Jojo Paint

“Paint me.” She said and immediately he looked up, his pupils dilated and he froze. “W..what.. you.” he stuttered, stumbling over his words despite his bear sized build and rough looks. “Why professor? You said you needed a muse, you didn't say you needed a dressed one.” She muttered, her lips curving into a smirk and then as his eyes raked over her naked body, she began to trace the contours of her shape. Slowly, her hand slid downwards massaging, caressing and working her body and then it finally stopped right between her legs. As she made to speak, the door slammed open and she watched two other hulking figures saunter in, their shoulders trembling. In their eyes, she saw anger, possessiveness and lust that made her both hot and scared at the same time. *** Christiana is in no way what one would call a saint. She was the brattiest and craziest firecracker. So when one of the features of her fantasy makes an appearance, you cannot expect that she would not want to live out her fantasies. Especially when suddenly she has to live in the same house as the man of her fantasies. Christiana had three problems. One, her parents were suddenly involved in an accident, leaving her in both despair and debt. Two, Her father's closest friend suddenly asked her to move in with him. Three, Her father's best friend is in fact none other than the star in her fantasies. As if that's not enough, she also has to tackle two hockey brothers who would do anything to claim her as theirs. Maybe, her problem is more than three. Fuck that, three is the right number. Three hot men who make her body burn like never before. What will Christiana do?

Shortly after we said "I do," the Family sent my husband, Dario, down to the Mexican border. He told me it was a meat grinder down there—cartel territory. where guys were zipped into body bags every day. He said he had to go—to expand the territory, for the glory of the Family. He claimed it was too dangerous and that his enemies would paint a target on my back, so he wouldn't take me with him. I believed him. I stayed behind in his old, rot-infested house in New Jersey, taking care of his bitter, spiteful parents. I spent my days and nights in the Family's moldy laundromat, washing bills stained with blood. He told me he sent every dime he made down there to the widow of a brother who took a bullet for him. He asked me to be understanding. I never complained. Day after day, I pressed expensive suits in that humid laundromat, waiting for him to come home. It wasn't until the eighth year that a mobster came back drunk. When I asked about Dario, he froze, then sneered at me through a haze of alcohol. "Dario? Are you kidding? He’s been a King in Manhattan for years. He’s the youngest Underboss of the Corleone family." I stood frozen, the iron in my hand burning a hole right through a shirt. "And he got married seven years ago. Biggest cathedral in New Jersey. Half the mob was there to toast the groom..." He pulled a crumpled photo from his leather jacket. Snuggled up against my husband was a woman in a high-end couture gown—the very same "poor, widowed sister-in-law" he had told me about. The next day, I contacted a fixer who specialized in fake IDs. On the application for a one-way ticket to Europe—a ticket to vanish off the face of the earth—I filled in the fake name I had prepared long ago. He trapped me for seven years with a sham marriage. From now on, I’d be done with this damn loyalty.