Chapter Nine #5
He suddenly pushes my feet to the ground and then spins me around, still keeping my wrists against the wall, tangling the fingers of one hand with mine.
He pulls my skirt up, pushes down my panties, and after a few seconds punctuated by his harsh breaths, I feel his warm cum falling on the curve of my ass.
He growls out my name deeply and brokenly—my name, Art, while he climaxes. His dick pushes between my ass cheeks as he keeps dumping his jizz all over my asshole. He grunts and groans, his body jerking behind me.
“Fuck. This ass,” he slurs, grabbing a handful of it, lifting and spreading the flesh.
Yes, fuck me, I silently pray, dropping my forehead on the wall.
His lips suck hard on my nape, but the thick tip of his cock doesn’t push past the ring of muscle, just rubs over it again and again.
Is this another punishment? I feel like he wants to destroy me and cradle me at the same time.
It’s exhausting, exasperating. Confusing, vexing, and fucking cruel.
My mind is going nuts. We fight, and then fuck, and then repeat, which is hot and satisfying if it wasn’t for the tiny little kernel of affection growing in my gut for the frustrating wacko.
I don’t want to see him hurting like this anymore, because I… care.
The only person in the world I care about is Fly, so it’s quite jarring for me to acknowledge that I give a fuck about someone else.
But now that I do, my thoughts are suddenly flooding the gas pedal.
I li…I li…I li-i-ike him—I can’t even form the word in my head, my mind won’t let me.
Nevertheless, my sanity is slowly but surely sinking to the bottom of my feet.
I’ve never felt this lonely, even though I’ve never had such a warm and safe embrace from a man I li… liiii…again mind protection.
Our fingers are still intertwined, interlocked so perfectly over my head. “It feels nice,” the words slip out of my mouth.
He grunts…in agreement? His cockhead keeps teasing me without driving inside, pressing my dick against the wall—not strong enough, though.
He’s killing me. The length sliding between my ass cheeks doesn’t feel demanding—unfortunately.
More like it belongs there, touching me, tapping the tip over my hole—driving me insane with desire.
His grip feels anchoring rather than restrictive now.
Pleasant. Don’t know when that changed. But it did.
A thought suddenly hits me. When did Luca Nero start to feel safe to me?
“Why did you go out this morning? Don’t even think to fucking lie to me,” he whispers with command. How does he do that? The ungrateful asshole! I went to get him donuts, even with the bird revolution pending over our heads.
“To buy you a gift for your birthday,” I finally confess, desperate for him to just fuck me.
He tenses behind me. “I don’t celebrate my birthday.”
I turn my head to the side, but I still can’t see him. “I know. I just…”
“Where is it?” Is he smelling my hair? His hand is rubbing soothing circles over my back.
“What?” What is happening?
“The present.” His voice feels lighter now. Did the solo-nutting help with assuaging his wrath? I bet it did. While I’m still hard as a rock. Then why do I feel so fucking satisfied? It can’t be that I put his satisfaction ahead of mine. I could gag at myself.
“On a New York sidewalk. It wasn’t much, just donuts and candles.”
“Too bad,” I think I hear him murmuring against the top of my head.
Oh, fuck! He can’t do that, pulling at my dick-strings first and now toying with me like this. I’m not built for this heartfelt shit, and he is…immense…everywhere. Physically and emotionally.
“I’ll grant you a wish.” The words leave my lips before I even form them inside my head.
I feel his smile against my hair just before a deep, sexy-as-fuck, gruff laugh comes out of his mouth. There should be a law banning Luca’s laughter. What the actual fuck.
“After surely decades of maintaining his grumpy facade, Luca Nero’s facial muscles probably have to be wondering what the fuck is happening,” I tease, earning another hoarse chuckle.
My heart flutters. Worse comes to worst, we can just run away together.
The thought appears, and disappears just as quickly.
Luca
I wake up during the night. Shadows are playing on the ceiling of my bedroom. I’m lying in bed. Art’s bare legs are tangled with mine, and he’s using my arm as a pillow, all tucked into my side.
Who’s the snuggle bunny now? I sniff, thinking of his daily whining.
His tiny right hand is on my chest like he’s trying to feel my heartbeat…
or willing the organ to stop. Feisty brat.
He disobeyed me…again and is still alive.
And for what? My birthday has never been important.
A whiskey with Marco and Seb used to be all I did, and in the last few years, not even that.
I can see the fingertip marks on Art’s arm, my fingers lightly touch them.
Every little bruise bothers me in ways I’m not prepared for.
In ways I can’t, don’t want to explain. Before kidnapping him, if he got a black eye from someone, I’d have found it well-deserved.
I’d probably even shake the hand of the person who did it.
Yesterday? I tortured and killed the men who touched him.
Because no one lays a finger on Arturo fucking Enzino but me. I own the brat.
Own. The fuck is that supposed to mean? God, this is fucked up. This feeling, this possessiveness toward an Enzino. It has escalated in what…twelve days? It has to be lust. An animalistic attraction. That’s why I keep shooting jizz over him.
I can still hear him moan as I pinned him on the wall, my balls rubbing on his lace-clad junk.
I was so close already. So fucking close.
With my hand restraining his wrists, and my body pressed against his, I held him down, while beating my dick off until a burst of fire flared in my gut, embers searing hot.
And I shot my load, painting stripes of cum across the curve of his juicy ass and over that pink asshole.
God, how much I wanted to wreck it. He was begging for it, but he was in no shape to take my anger.
I marked my territory instead. Owned him—here is that word again.
It means that I can do whatever I want to him.
Actually, the more I do, the more he likes.
And the more he likes, the more I crave.
It’s just the novelty rush, that sense of excitement related to something new and shiny.
It will fizzle out just as fast as it started or not.
It doesn’t really matter, because in three days, I’ll let him go back to his family.
That reminds me of his phone. The way he kept Mario’s whereabouts for himself, the way he researched me, his chat with that hacker.
The beast inside of me rumbles. Anybody else would have already been dead or dying.
But Art isn’t, and not because of Fly or Seb’s orders.
Not anymore. My hate toward him and his family hasn’t lessened. It’s as strong as ever.
Then why didn’t I torture him? And why did he stay? He could have escaped—he actually almost did. Why did he prefer to be cuffed to a sofa and treated like shit for days instead of leaving? Was I really the lesser evil?
My arm tightens around him, and he presses closer to me in his sleep. When I close my eyes, the sight of the unsealed, white cardboard box of donuts, crushed on one side, lying on the ground near a pack of colorful birthday candles, stays with me until morning comes.