Sticky Fingers: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy Read online

  Sticky Fingers

  An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy

  Tara Starr

  Contents

  1. Malcolm

  2. Sonia

  3. Malcolm

  4. Sonia

  5. Malcolm

  6. Sonia

  7. Malcolm

  8. Sonia

  9. Malcolm

  10. Sonia

  11. Malcolm

  12. Sonia

  13. Malcolm

  14. Sonia

  15. Malcolm

  16. Sonia

  17. Malcolm

  18. Sonia

  19. Malcolm

  20. Sonia

  21. Malcolm

  22. Taylor

  23. Ashley

  24. Sonia

  25. Malcolm

  26. Sonia

  27. Malcolm

  28. Sonia

  29. Malcolm

  30. Malcolm

  31. Malcolm

  32. Sonia

  33. Malcolm

  34. Sonia

  35. Malcolm

  36. Sonia

  37. Malcolm

  About the Author

  Sticky Fingers

  By Tara Starr

  Copyright 2018 by Tara Starr Publishing

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

  Chapter One

  Malcolm

  Let’s face it, baby. The entire city of New York exists to suck my massive fucking cock.

  I’m fucking serious. I got this entire fucking town squirming on my two fingers. I move them just a little bit…and it lets out a collective fucking orgasm. The good looks, the charm, the fucking billions of dollars in currency sitting in offshore accounts—it all adds up to me being one lucky fucking bastard.

  That’s how I get into situations like this right now, where I’m staring at one of the most priceless works of art ever housed anywhere in the city. And don’t get me wrong, dollface, there are a lot of people in this town who would tell you to never leave Malcolm Push alone in the same room with a Picasso.

  I have to agree. But I’ve come a long way since I was just a fucking kid with nothing in South Boston.

  This particular Picasso is actually pretty good. It’s supposedly a famous one. Not that I would know the difference when it comes to art. I really couldn’t give a shit once you remove the price tags.

  No. My interests definitely tend towards the more animal variety than the highbrow ones.

  Anyway, about this painting… I have no idea if you like art, but the fact that you’re reading this book means you probably have some good taste yourself. I mean, fuck, Tara Starr is a fucking good author, amirite?

  But this painting is a fucking trip, let me tell you. Makes an asshole like me appreciate the finer things in life—and not just a perfectly flavored champagne being poured on an exquisitely textured pussy either, but like, you know, art and shit.

  Yeah, I sound like a world-class douchebag. The kind you roll your eyes at in exasperation…till I get my hands on you.

  And then?

  You’d roll your eyes in motherfucking pleasure, baby.

  Too cocky? Too fucking confident? Too over-the-fucking-top alpha male ready to rip my fucking clothes off and growl and fucking tear your bra off with my fucking teeth and then bench-press you with my twelve-inch cock?

  You thinking of putting the book down?

  Don’t.

  I promise, you’ll love it here—well, except for the rich asshole sniveling spineless motherfuckers who live at Clarendon Tower.

  I mean, just look at all the fucking douchebags gathered in this place, hands in their chins as they look at the paintings on the wall, doing their best to look like pseudo-intellectual fucks.

  But this is the Clarendon Tower Art Gallery. Of course, it’d be packed with snobs. Everyone loves to brag they’ve been to Clarendon Tower, even if for just a couple of hours. The building is, after all, home to the elite of the elite.

  Probably why I fucking live here.

  I’m Malcolm fucking Push after all.

  With the gallery right off the lobby in the Clarendon Tower building, I can hear the drone of Peter Smorgasbord’s (or whatever the fuck) voice, the president of the condo board. He’s a skinny motherfucker with a terrible combover, and he probably loves bylaws and regulations more than he loves his wife’s pussy.

  Whatever.

  We got rid of our last condo board president, Norbert Snaggletooth, and thought we’d get a real man. But instead we get a fucking limp dick twat with a hot wife and a fucking horrible attitude.

  The kind that doesn’t appreciate his fucking wife. That takes her for granted. That treats her like shit.

  Who knows how they got together in the first place, but there’s no love there now and it fucking pains me to see it.

  Because listen, dollface, my life may be knee-deep in fucking all the Manhattan pussy that I can handle, but the only reason I do it is because I value and respect the women in my life. I get it.

  You might think that I’m a fucking clown or a misogynist asshole who just can’t get over himself, but if you met me, your pussy would be fucking dripping like a faucet when you looked into my eyes and saw that I couldn’t care less about the world while I spent time with you.

  That every fucking part of my being wanted to just throw you on the ground and fuck you until you had seven orgasms and passed out. And then I’d hold you and whisper sweet nothings until you forgot the world.

  Because that’s how women deserve to be fucking treated. Nothing else will do.

  And Peter Horsheshitmuncher, the fucking condo board president, is not such a man. Far from it.

  And there’s no bigger tragedy than that, if you ask me.

  Oh, yeah, I also have no fucking idea what Peter’s last name is. I mean, I knew it once when he told me, but he’s got such a fucking high-pitched voice I just forgot.

  Peter is regaling the crowd with how fortunate we all are to be seeing and housing the Picasso while it’s on loan. This one was loaned to the Clarendon Tower Gallery by Daphne Abbot, the toughest lawyer this city has ever seen. You’ve probably already heard about her.

  A few months ago, Dominic Larson, one of my closest friends, decided he wanted to expand his three bedroom condo at Clarendon.

  The only problem?

  His neighbor, Daphne Abbot, the lawyer, wanted the same.

  See they’re both uber-successful people and they wanted a 7 bedroom apartment to match.

  They fucking went to war over who would buy out who.

  And…lets just say its complicated between them.

  Anyway, I don’t know much about this Picasso, but a whole bunch of rich, uptight people seem to think it’s a great thing and that’s all that really matters around here.

  I’m trying to keep an ear out for where Peter the Molester is at in his speech, but my mind keeps wandering. It’s hard to focus when you’re busy, you know?

  What am I busy with, you ask?

  “Oh, Malcolm, baby, you’re fucking me sooooo good!” a voice calls out from underneath me.

  Yep. Welcome to my life.

  And Peter Cumdrinker’s wife sure likes keeping me busy.

  Because, dollface, when I say I’m in front of the Picasso, I mean I’m standing in front of it behind the curtain—as Peter drones on on the other side of the curtain—and I’m balls deep in his slutty socialite
wife, Debra.

  Pumping the living daylights out of her.

  Spreading her ass cheeks, I push a little deeper into her warm, wet cunt.

  She’s bent over, grasping the wall under the Picasso, and if it wasn’t for the fact that her dress is bunched up above her waist as I plunge inside her from behind, we would look like an admiring couple who just happened to be quite close to the painting.

  “Oh, yes, deeper, Malcolm!” Her breathless plea has me pushing harder and deeper.

  Spreading her ass cheeks, I push the final inch of my rock-hard cock inside her.

  Even her moans can’t seem to drown out her husband, who’s running through the list of everyone who wants to be patted on the back for setting up this event.

  I like to think my name is Malcolm Push for a fucking reason. It’s times like these that the irony of my name really cracks me up.

  She’s not tight, and she’s not that fucking hot, but she’s slutty, and I had an itch…and you know what? It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Her moan of appreciation lets me know I’ve hit the spot.

  “There you go, baby.” I rub her tan ass cheek with my fingers while still holding her G-string carefully to the side.

  My other fingers are busy strumming her clit, and I can feel her juices coating my hand. Pulling her back hard, I savor the push and pull motion as it tightens up my balls.

  You crinkling your nose and judging me yet, dollface?

  How can I be an asshole and live in such a fancy place?

  Let me ask you this. If I was such an asshole, would I call myself the King of New York City?

  Because that’s my name.

  I’m laughing out loud now, and Debra looks up at me quizzically before I pound into her again, fucking her like only the King of NYC could.

  Think I’m bragging? Yeah, fuck, maybe I am. But my name isn’t a hollow one—I have the story to back it up.

  Curious, huh? Figured you’d be.

  It began when I was twelve and started shaking down my neighborhood kids for their lunch money. At the time, I didn’t really know any better. I was approached to start sharing a cut with some other hoodlums, and I never batted an eyelash.

  That was how my crime operation started, but I’ve come a long way from shaking kids down for their lunch money. And that’s because I never looked back.

  I saw the opportunity right away.

  That’s another thing that I’m really great at, spotting the right opportunities. Whether it’s a willing piece of ass or a business opportunity, I take what I want.

  I began building my crime empire by stealing and laundering money. After a few years, it developed into a more sophisticated ring of high-end escorts and gambling. It’s the perfect recipe for me.

  Because when it comes right down to it, the only person you have to live with is yourself.

  That has been my motto and the reason why I’ve never been involved in moving drugs or guns or contract killing. There was just too much of that in the first twelve years of my life.

  At the end of the day, I’m the fucking shit…and I know it.

  And that’s why I never think too much about what others are saying or thinking about me. I’m the one who has to live with myself. So, I’m the only person I really need to make happy.

  And with the amount of money and pussy I get, I sure am one happy motherfucker.

  I feel the tip of my dick hit deep inside Debra’s pussy and my balls tighten in anticipation.

  Her hands are starting to claw at the wall, and her panting has reached hyperventilation levels.

  She’s close.

  “Fuck me harder, Malcolm.”

  I’m almost slamming her head into the painting now, but it’s giving me that little bit more stimulation, too, and I can feel her pussy tighten.

  Movement from the corner of my eye has my head swinging to the left. I watch in awe as a slender, lithe figure, clad completely in tight black clothing, steps out from between the curtains.

  What the fuck?

  Not missing a beat, I keep pounding my rod into Debra, who has her eyes closed and is none the wiser. Her head is thrown back to keep it from slamming into the painting, and she doesn’t notice a fucking thing.

  But I’m no longer focused on Debra. No, right now my eyes are focused on the newcomer. I watch closely as her small form disengages from the shadows and comes nearer.

  She’s fucking mesmerizing.

  As more light hits her, I see that she’s wearing a mask, and the only thing exposed are her large, soulful eyes. I can’t tell the color in this light, but they’re beautiful.

  Expressive.

  She’s as graceful as a cat as she tip-toes across the floor towards me, Debra, and the painting.

  Her tight, dark clothing doesn’t hide the curves she’s sporting in all the right places. Even the dark mask over her head can’t detract from her beauty.

  It must be something on a more fundamental level that my body is responding to, because I can feel my cock harden even more, ready to fucking explode.

  When her masked face turns towards me, and our eyes lock, it’s game over.

  She’s too fucking hot. Those fucking eyes are enough to make a gay dude fucking straight.

  I’m going to fucking come.

  I’m pushed right into my own explosion of pleasure, and I pull out.

  I take off the condom and start jerking my cock.

  That’s right;

  I want to leave a fucking souvenir for Peter Candelabra.

  It’s mind-numbing and almost fucking catastrophic. It feels like the top of my dick has fucking exploded.

  My head tilts back involuntarily as I jet out loads of cum one after the other.

  It lands on the floor near the curtain.

  Rope after rope of gooey, sticky, thick white cum. The kind that you could mistake for cream. Debra’s eyes go wide as she sees how much I’m coming.

  “That’s right, baby,” she cooe. “Come for me.”

  But I’m not fucking coming for this slut.

  No.

  I’m thinking about the fucking hot as fuck little intruder that I saw. The one that pushed me over the fucking edge.

  The one I want more than I’ve wanted any woman in my fucking life till now.

  The one that made me empty a quart of cum on the hardwood floors near the painting.

  The one that…wait—

  where did she fucking go?

  It’s only been a few seconds, but I jerk my head upright to locate the hot cat burglar.

  Maybe she was just a figment of my lust-filled imagination.

  As I come back to myself and my vision recovers, I realize that the Picasso is no longer sitting in front of us. It’s under the arm of the sassy cat burglar, and she’s almost out of the fucking room.

  Fuck.

  This is a robbery!

  My cum is on the floor, but I have more pressing shit to take care of. I need to stop this bitch or else they’re going to find out I was here and blame me.

  I start to pull my pants back on. I look at Debra who has collapsed against the wall, when I hear the applause and see more lights switched on in the room behind us.

  God fucking dammit.

  The fucking curtains are opening, the Picasso is gone, and my cock is hanging out.

  I look to around again for the sassy cat burglar But she’s nowhere to be found. As quickly as she had appeared, she vanished into thin air.

  Debra panics and throws herself back, trying frantically to lower her almost skin-tight dress. Peter is less than ten feet away. His hands stop mid-clap as he slowly realizes what his wife and I have been doing here.

  “MALCOLM!” he yells. “DEBRA!” he finishes.

  But it’s not even a ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ or ‘you’re fucking my wife?!’ that he says.

  Instead, his eyes go straight to the wall, and he yells,

  “WHERE IS THE PICASSO?”

  My pants are up now. I�
��m not rushing because I want to get away from the gasps and fingers pointing at us. I mean, people in this building have seen way worse.

  They’ve seen a fucking food fight in the residents-only restaurant above us. I don’t give a fuck.

  But what I do want to do is stay away from a condo board president who looks like he’s about to have a fucking aneurysm. He’s turning really red.

  “What did you do?!” he says menacingly as he stalks towards us.

  “I saw the thief that did this,” I say back to him. “I’m going to go find her. She stole the painting as I was fucking your wife.”

  See? A true gentleman never fucking lies.

  More shocking gasps from the crowd. I give a brief wave to everyone in response as Peter approaches me.

  But that’s the problem.

  Because as he steps closer…he steps on my cum.

  And there’s a lot.

  It’s hardwood floor.

  And very, very slippery.

  “I am going to kill you for—” he starts but never gets a chance to finish. That’s because he loses his footing, sliding on all that…semen.

  The man crashes to the floor as the crowd begins to laugh and gasp at the same time. His face is buried in hardwood floor glazed with billions of tiny little Malcolms.

  It would be funny to stand and watch. Because he was so fixated on the painting he never even noticed.

  But I can’t stay.

  There’s a fucking burglar on the loose, and I’ve set my sights on her.

  Fucking hell. Grab ahold of your panties, dollface. This is going to be a long night.