Chapter Fourteen
Well, well, well…
What do we have here?
I was on my way to a suite—not my private suite, but one of the other ones I sometimes use when I’m here—to meet the body waiting for me. A special toy, hand-selected for my pleasure, to ease me of the endless stresses that come from being yours truly.
But my attention was stolen by a sound… An unmistakable one. Of the slippery suction variety.
It’s something you’re almost guaranteed to hear on a constant basis around here, but what truly stopped me in my tracks was the sound within the sound…
Whimpering.
Dios, it’s one of my favorite sounds to hear. I’m a total simp for it.
Simpering for the whimpering.
Whether it’s the subtle, breathy whines of intense pleasure or pain, a good whimper can unravel me, but no matter what, it’ll always pique my curiosity and, at the very least, prompt a nice buzz in my balls.
So when I overheard it while stalking the private halls of this lovely establishment we call The Edge, I just had to slam on the brakes and take a quick peek at whoever was responsible for such a titillating sound. And what was causing it.
Sure enough, there’s one of my bartenders, tucked away in a storage closet… Getting a blowjob.
I don’t know his name—they come and go. I’m sure Dominic does. That’s his responsibility. He handles the staff, the members, the patrons… Pretty much everything.
I just own the place; I sign the checks, meaning I get to show up when I feel like it and reap the benefits.
The emperor of anonymity, no one other than Dom knows I’m here. Even the bouncers don’t know who I am. I come in through a special door in the back that only I have the key to, and the security has been instructed never to question the man in the Diablo mask.
Regardless, the bartender isn’t the one I’m focused on right now. His sounds are just your run-of-the-mill gasps and groans.
No, that whimpering mouthful came from the creature on his knees.
A gorgeous specimen of celestial perfection, crafted of sharp lines and supple flesh.
Jaw-length hair the color of shiny brass blocking me from the full scope of exquisite beauty that is that face.
Still, I can see a lot of good stuff, like puffy pink lips stretched around the girth of a decent-looking dick—good for you, bartender—the shaft shiny with saliva that’s contributing to that wetness I’m hearing.
God, it’s fucking hot. The kid is overflowing and I love it.
I say kid because he looks young. I’m talking, it’s highly unlikely he’s twenty-one yet, which has me momentarily annoyed, because I know I’d been very insistent with Dom about no underage patrons.
Even for the highest-paying members, the favors must be at least eighteen. I won’t stand for any of that sick shit that used to go on here before I took over.
No soy estúpido. I know it still goes on. It’s an issue that was around long before my reign began, and even my most brazen threats haven’t been able to fully put an end to it.
Rich old white men with too much power, I swear to God… If I could exterminate them all, I would.
Unfortunately, that would wipe out half my connections and my revenue stream in the U.S., which says a lot about this country.
But that’s a whole other topic.
While I can’t seem to put an end to this repugnant nonsense, I can at least keep it from infecting my business. Club Edge is mine, and it has been for years at this point.
Yet they continue to test me…
I must not be getting my point across, because it seems like every few years they forget how serious I am about this. I suppose I’ll have to remind them again.
Looks like a few someone’s will be getting their loved ones’ teeth in the mail.
Anyway, forget all that for now. The stunning person I’m watching is undoubtedly at least eighteen, and clearly quite skilled in the art of sucking dick, being that Bartender is practically falling apart.
It’s delicious, and I’m squeezing my hand into a fist over and over at my side to keep my composure.
I don’t even care that I’m supposed to be meeting someone, tying them up and fucking them senseless right now. I’m enraptured…
Completely captivated by the sight and sound of this wanton thing, on his knees, throating that cock like it owes him money. I bite my lip, coveting the sight. The line of his spine, and the curve of his ass… Even covered by clothing, his body is angelic.
Something flashes in my mind, but I push it away, focusing on the kid. With his eyes closed, head bobbing, hands clenched into fists. Purposely not touching himself, although it’s clear he’s aroused.
My eyes slide…
Fuck me, he’s aroused all right. I can see his dick, trapped within the denim of his fitted jeans. The poor thing just wants to be set free…
Okay, I want that.
I wonder if I can have Dom find out who he is and—
“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come…” Bartender gasps, but the object of my lustful gaze doesn’t move away.
In fact, he appears even hungrier now. Driven, using his wet mouth to slurp and suck, chasing his reward as if it were his own pleasure, not the other way around.
He wants it.
Sweet thing wants to be fed.
A sudden and irrational flood of jealousy hits me as cum is hitting the back of his throat. I can’t see it happening, obviously, but I can see his throat adjusting. Lashes fluttering, cheeks hollowed, and more of those sexy noises just pouring out of him while a man’s seed pours down his throat.
A man who isn’t me…
Why am I bothered by this right now?
My possessiveness is becoming a problem.
The golden beauty appears to be getting off in some form himself just from swallowing, and it’s killing me. I don’t even know this kid, but I’m on fire where I stand. Burning with jealous yearning that feels almost primal.
I want him.
Mine.
I’ve never professed to be any sort of rational or emotionally stable human being. Still, I didn’t think I was capable of becoming possessive of things I happen upon while walking around.
It’s odd. But then, is it?
I mean, as a child, I always wanted the toys other kids had, even if I had my own toys, often better toys. Something about wanting what you can’t have, I suppose, calls to the inherent stubbornness in many of us. And the challenge of thievery.
I like to take things that should be mine and make them mine.
Ugh, Dios, maybe I am my uncle’s nephew.
Another flash is back in my brain, the memory of killing Ocho… And what happened before that.
A pop of gunfire, red splatter.
A whimper from inside the closet…
My fingers wiggle again, and this time, it doesn’t go unnoticed. The beautiful boy on his knees glances my way. And when he sees me, he jumps, tugging his mouth off the bartender’s dick. Even that sight, the way it glides up and pops off…
Dios fucking mio.
The bartender hasn’t seen me. He’s still high, clearly, and I don’t blame him. I think if I got some of what he just had, I might be floating away too.
And I’m a virtuoso at receiving blowjobs.
But the bartender is irrelevant. He might as well be a mop or a broom in that closet. Literally all that matters is this kid, blinking heavily up at me from his knees.
It’s my favorite position in the whole wide world. Especially when the person kneeling looks like that. Almost unbearably beautiful; soft, and sweet, despite being composed of angles and carnal masculinity.
Spartan, but also precious, like a little… bird.
I blink.
I’ve seen that look, in those eyes, before…
Gazing up at me from the floor of a different closet.
Pajarito…?
Time as we know it comes to a complete stop. The entire universe is on pause while I stare down at the boy, and he up at me. Even in darkness, those irises gleam like the rarest emeralds.
Seconds pass like days, weeks, months, years… Fifteen of them, to be exact.
But then reality snaps back into focus when the bartender speaks, praising the kid while tucking himself away. But the green eyes remain locked on mine, holding my gaze just as hard as I’m holding his. Maybe even harder.
That’s not fear. Not this time.
It’s hostility. Anguish and rage, though controlled enough that his breathing barely hitches. If anything, it’s visibly slowing from the way it was pumping his chest while he was…
My jaw tics.
Sucking a stranger’s dick? And so vigorously…
What would your father think, pajarito?
I almost smirk, overcome by so many things that have me frozen in this moment. But the headiest of them all is a fierce sense of pride.
He stands slowly, my eyes climbing to stay with his all the while. And then he hums, “Diablo…”
Dios, it’s really him.
My head cocks to the side, like a reflex.
You made it…
I’ve been waiting for you, Angel.
My muscles are stiff, thankfully, because I swear to God, my knees could buckle from that one word, uttered in that voice, coming from that face…
Jesus, I have been waiting fifteen years to be stabbed in the heart with it.
Cards on the table, I never stopped thinking about the boy. The one I left alive when I most definitely shouldn’t have. The son of my former mentor, the king whose throne I usurped in a very callous and bloody display.
All these years, I’ve known he could one day come for me. I might’ve been praying for it.
Don’t ask me why, because I honestly couldn’t tell you. Maybe it speaks to the Machiavellian in me, but there was always something so satisfying about the idea that the son of the man I killed to avenge my family would one day come to avenge his.
Vengeance is hot, I don’t care what anyone says.
And no, I didn’t leave the boy alive on the off-chance that he would track me down as an adult and enamor me in such an intoxicating way, but hey… I’ll leave this one somewhere between deeply rooted psychological issues and inexplicable cosmic chances of fate.
Perhaps it’s a conversation for Carl Sagan and Sigmund Freud to have wherever they’re bopping around right now.