9

Ernest pov

I ought not to have.

I made a mistake.

I also don't make a lot of errors.

However, this was among them.

Before getting in the vehicle with her, I ought to have had sex with someone else.

I could have had all my fucking issues fixed with that.

I kiss my lips and run my palm over my face as she enters. She should be spanked since it took her longer than two minutes.

What's wrong with that? Still, I think she would like it.

Fuck it. She approaches us, and I shake my head. She walks up to the single seat that is available, which is directly next to me, and places her hand on the back of it. Everyone is silent, all eyes on her.

"May I take a seat here?" I feel like everyone at the table is staring at me, waiting for an answer to her inquiry. "Hey?" She scans the room, nodding to the guys sitting at the table, then turns her gaze back to me. She asks again, a little more bite in her mouth, "Can I sit here?"

I eventually say, "Sit," and she does exactly that—pulling out the chair, taking a seat, and carefully setting a serviette on her lap.

"I had no idea it was so formal. I express regret for my attire. She is speaking to each and every one of us sitting at the table. She looks hot, and I decide not to respond because, damn, that's not how I want to feel. And better than all the women together in this five-star establishment.

Ermes remarks, "There's no need for an apology; you look divine," from across the table. He's carrying his new girlfriend, dressed as one would anticipate from this kind of place. Her beady eyes find Mirella, and they pierce her with an intense, hateful gaze.

"Your spouse also says thank you." The new fling, whose name I instantly forgot, catches the seaman's attention. "Is this a Chanel dress? It seems exquisite.

Her reaction nearly makes me smile. She is astute.

The girl looks bashful for a moment, and then she puts her hand on Ermes's shoulder and smiles, obviously pleased to be called his wife.

Ermes has been and always will be a man-whore.

His spouse is at home with the children.

And she is aware of her husband's whereabouts, activities, and identity, I assure you. She doesn't mind, however, as long as she has her wishlist fulfilled and receives a brand-new G Waggon on Mother's Day.

Ermes is a strange person to know. He is renowned for being the drug kingpin of New York, hustler, and hustler. And no matter how much money he earns, he is incredibly bad at saving it, therefore he owes me a lot.

I now get a portion of everything he sells.

And he is aware of what will happen if he fucks me.

I'll shoot him in the head regardless of how strong he is. I may take a couple fingers to touch what's mine first, however.

Robin is with me, and two of Ermes's guys are next to him. Sean and Robin are usually together, but tonight I dispatched Sean on a job, so it's just the two of them.

Are the two of you together? Ermes questions.

Mirella responds for us, "No." She glances down at her naked hand, her wedding ring no longer precisely set on her finger, as I note.

"So, what brings you here?" She exerts pressure.

Mirella leans his elbows on the table and glances at me. "Well, I'm not sure how to respond to that without getting shot." When she gives Ermes's fling a wink, he laughs at her. After that, Mirella turns to face me and asks, "Care to answer?"

Her boldness is beyond words. Nearly. "No."

She nods as if she knew that answer, and I look back at Ermes.

"Do you need my men to help with pick up, or do you not?" He takes a drink from his glass of wine.

"No, it's taken care of. And I believe that's all the business we have for tonight. With a smirk on his face, Ermes adds, "How about since you own this place, you get your waiters to bring us another round of drinks and some more food?" before giving Mirella a wink.

Mirella's eyes are questioning me as soon as we meet.

"Is this your restaurant?" she asks, a hint of astonishment still in her voice.

Indeed, I am the owner of it. Among more stuff.

More water is offered by the approaching waiter.

The only polite person is the mirella, who thanks him before leaving.

She leans in till her breath catches my ear, saying, "Look, what happened in the car can't happen again."

As the waiter serves food, I ignore her and put my hand beneath the table, resting it high up on her leg. She gives me a sidelong glance, covers her lips with a small shriek, then takes up her serviette and pats her mouth while shaking her head. "Ernest."

Why does it seem like she's dragging each word with the pull of her tongue and wants to wrap it around her lips when she says my name? As she ought to do with my manhood.

"Hmm."

"Would you kindly move your hand?" She speaks softly enough for me to hear her, but I choose to pretend that I didn't hear her. She tightens her legs as my fingers moves farther up her thigh. I'll grant her that she has powerful thighs, but they can't compete with mine. especially when I gently massage her inner thigh from top to bottom. She progressively relaxes and opens her legs for me as a result.

She has food in front of her, and it seems like she's struggling to eat it. I feel her breathing increase up as I stroke her pants with my fingertips and then remove them. "Suck it down," I command.

Where I sit, I would be dead if looks could kill. She crosses her legs and starts eating, while I watch. Admittedly, I like that she listens when it's appropriate and has a strong sense of morality.

Pity By the end of the week, I'm going to murder her.