in fights before, but I was smart enough — or so I thought — to not try to fight an armed guy."

"Funny the things you pick up when your father is a mob big shot."

I didn't acknowledge McAllister's interjection, but Gutierrez shot him a fierce look, and he shrugged and shut his mouth.

"I was just going to yell, hopefully scare 'em off, you know? But then I saw they had her pinned down and were tearing her pants off. I saw one of the guns and just reacted, picked up a rock that was lying on the ground and charged the guy who was standing up, pointing the gun at the girl and laughing. He didn't hear me, and I smashed the rock against the back of his head. As he fell to the ground, his body turned and the gun went off. I just heard the shot and felt a burning in my leg."

I paused, looking down at the outside of my right thigh where the bullet had grazed across the flesh, leaving what looked like a permanent burn mark.

"The guy who was on top of the girl took off at the sound of the gun, scrambling to his feet and running away. The other whirled around, pointing a handgun at me, a .380, I think the police said it was. He pointed it at my head."

"So a guy has you at the end of a gun, and you walk away?" Gutierrez was leaning forward, her eyes wide.

"He hesitated."

I swallowed hard.

"He hesitated, fingers squeezed the grip, not the trigger, and he looked at me, weighing his options. I didn't really have any. I moved just to my left, and the gun went off, and I lunged forward, unsure if I'd been hit, but knowing he was going to die, too. The gun went off twice in the struggle."

"In your chest?" Gutierrez asked.

"Yup, straight through, missed my heart, clipped a lung. Anyway, the people in the restaurant heard the gunfire and called the cops. Couple surgeries, and I was fine. Girl was, too."

Gutierrez exhaled, almost as if the story were too much for her to bear. Katie shared the feeling and shuddered against me.

"What happened to the guy who shot you?" Gutierrez asked, an eyebrow raised curiously.

"Yeah, Christian, finish the story for her," McAllister said.

"Well, like I said, there was a struggle, you know, when his gun went off after I rushed him."

"And?" McAllister asked, smirking.

"And he didn't make it to the hospital, Dick. Unless the morgue was at the hospital."

Katie shivered again, leaning away from me. She knew the story, but that didn't mean she liked it. Gutierrez sat back, looking back and forth between McAllister and I.

"Yup. Mr. 'Bulletproof' there beat the guy to death."

"Self defense." Gutierrez said it, not me.

"Mmhmm." I took a deep breath, looking over at Katie. She was playing with her hair, looking down at the floor.

"Is there anything else, McAllister?" I asked, rising to my feet, looking down back and forth between him and his partner. His eyes were locked on mine, unblinking, smug. Gutierrez had a different look on her face, a slight blush, perhaps some confusion in her eyes.

"That'll be all, Christian," McAllister said, rising to his feet and gesturing toward Gutierrez that they'd be leaving. "Just want to keep you out of trouble, son. Or to let you know that if you're planning on getting in trouble, we'll know."

"Yeah, I've only been in town for six months, Dick, and look, you're already here to tell me that you know I'm in town. You FBI boys are quick."

He shook his head and turned his back to me, walking toward the door. I turned to face Gutierrez, offering my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Agent Gutierrez," I said as she shook my hand, firm and professional, smiling.

"Likewise, Christian. And it's Hannah."

I walked them to the door and heard Katie get up from the couch. Half of me hoped she was leaving. I shut the door behind them and locked it, leaning forward and resting my head against the slightly cold door, eyes closed. I wanted so badly to not be angry, to forget that they were there. After all, I hadn't done anything wrong. They were only there because of my father. But for how long does a son pay for his father's sins? What made it worse was that I didn't necessarily agree with the determination that they were sins, not all of them anyway. My father helped a lot of people, and anyone he'd hurt was a worse blight on society than he was. It wasn't black and white; it never is.

I pushed away from the door and walked slowly back into the living room, settling myself down in the chair that had been previously occupied by McAllister, resting my head back with my eyes closed. I could hear Katie in the kitchen. She was cleaning up. She knew I hated when she did that; maybe that's why she did it. She lived next door with her son and her sister. The sisters owned a beauty salon in town, and despite Katie's older sister urging her to stay away from me, she came around when she was lonely — or when I was lonely. It wasn't meaningful in any way, but it wasn't hurtful, either. We both knew what the other could and couldn't provide. And the night before, when I'd come home from the bar after running into Madison, I'd been rather open to replacing those feelings with anything else.

I heard her turn off the sink and come walking back down the hallway toward the living room. My eyes stayed shut, though, and my head back, even as she stepped in front of me and lowered herself into my lap, her bare thighs straddling the outsides of my legs, the hem of the dress shirt she was wearing — or swimming in is perhaps more accurate — dancing along my bare legs as I felt her settle onto my lap. She was a tiny woman compared to me, maybe 5-2 or so and quite petite, and she felt like next to nothing as she leaned forward, resting her head against my chest.

"Assholes," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Why can't they leave you alone?"

"I don't know."

She ran her hands up and down my chest, resting them on my shoulders.

"You want to go out tonight, get a few drinks?"

"Can't. Going to Cleveland. I told you about that."

"Right. Cavs game. Men and their sports," she laughed softly, tracing her fingers back and forth along my shoulders. My hands stayed rested on the arms of the chair as she shifted, pressing down against the tops of my thighs. I didn't feel any panties separating her ass from my legs, and I was almost certain she'd had some on the night before. "Is that all you guys think about?"

I chuckled softly as I felt myself starting to get excited from her touch, from the warmth of her body against mine.

"Well, that's not all we think about," I said, smiling, tilting my head forward and opening my eyes. I brought my hands off the arms of the chair and gripped her hips, holding her down against my lap.




Madison Avenue Ch. 02



"Mmm," she whimpered. "Well, sports and sex, then."

"Uh huh," I said, looking into her eyes as she tilted her head up toward me. "Wanna play some basketball?"

"Oh, I'd just slam dunk on you, and you'd get mad."

"You're not allowed to use a ladder, Katie."

"Fine," she said with a mock pout. "Sex it is, then."

I dragged my fingers down her hips, pressing against the outsides of her thighs as she ground against me.

"Maybe you'd rather call Agent Gutierrez back for that," she said, teasing me, her eyes twinkling.

"We could make it a group thing. McAllister sure noticed you."

"Eww," she said, wrinkling her nose, reaching up to brush her soft blonde hair out of her face, the natural blonde locks falling right back over her icy blue eyes as she looked into mine. "He's gross ..." she paused, rocking her hips back and forth, the warmth of her pussy passing through my thin boxers as she ground against my stiffening cock. "... And he definitely has a smaller gun."

"Yeah, but he's a redhead," I said with a laugh as I ran my hands back up her thighs, slipping them under the dress shirt and running them around to cup her ass in a firm grasp. I mentioned that she was petite, and she was, everywhere except her ass, that is. Small hips, slender stomach and legs, smallish breasts, thin arms and toned thighs — and an ass that didn't quit. She joked that all her pregnancy weight just went to her ass after she gave birth, but that firm, perfectly rounded bubble butt was one of the sexiest things I'd ever seen.

"That only counts as sexy with chicks, Christian," she said, leaning back and unbuttoning the dress shirt, just letting it hang lazily over her shoulders, covering her breasts while exposing her stomach all the way down to the neatly trimmed patch of soft, golden hair resting just above her pussy. "Guys with red hair are all named Angus and they wear kilts and drink Guinness."

"You like Guinness."

"I like fucking you more."

I smiled as she stepped back onto the floor and dropped to her knees in front of me, a wicked smile spread across her face as she ran her hands up and down my thighs, looking up at me and licking her lips.

"The FBI isn't watching us right now, right?"

"You never know." I shrugged playfully.

"Well, I hope they are, that way I can show Miss Hannah what you like," she giggled, reaching up for the waistband of my boxers and slowly sliding them down. "Aye, Papi! Tu es mucho grande! Me like."

"Is that even Spanish?" I asked, laughing as my boxers hit the floor, my cock stretching upward, freed from the confines of my boxers, standing up proudly in my lap as Katie kissed her way up my thigh, her hands resting a few inches from the base of my shaft.

"I don't know," she giggled. "I can't even order at Taco Bell without messing something up." She smiled again, pushing my legs open and leaning forward, nuzzling her cheek against my swollen cock. "I prefer Italian anyway."

"You've made that quite clear, sweetheart," I said, smiling as I ran the fingers of my right hand through her hair.

"I always love sucking your cock in the morning after we've fucked," she said, whispering. For someone who could be so prissy about things, so squeamish about my story of getting shot, she had a dirty mouth. It was hot. "I love knowing where it was, what that taste is, getting it nice and wet to go back inside of me."

With that, she wrapped her lips around the head, twirling her tongue in a long, slow circle, tasting the pre-cum leaking from the tip and moaning, sending vibrations down the shaft, causing me to groan and grip the arms of the chair. Katie may have been a hell of a hair stylist, but her best work came with a cock in her mouth. Her lips opened wide, and she lifted up, pointing my cock straight into her mouth and lowering herself, taking every inch effortlessly, swallowing my shaft straight down until her nose was pressed against me, burying me completely in her throat. I'd love to say I taught her that trick, but the truth is that she was the first to ever deep throat me, to even try. I'm above average, but not huge, and hell, most wouldn't even try.

Her eyes closed as she began to work her lips up and down my shaft, altering speeds, depth, always moaning, lips humming along my thick, swollen shaft, coating every inch with her saliva. Down her throat, back up to just having the tip between her soft lips, over and over, fingers pressing into my thighs. My hands came up off the chair, running through her hair down her back, slipping the dress shirt down off her back as she let it fall, never removing my cock completely from her mouth, tongue tracing the veins running along the underside of my shaft. She lifted up on her knees, her ass rising up behind her into my view. I tore my eyes away from watching her masterful work on my cock to watch her ass bubbling out from her slender hips and waist, slowly swaying back and forth. It was a mesmerizing sight and feeling, and Agent McAllister and his new partner were drained from my memory as I lost myself in the moment.

I felt her pull off of me with a soft, plopping sound and I brought my eyes back down to her face, watching as she licked and kissed the head of my cock, her eyes on me.

"Goddamn, I taste good the next morning," she whispered, smiling wide. "You taste alright, too."

"You taste good, huh?" I said, leaning forward, and cradling her face in my palms, kissing her hard and deep, our tongues dancing as I tasted myself on her kiss. "I'll be the judge of that."

I reached down with both hands, placing them on her shoulders and lifting her easily up to her feet as I slid off the couch, kneeling behind her.

"Oooh, Agent Gutierrez must've really worked you up, Christian," Katie said with a giggle as I put one hand on her lower back, bending her down as she caught herself with her hands on the couch, spreading her legs open. "Not that I'm complaining."

"You'd better not be," I said, running my hands up the backs of her thighs as I took a moment to appreciate just how incredible she looked like that, bent over at the waist, her ass propped up in the air, perfectly rounded and heart-shaped, an ass that could start or stop a war.

I leaned forward, kissing the back of her thigh as my hands held her hips. She cooed softly, wiggling her hips as I kissed higher, leaning forward more, down onto her elbows, and pressing her knees against the front of the chair, at once balancing herself and exposing the wet, swollen lips of her beautiful pussy to my eyes.

"Stop teasing and taste, you bastard," she said, giggling again, her voice impatient.

I laughed softly, kissing higher and higher, brushing my nose against the glistening wet folds of her pussy. She moaned at the touch, slight as it may have been. I tilted my face upward, the tip of my tongue just beyond my lips and tracing along the outside of her lips, front to back, back to front.

"So good," she whimpered, giggling again. "Your beard tickles, though — in a good way."

She was right; she did taste fantastic, slightly sweeter than any girl I'd been with, a perfect, barely-there aroma rising up from between her legs into my nose as I licked between the lips, lapping hungrily at the flowing juices. Her hips wiggled but I held her still in my hands, smiling at her moans, at her giggles from my tickling beard against her thighs.

"God, Christian," she said with a groan, reaching behind her and grabbing the back of my head with one hand. "Fuck my pussy with your tongue."

She ground back against me, holding my face against her as my tongue slipped inside of her, twirling slowly as she moved back and forth, helping herself. I pulled back slightly and dragged my tongue along the length of her slit, her moans getting higher in pitch, her falsetto escaping her lips as I licked higher, flicking the tip of my tongue against the puckered rosebud of her asshole. Her hand pulled suddenly away from my head and dove underneath her, between her legs, and she rubbed her clit in small, firm, slow circles as I traced my tongue counterclockwise around her asshole.

"Fuck!" she screamed out. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Her body tensed and she squeezed her thighs tight around her hand, her hips quivering in my hands as her whole body shook hard. I leaned back, my hands holding onto her hips as she crumpled weightlessly down onto the chair, her breathing hard and ragged. I ran my fingers up and down over the curve of her ass as she caught her breath.

"You're not very articulate when you cum, Katie," I said, smiling, leaning forward and kissing her back up to her neck.

"Fuck you," she whispered, giggling. "You don't say anything when you cum."

"Actions speak louder than words," I whispered back, running my hands up her thighs, my cock brushing against the cheek of her ass.

"Then speak now with some actions and put that big cock inside of me."

I grunted in response, pushing myself back and looking down at her. She flipped over onto her back in the oversized chair, licking her lips and running her hands over her stomach up to her small breasts. Not nearly a handful, they were still sexy as hell, perky and sensitive, with puffy, slightly upturned nipples. She had her legs closed as she looked up at me, moving back so that her butt was just on the edge of the chair, licking her lips as she played with her nipples. I watched, breathing in deep and reaching down to wrap one hand around the shaft of my cock, stroking it slowly, motioning with the other hand for her to open her legs.

"What's the magic word?" she asked, moaning softly with heavy-lidded eyes as she looked up at me.

"You said to speak with actions."

"What's the magic word?" she repeated, running one hand down over her stomach.

"There are no magic words," I said. "There's you and me, and both of us needing my cock inside of you. There's you opening your legs for me, anxious to be fucked as you requested. And there's my cock, throbbing in my hand when it should be doing that inside of your wonderfully tight pussy."

Her eyes widened at the mention of the word "needing," and a pensive look came across her face. Something changed in her expression, and for a moment, I thought I had said something wrong. But then she smiled wider, opening her legs, throwing one of them over the other arm of the chair.

"And you said there weren't any magic words," she said softly, running her hand down over her stomach, over the tuft of hair resting above her pussy and slipping two fingers down, spreading open the lips.

"I don't always mind being wrong," I said, moving forward on my knees, placing the head of my cock at her entrance. "In fact, there are times when I downright enjoy being wrong."

"Why don't you downright shut your mouth and downright enjoy fucking me?" she said in a whisper, though her voice sounded hungry and no longer playful. She leaned upward and pressed her lips to mine as her hand wrapped around my shaft, pulling me forward, pressing me into her.

Her hand pulled away from between us and wrapped around my neck, pulling my chest down as she rested back against the chair, our lips still connected. Katie moaned into the kiss as I pressed forward, my cock slipping inside of her tight, wet pussy in one long, smooth, steady push. Her hands came down off my neck and rested against my chest as her lips pulled away from mine. Her eyes were open wide, and her breathing seemed forced.

"Just ..." her voice trailed off as she breathed in deep, her body starting to relax beneath mine. Child or no, this petite woman was tight, and it was always an uneasy fit at first. "Okay," she said, hands sliding back up my chest to my neck, fingers locking around my neck.

My hands rested on the chair next to her shoulders as I slowly withdrew my hips, dragging my thick, throbbing cock inch by inch from within her. My eyes focused on her face, her teeth nibbling gently on her lower lip. 

"Fuck me, Christian. ... McAllister, your dad, all of it. Fuck me with all of it."

My eyebrows tightened and my teeth clenched as I pushed back inside of her, more firmly this time, rolling my hips forward to punctuate the stroke. I withdrew again.

"Gutierrez and the mob and the guy who shot you and everything. Get it out." Her voice wavered, and her body shuddered. "Fuck me hard. Pound my tight fucking pussy with that big cock, Christian. Do it!"

I fucked her like I believed her, like it would help, like when we were done I'd forget it all and just go on with my life, as though fucking this pretty blonde would allow me to set down years of pain and baggage and walk away from it. I pumped my cock in and out of her, pushing the chair a few inches across the floor with the firmer, more solid strokes, keeping my eyes open and locked on hers, letting her moans and growls and groans and whimpers wash over me, urging me on more, harder, faster.

And when that wasn't enough, I wrapped my arms around her back and lifted her up off the chair, holding her up in the air, lifting and dropping her up and down the length of my cock, my hands locked firmly onto her delicious ass, her legs wrapped around my waist, her hands wrapped around my neck, her head thrown back, long, blonde hair bouncing as she screamed my name and urged me on ... faster, deeper, she wanted more, harder. I pinned her against a wall in the living room, fucking her vertically, pumping into her over and over.

"Fuck me!" she kept screaming, as though she had as much anger and aggression to get out as I did, and she gave it back as hard as she got it, digging her fingernails into my back, her teeth into my shoulder, and I didn't feel the pain, none of it, not the physical, not the emotional.

And for a half hour, she was right, she was perfect, what I needed. And I forgot it all. When it was finally too much — after we'd moved from the wall to the back of the couch, where I had her bent at the waist once again, one hand holding her hip, the other wrapped up in her hair, slamming my hips against her incredible ass each time I drove my cock inside of her as she screamed and moaned and I just grunted through clenched teeth — I exploded inside of her, an exorcism of an orgasm I half expected to kill me.

I pulled out, falling back against the wall behind the couch, my body covered in sweat, panting, unable to think, let alone speak. She stayed hunched over the couch, her body shivering, covered in sweat as well, my cum leaking out of her down her thigh. I stayed against the wall, hands behind my head, watching her for what seemed like an eternity. I can't believe she survived that. Hell, I couldn't even believe I survived that. Sure, we'd had sex plenty of times before that, and not all of them exactly qualified as "making love." But it'd never been like that. Katie might've been petite, but I'd never confuse her for fragile ever again. That was a tough young woman. 

She stood slowly and turned, ignoring the cum leaking from within her and walked toward me slowly. Her eyes never blinked, and there was a serene look on her face. She stood up on her toes and softly ran her fingers over my cheek, scratching lovingly at my beard and pressing her lips to mine. It wasn't a deep, passionate kiss, and our lips never parted, but it was one of the most memorable kisses of my life.

"Thank you," she whispered into my ear, tracing both hands up and down my arms. "And you're welcome." She kissed me again, softly brushing her lips and then pulling away, walking to the bathroom and getting in the shower. 

I collapsed down onto the floor and stayed there, my mind blank, my body exhausted. It was the last time we'd be together like that. I'd offer up some analysis of the situation, but I got a C in Psychology when I was a freshman in college. Draw your own conclusions.

Four hours later — after I'd spent 45 minutes in the shower, washing away the blood and sweat of whatever had just taken place between Katie and I — I was in the back seat of Damien's SUV, listening to him and Paul talk and laugh as we took the trip up to Cleveland. I didn't participate much in the banter, and they both knew better than to push me, though both probably assumed that I was still stewing over my encounter with Madison the previous night. I didn't mention McAllister or Katie. I knew talking about the former would only piss Paul off, and I wanted him to enjoy the night. And they both knew about the latter, but how do you explain something you haven't wrapped your own head around?

Then again, they would be at least a little bit right if they thought my mind was occupied with Madison; it wasn't the previous night's run-in that I was mulling over, though. Seeing McAllister, having him bring up Madison, well, all I could think about was the first time he came into my life — and hers, some part of me likes to hope.

*********

-August 13, 2000-

Country line dancing. Me. If you asked me for a list of activities I'd likely to be found participating in, I'm pretty sure I'd get to about 14,305 or so before I got to country line dancing. But there I was — completely decked out in a flannel shirt, an obnoxiously big Stetson and the biggest pair of cowboy boots I ever saw in my life — and there she was. Madison. Take away the rhinestones on her top, and she looked sexy as hell, a pair of jeans that were so tight they nearly caused a riot on our way into the bar and her golden brown hair sneaking out from underneath a cowboy hat that tried — and failed miserably — to hide the excitement in her eyes.

"The hell are we doing this for?" I had asked as we pulled into the gravel parking lot at the Rusty Railroad Junction a few miles outside of town. "You don't even like country music."

"No, I don't," she said, smiling at me, the dimple on her right cheek out in full force that night. "But I think Tim McGraw is sexy."

"Well, good," I said, laughing, throwing my car into park. "Then let's leave, we'll go find him and we'll trade. You get him, and Faith and I can share some quality time together."

"You don't like blondes," she said with a giggle, practically bouncing out of the car in her giddiness.

"A man can make an exception from time to time," I said, stepping out of the car.

I took a deep breath and watched as tens of wannabe cowboys and cowgirls walked into the door, the sound of some awful steel guitar making its way out of the saloon-style swinging front door.

"C'mon, Chris. It's my birthday. I only turn 19 once." She wasn't pouting or begging. She moved around the car to slip one arm into mine, looking up at me. "We went to an Indians game for your birthday last month. Besides, do you think there's any way this won't be fun?"

"I can think of a few ways in which it'll be the opposite of fun."

"Even with me here? Besides, cowpoke, there's a pretty good shot of you getting a goodnight rodeo for coming here with me."

"Sold."

"We do the same things all the time, hang out at the same places, listen to the same music and surround ourselves with the same people," she said as we started walking toward the door. "School starts in like two weeks. I just want to have one night where I don't have to be reminded that Mr. Moretti's son is my date."

"You say Mr. Moretti like it's a bad thing." I bristled at the comment.

"Okay, we'll make a deal," she said as we stopped just in front of the door, a door I was going to have to duck under to fit through. "If you're not having fun in the first 15 minutes, we'll leave, and we'll go listen to Sinatra and drink red wine."

"I know that wasn't a dig at Frank."

"Chris."

"Fine, deal. You get 15 minutes to convince me to stay," I said, knowing that I'd stay anyway. Fun or not, I was there with her, the only place I needed to be.

We were there for three hours.

And, as she was known to be, she was right. We had a blast. We learned — sort of — to do all kinds of dances with names I can't remember and steps I'm pretty sure I was doing wrong the whole time. I may have been agile for a big young man, but me in cowboy boots — or any kind of shoes, for that matter — trying to dance? Well, let's just say I considered it a success that the night didn't end in a trip to the hospital. 




Madison Avenue Ch. 02



Madison, on the other hand, was absolutely radiant. She was glowing from start to finish, laughing and smiling and melting my cynical heart in a way that only she could. I may have been apprehensive, but I wouldn't have traded watching her that night for anything, dancing and shaking and gliding, so graceful and angelic, as though she'd been doing it every day for her whole life. She was just that way; put her in any situation and it's exactly where she's supposed to be. Madison was the featured attraction of the night, and I was just another witness to the parade. The only difference between me and the rest of the guys she enchanted that night with her smile and her body and the look in her eyes was that I brought her, and I took her home.

Of course, it isn't going there that I look back on coldly, and it sure isn't the time we spent in the bar. It's what awaited us in the parking lot.

We laughed our way through the big, swinging doors on our way outside, me holding the cowboy hat that had become too damn hot to wear anymore, Madison draped against my arm, beaming from ear to ear, thanking me over and over, promising she'd be thanking me in her own special way very soon. 

I stopped at the top step, frozen. There was an unmarked Crown Victoria parked next to my car and two very out-of-place guys leaning against it, arms crossed. My eyes narrowed. You didn't have to be Angelo Moretti's kid to know a cop when you saw one.

"Chris, what is it?" Madison asked as we stood there and I glared at the two feds. "Who are they?"

"It's the Anti Italian-American Coalition," I said, loud enough for them to hear me as I quickly moved down the steps, pulling away from Madison as I stalked up to the men leaning on the car.

"I didn't know the FBI was interested in the Boot Scootin' Boogie," I said, stopping a few feet short of them.

"Christian Moretti?" one of them asked. He was a smarmy looking prick with red hair and cheap sunglasses. His partner moved around behind me.

"Like you don't know who I am," I snapped, turning my head around as his partner approached Madison. "Dude, back the fuck off."

"Don't mind him," the ginger-headed fed said, drawing my attention back to him. "I'm Agent Richard McAllister. That's Agent Kelly James."

"He's got two first names," I said, "and if he wants to leave here with two working arms, he won't touch her."

"Agent James," McAllister said, motioning with his hand for his partner to come back to the car before turning back to me. "You know why we're here?"

"I'm Italian, and my father runs an Italian restaurant. And you hate garlic. Are you a vampire?"

"Hey, smartass, just ... don't," he said as he took his sunglasses off.

James came up around the side of me and joined his partner against the car. Madison came up to my side, though she stayed just behind my arm.

"Your father runs more than just a restaurant, and you know that, Chris," James said.

"It's Christian," I said, "and I know. He's also the president of the local Sons of Italy lodge and the manager of a youth football team. Wait, is the FBI investigating point shaving in youth football games?"

"You got some attitude, you little punk," James said, clearly ignoring the fact that he was giving up about 6 inches and 100 or so pounds.

"Look, Christian," McAllister said, "the investigation into your father's business dealings is growing."

"What does this have to do with me? Am I under investigation? Am I a target, a suspect? 'Cause I know for damn sure I ain't a witness."

"We just wanted to check in with you," McAllister said, "just stop by and see if there was anything you wanted to talk about."

"Is that what this is? Feels more like harassment, following me, bothering me when I'm out with my girlfriend for her birthday."

"Oh, my apologies," McAllister said. "I didn't realize it was a special occasion." He leaned his head to the side, looking past me to Madison. "Happy Birthday, Miss Harper."

Madison didn't respond.

"Don't talk to her," I said. "And don't talk to me. In fact, the next time I see you, you'd better have a warrant to compel my cooperation or more guys." I looked at James. "Bigger guys might help, too."

I turned my body, wrapping my arm around Madison and turning my back to the feds.

"Here," McAllister said, trying to hand me his card. I brushed his hand away.

I led Madison to the passenger side of the car, opened the door for her and let her in, shutting the door behind her, and moving around to the driver's side. I didn't look back at the agents until I was pulling out of the parking lot, one last look in the rearview mirror.

It was a 20-minute drive from the bar to my parents' house. It was a quiet 20 minutes. Madison sat silently, letting me stew, but holding tightly onto my hand. And having her there — and having her let me not have to talk about what had just happened — was enough to let the anger boil itself away in the time the drive took. I was still young, still unscarred, still able to brush things off without too much analysis. It was dark by the time we pulled in the driveway, and all the lights in the house were off.

"Where is everyone?" Madison asked as I held the door open for her, letting her out of the car.

"Mom's visiting her sister in Virginia," I said, holding her hand as we moved through the garage and into the house. "Dad said not to wait up, so who knows?"

She smiled at me — not quite enough to bring up the dimple, though — as we walked into the kitchen. I unbuttoned the flannel shirt and tossed it on the counter as she hopped up on a stool at the island. I reached into the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water, opening it and taking a long sip before handing the bottle to her. I stood on the opposite side of the island from her, watching her take a drink, a few drops dribbling down her chin and over her neck.

"I'm sorry, Madison."

"Chris, you didn't do anything." She set the bottle next to her and took off her cowboy hat, shaking her hair free and running her hands through it, settling her messy hair down enough that she was satisfied.

"You said you wanted one night where you didn't have to be reminded that you were Mr. Moretti's son's girlfriend." I paused, hanging my head and shaking it before looking back up into her warm, green eyes. "I can't think of a way I could've failed more in that regard than what just happened."

"Chris, YOU didn't do anything. That wasn't you. Hell, that wasn't even your father's fault."

I was closer to Madison than I'd ever been to anyone, talked with her about things I didn't talk about with anyone — fears, fantasies, hopes, concerns — but we never really talked about my father, what he did, who he was, who he was thought to be. Rumors, conjecture, stories, they all passed around town. Madison never really bothered to ask me about him, and I didn't talk about him. "Chris, he treats me just fine, and I've never seen him do anything wrong," she'd said once after I'd gotten into an argument with a guy in a restaurant over my father.

And that was it. Sure, there were little comments — like "your father's fault" or being "Mr. Moretti's son" — but even those had more to do with what other people said about my father than what I said or what she thought.

"Besides," she said, snapping me back to attention, her fingers unsnapping the top couple of buttons of her top as my eyes watched closely (hey, I was 19 years old; breasts — or even the hint of, promise of or tease of breasts — can snap a guy that age out of any funk). "You were something else tonight."

"I'm a helluva dancer, what can I say?" I said with a laugh.

"No, not that," she said, chuckling. "You were awful. After, in the parking lot, with those two guys."

I shrugged, standing up and reaching out to take the bottle of water, finishing it off.

"What about it?"

"You were so ... I don't know ... fierce." Her lips curled up in a smile. "The little one, I thought he was going to shit himself."

"I wasn't anything. I was just, I guess, reacting. I didn't think about it. I don't lie in bed at night thinking about how to be a tough guy."

"I know," she said, rising up off the stool and walking around the island. "That's what made it so hot, that you were so protective, so strong. They had guns."

"I've seen guns before, Madison. Cops with guns aren't scary. Cops with papers in their hands, that's scary."

"Look at you, Mr. Moretti," she said, cocking her head to the side as she moved around the island, approaching me slowly, undoing two more buttons so that her cleavage was fully on display. "Watch yourself, Christian. You've got more of your old man in you than you might think."

"I'm not my father, Madison," I said, tearing my eyes away from her partially hidden breasts to look up into her face. "But so help me if someone like those two threatens someone I care about."

"Like I said, Mr. Moretti," she whispered, walking right up to me and then brushing past me, "fierce, kind of like an animal."

"Oh, you want me to show you how much of an animal I can be?" I asked, turning as she walked past me, watching as she stopped in the doorway and turned to face me.

"But Mr. Moretti, I'm certain that this isn't what my boyfriend had in mind when he said he wanted me to stop by your house to pay you that money he owes you," she said, voice low and husky, eyes wide. "I brought my checkbook."

I shook my head and raised an eyebrow, confused. She winked.

"I'm sure I can just write a check and be able to cover his debt, Mr. Moretti," she said, playing idly with the unsnapped buttons of her blouse with one hand as the other ran down her side. "He didn't say anything about what you're suggesting."

I'm slow. I get that. But I finally got onto her little game.

"I'm sorry, Miss Harper, really," I said, walking toward her slowly, arms crossed over my chest, still wearing the cowboy boots, my jeans, and the undershirt I had on under the flannel. "Your boyfriend, nice guy though he may be, owes me far too much money for either of you to pay. We agreed on ... other arrangements."

"But Mr. Moretti, I don't know. I mean, I've never done anything like this."

"Of course you haven't," I said stopping a foot from her, looking down into her eyes, trying hard to not smile and failing mostly. "That's why I agreed to his offer."

"His offer? He suggested this, that I come over and ..." She let her voice trail off, playing her role much better than I was mine. Her tone suggested shock and indignation and still some confusion as to what would come next.

"Yes, Madison. His offer. In order to save his own ass, your boyfriend offered me, well, yours." This time when I smiled, it fit the moment, and I made sure to act the part as I leaned against the frame of the doorway, inches from her as she took a deep breath.

"That son of a bitch," she spat out, winking at me. "Well, fuck him. Ex-boyfriend is more like it. What a pussy he is." She winked at me.

I turned and walked back toward the kitchen, shrugging my shoulders.

"Well, that's your decision," I said, turning back to face her as I leaned against the sink. "I'm not going to force myself on you. You refuse, you refuse. He pays the price."

"What's the price?" she asked, moving back into the room.

"You know the price. But what do you care? Ex-boyfriend, right?"

"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I want to see him ... you know."

I shrugged again, wiping my hands.

"There aren't any other options?" she asked, stepping timidly closer, about 10 feet from me. She never wanted to be an actress, but hell, she was good.

"I'm sorry, Madison. I'm a businessman."

"Businessman!" she spat out, angry.

"Yes, businessman," I said, fighting off the urge to laugh and somehow staying serious. "And once the terms of a deal have been reached, I don't renegotiate. That's not how I do business."

"You're an animal."

"And you date men with gambling problems. I've never wagered something I wasn't willing to lose. Perhaps your boyfriend should be so enlightened."

Her head sunk, eyes dropping to the floor, hands on her hips, a defeated pose. But she looked so damn sexy. And she was playing the role to perfection.

"So what's my side? What do I owe to get him off the hook?" she asked without looking up.

"You owe what you owe. You pay with your body. And it is such a lovely body, Madison. I don't believe I've ever had the opportunity to be with a woman as tall as you, with such a lovely, curvy figure. I don't particularly like some parts of my business, but this, I think I'll appreciate fully."

She actually blushed, cheeks flushing as she looked up at me.

"Okay, Mr. Moretti. You promise you won't force me to do anything I just can't do?"

"Like I said, Miss Harper, I intend to appreciate you."

She nodded, looking at me timidly, silently.

"I'll take a scotch," I said, nodding toward the bar. "Fix yourself anything you'd like. I'll be waiting for you in the den."

I moved past her, walking out of the kitchen and down a hallway to the den, my hands shaking. I'd certainly never fantasized about playing a role like this, the mobster, in control of a situation. It didn't really suit me, but it excited the hell out of me. I had to take a few deep breaths before I could sit down in the large, leather chair in the corner of the den, the lights dim as I waited for her. The wait was hell; it took forever. Just like Madison, taking the right amount of time, building the tension. We done some experimenting since that January night of our first time, tried all sorts of things, had sex whenever we could find the time. But this was new, yet I was a willing participant. This was her birthday after all, and if I couldn't give her a night where she wasn't reminded of whose son I was, then I was sure as hell going to give her this, whatever this was.

I sat silently in the chair, calming myself, forcing myself to remain patient and stay in character. She showed up in the doorway about 10 minutes later, holding two glasses of scotch. I nodded at her presence, beckoning her toward me with one hand. She'd removed her boots, and she moved across the den silently, slowly, walking with measured, yet uneasy steps, stopping front of me to hand me the glass.

"I didn't picture you as a scotch drinker, Madison," I said, reaching up to take the glass from her hand and clinking mine against the glass in her other hand.

"I didn't picture me as doing this, Mr. Moretti," she said, downing the scotch in one gulp, coughing as it burned its way down her throat. "God, that burns."

"Yes, it does," I said, taking just a sip of mine, relaxing back against the chair. "I meant what I said earlier, about how incredibly sexy I think you are."

"Thank you, sir," she whispered with a blush, tucking her hair behind one ear as her eyes danced nervously back and forth between me and the floor. "How would you like to, um, start?"

"These boots are rather uncomfortable," I said, looking down with a frown.

She nodded, dropping to her knees in front of me, gently removing the boot from my right foot and then the left. She set them neatly next to the chair and stood back up.

"Much better," I said, taking another sip, and setting the glass down on the table to the left of the chair.

"You have such a wonderful body, Madison. But you know that, don't you?"

"I guess, I mean, it's okay."

I smiled. False humility was definitely part of the role.

"Of course you know you do," I said, making a twirling motion with my fingers. "Turn for me, let me see it all."

She did as I requested, hands at her sides, doing a slow spin with her head down and turning back to face me.

"What's your favorite part of your body, Madison?"

"My b-b-butt, Mr. Moretti." She blushed brightly, bringing her hands around behind her back.

"Mmm, it is a lovely backside, dear," I said, taking a deep breath and smiling. "Those jeans are pretty tight. Aren't they uncomfortable?"

"No, sir, I love the way they feel," she said, looking into my eyes.

"You mean you love the way they make you feel, don't you, Madison? You love the attention they draw."

"I don't care about the attention, Mr. Moretti. But I do like feeling ... sexy."

"You are certainly that, Madison."

"Would you like me to take them off?" she asked, hands still behind her back as she rocked back and forth slightly, nervously.

"I would like that very much," I said, resting my arms on the huge arms of the chair. "But do it slowly."

She nodded and brought her hands around to the front, fumbling with the button before snapping it free and slowly dragging the zipper down, her eyes again moving back and forth between the floor and my face. I made the turning motion again with my fingers and she nodded, turning her back to me. Her ass filled her jeans so nicely that it was all I could do to not break from the role and rush to her.

"Your boyfriend has to be a real loser, Madison," I said, chuckling. "There's no debt, no amount of money that would let me allow another man to see you like this, to touch you. Over my dead body — or somebody's."

"I'm starting to think you're right, Mr. Moretti. But a girl has to do what she's gotta do."

And at that moment, what Madison had to was start to shimmy her hips, pushing her jeans down slowly over the curve of her ass, revealing as she went a tiny black thong, the strings wrapping around her hips and forming a triangle, down to a thin black strap that separated and disappeared between the lovely cheeks of her ass as it went down. She bent at the waist, forcing the tight denim down off of her skin, propping up her ass for my lusting, hungry eyes, her hips softly swaying as she pushed her jeans all the way down to her ankles before standing up and stepping out of them.

"Mmm, each layer removed reveals something more wonderful underneath, Miss Harper."

"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice barely a whisper as she turned back to face me, standing before me in just her thong and a mostly unbuttoned blouse.

I lifted one hand and motioned her toward me with one finger. She complied, stepping forward nervously, hands at her sides. It was almost impossible for me to tell that she was acting; every mannerism seemed so natural. She stopped in front of me, looking down expectantly, her eyes now moving back and forth from my face to my lap.

"The blouse, please, dear."

She nodded again, reaching up to unfasten the last few remaining buttons and shrugging her shoulders back, letting the light blouse fall softly to the floor, her hands coming around to nervously stroke her stomach, an action that caused her arms to squeeze her full breasts tightly together.

"Madison."

"Yes?"

"Your nipples are hard, dear."

"Yes."

"Are you excited by this?"

"No." She shook her head firmly, breaking eye contact.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't know."

"Okay, I won't make you admit that you are," I said, not sure whether I was being me or playing the role. "Will you help me out of my jeans?"

"Yes, Mr. Moretti," she said, looking down to my lap and bending down as I leaned back. 

Her breasts swayed softly as she bent over, smoothly unsnapping my jeans and unzipping them. I stood up slowly and she leaned back upright, looking me in the eyes, batting her eyelashes, blushing and biting her lower lip nervously. I nodded downward and she bent again, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of my jeans and my boxers, pulling them down slowly, simultaneously, dropping to her knees as she pulled them down lower. My cock, which had been achingly hard since I realized the game she was playing, sprung free, almost catching her cheek as she leaned back, covering her mouth with one hand, trying to stifle a gasp at the surprise.

"You've seen one of those before, right Madison? I mean, you have a boyfriend."




Madison Avenue Ch. 02



"Yes, sir. But not ... I mean ..." Her voice trailed off again as she stared wide-eyed at my cock as it bobbed slightly in the cool air of the room. "Not one like that."

"Am I deformed or something?" I asked with a chuckle.

"Not deformed, no. Just ... big ... and ... thick."

I laughed softly.

"Well, it's quite the debt your boyfriend owes."

"You're not fucking kidding," she blurted out, looking up at me, blushing an even brighter shade of red.

I smiled, stepping out of my jeans and boxers, kicking them to the side, and pulling my shirt up over my head, tossing it to the floor. She reached out tentatively, as though she were scared of my cock, and wrapped her fingers around the base, lifting it, looking it over, examining it.

"It doesn't bite, Madison."

She nodded and looked up at me, gulping, her eyes wide, scared, nervous.

"I'm not sure I can," she whispered, swallowing hard and looking back at my cock.

"Like I said, I won't force you."

She giggled. "No, I mean, I don't think I CAN. It's so big."

She was laying it on pretty thick. Like I said, I'm bigger than average, but I'm not exactly a tripod.

"Just do what you can, dear."

She nodded again and swallowed, licking her lips, taking a few deep breaths, generally acting like she was about to jump out of a plane for the first time. She moved her head forward slowly, taking a few unsteady, nervous licks at the head, tasting it, kissing it. It was almost too much, all of it, the roleplaying, the feeling of her warm, smooth tongue flicking over my cock, the sight of her kneeling before me. Somehow, I held on, closing my eyes and thinking of anything else.

I felt her lips stretch wide as she took the head into her mouth slowly, testing the waters with a toe, her tongue slipping rapidly back and forth across the underside of my shaft, teasing me as she started to get into it, taking a few inches into her mouth, sucking softly before stopping and pulling back, licking her lips and looking up at me.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," she said. 

She didn't wait for a response, simply resuming her sucking, a few inches in and out of her mouth, lips gliding along the engorged, throbbing shaft, eyes closed. I watched closely, and when she opened her eyes and winked at me, my whole body shuddered. I reached down and pulled her away. As I've said, watching her is too much, it's too sexy, too incredibly sensual to withstand. She licked her lips again.

"More than just a blowjob is owed, I guess," she said, giggling, letting her character feel more comfortable.

I nodded. "As I said, Madison, it's a considerable sum of money."

She shrugged. "What then?"

"You asked me to promise to not do anything you didn't want to do, so I suppose I need to know what those things are."

"Can I stand?" she asked. I nodded and she rose to her feet, raking her breasts and hard nipples along my body as I helped her up. "Well, I was going to say, you know, no anal." 

She paused, looking up into my eyes. Like I said, we'd experimented, but the word "anal" wasn't involved in our experimenting.

"But then I was thinking," she continued, "that like you said, my boyfriend offered my ass to save his ass."

"I wasn't talking specifically about your ass, Madison. I was being more general." Yes, I was offering her a way out. Roles or no roles, this was a young woman I loved. She needn't give me anything more than she was willing.

"I know that, Mr. Moretti," she said. "But fair is fair. And like I said, I happen to think I've got a great ass. My boyfriend never appreciated it properly. Someone ought to."

"And besides," I said, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her left ear, "this gives you a way to get back at him for the situation he put you in."

"Yes, sir, it certainly does that."

"Very well, then. I see no reason why we can't both get something out of this. Have you ever?" She shook her head, lowering her eyes again. "I'll be gentle then."

"Not too gentle," she said. "I want to remember this, remember why I left him."

"As you wish, Madison."

She stepped past me, her back to me as she faced the chair, reaching out for the glass of scotch I'd long since abandoned, downing it quickly. 

"Still burns," she said with a shudder, setting the glass down and kneeling slowly in front of the big, leather chair, leaning forward and putting her arms on the seat as she rested on her knees. "You can fuck my ass now, Mr. Moretti."

I shook my head, turning to face her as she knelt submissively in front of me, looking back over her shoulder at me and nodding, her gaze soft as she looked into my eyes. I smiled, taking a step forward, reaching down to pull the thong down.

"Just pull it to the side, Mr. Moretti."

I nodded, kneeling down behind her and pulling the thin strip out from between the cheeks of her ass, pulling it to the side, and looking at her puckered asshole for the first time as something sexy, something desirable, and it was indeed that. I leaned forward and licked nervously, much as she had just done with my cock. Her body shivered.

"Oooh, you're nasty, Mr. Moretti. Lick my ass, get it nice and wet for your big cock to slide in." She giggled softly, wiggling her hips.

I did just that, lapping at the tight, little hole, getting it nice and wet with my spit. I'd never done that before, but I figured the wetter, the better. After I got it nice and wet, I licked my finger and pressed it against the entrance, wiggling the tip as her body fought against the intrusion before my finger popped in. It's a strange feeling, like a pussy, but tighter, warmer even, and without the natural lubrication. She moaned as my finger pushed in.

"I don't know how you're going to fit your big cock in, Mr. Moretti. Your finger feels so big in my little hole."

"We'll find a way, Madison," I said, twisting my finger and then adding another, an action greeted by another shiver, another throaty moan.

"Yes, sir. Yes we will."

I worked my fingers in and out, fascinated by the way it looked, by the way it felt. It was a completely foreign experience to me, as the whole roleplaying situation had been. I could feel the muscles starting to relax, her whole body starting to relax.

"I'm ready if you are, Mr. Moretti," Madison said, her voice low and steady. Scotch is a helluva relaxant, I guess.

"I'm certainly ready, Madison."

I rose up to my feet and crouched down, letting some spit drip down out of my mouth onto my cock. I rubbed it into the tip and then added a little more spit to her asshole, rubbing it in with the tip of my cock, before resting one hand on her lower back and holding on to the base of my shaft with the other.

"I'll go slow at first," I whispered, as much Christian as "Mr. Moretti."

Slowly and tenderly, I pressed the head against the entrance and really didn't believe there was any way it would fit. I could barely get the head in without pushing hard. God, I thought, this might be taking this game a little too far.

"Don't stop," she whispered as her body wriggled beneath me. "Don't you dare stop."

I pushed forward, pushing the head of my cock inside of her, along with the next inch or two of my shaft.

"Ohhhhhhhh, fuck!" she spat out. "So big, so fucking full. More, more."

Roles or not, at this point, Madison was in the driver's seat. I pushed forward, about half of my cock penetrating her tight ass, the muscles clenching tightly around my shaft.

"Give it to me, Mr. Moretti! Give me all of it."

I grunted, pushing forward again, inching my thick shaft into an entrance that clearly didn't share Madison's determination for me being there. But in the end, she won out over her body, and I rested there, my cock buried completely in her ass, my head swimming. I'd never felt anything remotely like that, though to this day I'm convinced that the idea was more satisfying, that her giving herself to me completely in such a way was more meaningful than the actual act was pleasurable.

Goosebumps rose up all over her bare back, and she lifted her head up, moaning.

"Jesus, Chr ... I mean, Jesus, Mr. Moretti," she growled passing over her mistake quickly. "That big cock is all the way in my ass, isn't it? My boyfriend's debt is paid, right?" Her breathing was heavy, and her fingertips dug into the leather of the chair. 

"Not until I finish, Madison."

"Finish then, you son of a bitch! Take my ass!"

I growled, pulling my hips back and withdrawing my cock as she whimpered beneath me. Both of my hands were on her back now as I held her down against the chair, slowly sliding my cock back inside of her.

"Fuckin' loser ass boyfriend!" she yelled as I pushed back in. "Fuckin' asshole! Fuck my ass, Mr. Moretti, be the man he never was!"

I built up a steady rhythm, my hips smacking against her ass as I pumped my cock in and out of her ass, grunting and growling.

"You like it, though, don't you, Madison? Being a slut, paying off your boyfriend's debt with your ass?" I measured my words carefully, keeping my head, not wanting to hurt her, physically or otherwise.

"I do!" she yelled. "I love it!"

In and out I drove my cock, her asshole relaxing, taking what I could give it, though I admit I held back some, partly because of her, and partly because it was too much, such a new sensation, and I knew I wouldn't last long. And I didn't.

"I'm going to cum, Madison," I said through clenched teeth, my fingers digging into the skin of her lower back.

"Cum in my ass, Mr. Moretti! Cum in my slutty ass!"

I did just that, a knee-buckling, body shaking, almost hurtful orgasm. I came for what seemed like an eternity, cum spraying over and over from the tip of my cock, burning almost as it came out with such a fury deep inside of her ass. 

It finally stopped, and my whole body was shaking as I felt myself start to soften, still inside of her. My eyes closed and opened, colors and shapes flashing in front of my eyes as I struggled to hold myself up, moving my hands from her back to the arms of the chair, knees against the chair as I fought to catch my breath. Cognitive again of her after a minute or two, I reached down, stroking her hair as she looked up at me over her shoulder, her eyes heavy.

"I came, too, Mr. Moretti. That was amazing."

I nodded, pulling my now soft cock from her ass and wrapping my arms around her, lifting her up as we both knelt on the floor.

"Are you okay, Madison?" I whispered, kissing her cheek.

"I'm great, Chris. Thanks for a great birthday."

*********

-December 18, 2006-

I was snapped from my daydream by the feeling of Damien's SUV coming to a stop. I blinked my eyes and looked around. The whole drive up to Cleveland had passed. We were parked close to the arena. Paul jumped out of the car, professing his love for the Cavs loudly to anyone within shouting distance. Damien turned off the ignition and looked back at me.

"You alright, bro?"

I nodded. "Nothing a Cavs game and a night on the town can't fix."

"You got that right." He smiled and nodded.

And yet as I climbed out of the car, I couldn't shake off the feeling that not only wasn't I alright, but I wouldn't be alright for some time. The visit with McAllister and Gutierrez had me shaken up, even if it didn't really mean anything. Why would the FBI care that I was back in town? My father was who he was, but I was never involved in anything he did in any way other than overlooking it. That didn't make me culpable. So why the concern? I had no rap sheet. Sure I had the connections to certain people, and I could get involved in something illegal if I wanted to, but that had always been the case, and I'd never taken the bait. Nothing had changed in my eyes, so why should it in theirs? Something didn't add up; none of the pieces fit comfortably.

Like I told them, I'd been in town for six months with no problems. What did they know that I didn't?

And then there was Madison.