Page 3 of The Professor
“Ah, yeah.” I worked my cock. I was hot, sweat peppering my forehead and underarms. I thought of her pussy, of her fingers stroking her clit as she listened to my lecture. She was seated at the back, in the shadows, she could have gotten away with it.
Shehadgotten away with it.
“Fuck.” My balls retracted, and I wished it was her pussy gripping my cock and not my own fist. Her hot, wet delicious pussy that I’d have gushing with girl cum within minutes if were let loose with her.
I clutched the top of the cubicle. It creaked, and I climbed the last steps to release. The agony of not being with her was as acute as the need to climax. Then it was there, and I let a groan of relief wash over me. My palm was flooded with my warm cum, and a modicum of tension left me, but by the time I’d wiped up my mess it was back.
The only thing that would truly satisfy me was her. Fucking her pussy, her mouth, her ass, and hearing her crying out my name every single time she orgasmed.
That was what I wanted.
I blew out a breath and went out of the cubicle, washed my hands. Then carrying my briefcase, I made my way over the lawn toward my office.
A young guy was walking in front of me, head down, hands in his pockets. He reminded me of Bailey Jones. Not that I’d see Bailey Jones walking around, a drug dealer had murdered him the previous year. A drug dealer, Ray Icke, who hadn’t been brought to justice by the law courts, despite having not one but four murder charges brought against him and two violent rape cases.
Lack of evidence. A missing witness. Charges dropped suddenly and suspiciously. It all stacked up to mean one thing.
A job for Galahad.
My office was still and quiet, the wooden paneled walls absorbing the sounds from outside. The window was west-facing, and the sunlight pouring in danced with dust motes.
I strode past the bookcase and printer and sat at my hefty wooden desk. The top was made of dark-green leather, and on it sat a laptop and three stacks of papers I needed to read.
I stroked the small round scar on my hand, a cigarette burn mark I’d gotten in a tussle, and reached for my phone. “Hey, Dalton, we still on for tonight?”
“Too fucking right we are, he’s breathing his last breaths and walking his last steps right now.”
“Yup.” I scanned the room, my attention settling on a picture of Sadie at eighteen. She would always be eighteen.
The usual darkness in the pit of my stomach swelled, threatening to swallow me whole. Vengeance, revenge, reckoning, reprisal, retribution, payback, they were all emotions that rattled around inside me—ate at the very depths of me. If I didn’t let them raise their heads from time to time with my Galahad crew at my side, I wouldn’t be able to breathe.
Tonight was one of those times.
“We’ll meet at Filly’s, eleven, he eats there after doing his rounds.”
“Filly’s, that place on Old Knight Street, right? The shitty end.”
“Sure, that’s the one.” Dalton paused. “Grant is coming, too.”
“Why? This is a two-man job. We can handle it.” I stood and went to the window, tension pulling at a muscle in my shoulder.
“I know, he says its personal, like. Asked me to ask you.”
A tabby cat was stalking a song bird that was searching for grubs under a bush. The cat’s movements were stealthy and its focus absolute. The poor bird had no idea of its fate—that a plan had been formed to end its life.
“I haven’t seen Grant for a while,” I said, not wanting to create friction but at the same time not wanting to see the guy who’d nearly got us all caught a few months ago.
“He’s had some time away, with his family, like, but he’s got his head back in the game.”
“You sure? ’Cause this is a real dangerous game if he starts making mistakes, not just for him, for Galahad, for all of us.”
“I know, Andrew, for fuck’s sake, I know. He just asked me to speak to you.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Okay, okay, bring him along. I’ll see you later. Outside Filly’s at eleven.”
“And you’re cool with Grant?”
“If he’s cool about the job?”
