SACRIFICE | MAFIA ROMANCE | SMUT

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sartorially tailored in a royal blue two-piece, I stand alongside fatigued commuters in the London Underground like a spare part, chest swelling on a turmoil of emotional riots.

It's no secret that Alexa's death affected me in more ways than one. I am not ashamed to admit as much, either. In saying that, granted I shall never overcome or move on with another, but I must find a resolution and learn to live with this insufferable ache in my chest.

Last night, after Brad's determined lecture, I remained in the office until sunrise, pondering between intoxicated obliteration or a trip down memory lane. Once showered and overdosed on a concerning amount of caffeine, I chose the latter.

I stepped onto the train, sardined between strident gossipmongers and enlivened consumers. To my right, a blatant transsexual modelling a pale pink designer skirt suit and a straight, jet black synthetic hairpiece flagrantly appraises me.

I diverted my attention to the short blonde woman standing directly opposite me. Yes, she's eye-catching, heart-shaped face and blue almond-shaped eyes. I'm not too sure about those beige winkle pickers, though. I love nothing more than a sophisticatedly beautiful woman gaiting and swaying her hips, elevated on six-inch heels. For me, a woman's confident stride is utterly captivating, presentably attractive and boldly sexy.

Sensing a brazen admirer, she lifts her head and smiles meekly at me.

Her fondness is unreciprocated. Sure, I can appreciate a fine woman when I see one. Those flawless white teeth, catching smile, and dazzling eyes are undeniably praiseworthy features.

Yet I feel absolutely nothing. Even when I try to see past all the reasons why I need to move on, something screams inside the darkest valley of my head to hang fire, relax, take a breather and concentrate on the syndicate.

I struggle to lose myself In the arms of another woman. It puts the functionality of my cock to the test, and welcoming their lubricious sensuality proves to be complicated. I compare every touch, whispered moan and adeptly covetous desires to Alexa.

At this rate, the only satisfying dates I'll be attending is with my right hand. Fuck, I'm not one to masturbate or pleasure myself. Since living up to the "Warren" title, women have dutifully thrown themselves at my feet. If I craved a release, alluring an eager conquest became a standardised way of living. And that unashamed lifestyle worked for me. Meaningless sex was uncomplicated, physically untaxing and consumingly rewarding. Now, though, a quick-release before work might be a safer option, or until I get my head straight.

I shouldn't have looked at the blonde. Her unwavering gaze hasn't deterred since I foolishly scrutinised her. I load my phone, pretend to read text messages when Kellie's name flashes on my screen. Another problematic hindrance to my life. I am entirely blamable, though. I saw her the night she partied with friends at Club 11 and coaxed her to join me in the office. Our first time together is a blur. I sniffed and consumed too much intoxication to remember if I finished the deed or even returned summit carnality. Henceforth, she shifted into my go-to woman. No romantic dates. No reassuring promises. No passionate kissing. Just unadulterated fucking and someone surprisingly pleasant to fill the void in my life.

Kellie's a nice woman, decent on the eye, but I voiced and stressed that our late-night clandestine sexual encounters wouldn't surmount to anything. And this resolute declaration suited Kellie until this morning when she asked if I'd accompany her to a family party.

"Warren," I answered flatly, the phone set to my ear.

"You didn't respond to my messages," Kellie purred, a futile attempt at flirting. "I was worried about you."

"I'm a busy man." I peered at the geezer over my shoulder, spurning his appraising stare with an arrogant look. "Besides, I already told you that dating isn't on the table."