Chapter 8 #2
Spettro. The name has a nice ring to it.
In seven years I haven’t missed having a name, I haven’t even really needed one.
You don’t need to be called anything if you don’t bother having anyone in your life to call you.
But Alessio giving me one makes me feel a little bit more like a real person again, like I’m more than just a faded memory left to haunt the people who made me this way.
Like maybe some part of me is actually still alive.
I put a hand over my heart to feel the steady thump, thump, thump of it. It’s a habit I got into after I left the hospital. Just a way to check every so often that I’m not really a ghost, even if I feel like one. Even if most people look right through me.
Not Alessio though.
The surge of warmth that floods my chest makes my throat tighten and my pulse spike.
I’m playing with fire. Not because Alessio is a Moretti, but because he sees me, even if I can’t understand why.
Not once have I felt an ounce of fear sneaking around the Reapers’ clubhouse or cornering any of them in an alley, but the way Alessio looks at me is fucking terrifying.
I should leave. The possibility that the Morettis might be willing to help me finish off the Reapers isn’t worth the risk.
But instead of bolting for the door, I find myself getting comfortable on the expensive leather couch, one foot up on the marble coffee table and an arm casually slung across the back.
I’m sitting exactly where Alessio was the other night when I peeked through the window, and that thought alone has my dick fully hard and aching for the wet, clenching heat of one of his holes.
I groan and cup myself through my jeans, grinding the palm of my hand against the base of my cock for a few seconds of relief.
The sound of running water shuts off and I hear the pad of his footsteps.
He must have taken off his shoes. I’m eager to see what else he’s already taken off.
Just how impatient is he to have my hands and mouth all over his skin?
It’s another minute before his footsteps finally start moving closer, and then he appears in the mouth of the hallway, stripped down to nothing but a pair of silk briefs, just like the night I broke in.
They’re red this time instead of black, and I can already see a wet spot forming where the fabric is stretched tight across his cockhead.
Without a gun to my head this time, I have the chance to appreciate the view, from his pebbled brown nipples to the lean muscles of his thighs, the thick, dark hair on his chest and beneath his belly button.
I squeeze my cock again and make an appreciative sound before raising my hand and crooking a finger at him to beckon him closer.
He doesn’t stumble over himself or hurry. His stride across the living room is confident and carefully paced, obedient without trying to appear overeager.
“Don’t put on a front for me, Alessio.” I use my foot to push the coffee table back, then spread my thighs to make space for him. “Having you play it cool doesn’t turn me on. Seeing you fucking needy and desperate does.”
With a small shudder, he drops the act and lets me see every ounce of submission and hunger in his eyes as he lowers himself to his knees in front of me.
He has a bottle of lube and several condoms clutched in his hand.
He sets the lube down on the floor and then meets my gaze with a mixture of surrender and confidence.
“I grabbed these in case it was a hard limit for you, but I prefer not to use them.”
A memory of his panted words from the last time I had him on his knees dances through my head. “Breed my throat. I fucking need it.”
I smirk and lean forward, bringing my face inches from his again. The lingering smell of booze is gone, replaced by a fresh, minty scent that doesn’t make my stomach clench or my skin crawl.
“You want me to breed your slutty little hole?” I growl, taking his jaw in my hand and watching the way his eyelids flutter and his lips part on a silent moan. “You want me to hold you down and shoot hot ropes of my cum deep into your guts?”
“Yes, Sir.” He groans, squirming in my grasp, straining to bring his lips closer to mine.
I can’t remember kissing anyone. Not outside of my memories of that night, and none of that felt like kissing.
Sloppy forced tongues while I gagged on the taste of booze and my own vomit isn’t the same thing.
I’m sure I kissed someone once, probably more than once.
Maybe I had boyfriends, lovers, men who knew my name and gave a shit about me.
I can’t remember any of it. I don’t even know if it’s real or wishful thinking.
Ever since I watched Alessio lick the cum off my glove though, I’ve been thinking about licking into his mouth, tasting his lips, feeling the vibrations of his muffled moans and panting breaths around my tongue.
My heart thunders again and a voice in the back of my head warns me against it.
It could trigger a flashback, and that would ruin any fun we’re about to have.
Worse, I could like it. I could crave it.
I could want to kiss Alessio again, even after I leave here tonight.
He’s still while I wrestle with the possibilities, leaning into my grasp just enough that he’s not pushing past my hold on him, but if I were to let go, he’d crash right into my lips without effort.
Each of our exhales mingle in the inch of space between our mouths, and with just one more shaky breath, I grab on to the impulse and slam my lips roughly into his.
His mouth gives way to my demand just as willingly as he’s bent to every other request I’ve made so far, and he whimpers around my tongue.
Instantly, it’s laughable that I thought anything about this would trigger a flashback of that night.
I was right—that wasn’t kissing. There was nothing hot or hungry or passionate the way this is.
The beautiful control Alessio gives me makes my head spin and my cock throb, matching the rhythm of my lips moving against his as his jaw goes slack in my grasp and his whole body melts closer to me.
I was right to be worried that I could get addicted to this though. The hot drag of my tongue against his could create a brand new kind of itch under my skin that I might never be able to chase away.
I break the kiss with my chest heaving and lick my lips to savor the taste of him. The memory of his eyes hazy with lust and the swollen dampness of his lips is definitely going to be my new favorite jerk-off fantasy.
“Grab the lube and get up on the couch.”
He blinks like he’s coming out of a dream. Dropping the condoms carelessly, he picks up the lube and then wobbles to his feet.
“Wait,” I say before he can sit down on the couch. “Give me those.” I hook my fingers into the waistband of his briefs—I might even go as far as calling them panties the way they cling to his body and make him look so damn pretty and delicate—and tug them down.
His cock springs free, long and uncut, darker than the rest of his olive skin.
It bounces temptingly in front of my face, the foreskin already rolling back to expose his glistening cockhead and drooling slit.
He steps out of the panties, and I wrap my hand around his shaft.
I can just barely feel the heat of his skin through the leather.
His eyelids flutter and his muscles tremble as he holds himself back from thrusting into my grasp.
I give him one slow stroke, dragging a choked moan from his throat before I let go of him and reach around to give his bare ass a sharp swat. His eyes go wide and his cock visibly jerks.
“On the couch, leaning over the arm. You’re going to finger that tight hole open for me and I want to see it.”
“Yes, Sir.” He throws himself onto the couch and scrambles into place, no longer trying to play it cool.
With him kneeling with his elbows braced on the arm of the couch, I have the perfect view of his hole as he bends over and his cheeks part.
I groan and unzip my jeans, reaching inside to free my cock with the rest of my clothes still in place.
Slowly stroking myself with one hand, I focus the rest of my attention back on Alessio, watching him reach between his spread legs, his fingers dripping with lube, to find his hole.
He circles his slippery fingertips around his rim and my cock spasms in my grasp.
“Talk to me, slut,” I rasp, wanting to hear all the composure bleed out of his voice as he fingers himself, getting more and more desperate for my cock.
“I’ve put on your glove and jerked off at least a dozen times already,” he confesses with a quiet moan as he slips one finger inside the tight pucker of his hole.
“It’s been less than a week.” I let out a rough laugh, my gaze fixed on the way his finger slides in and out. I grab his ass cheek with my free hand to spread it a little wider.
“I know.” He chokes out another slutty sound. “And I’m still so fucking horny for you I can’t fucking think straight.”
A frown tugs at my lips, and as much as I don’t want to ruin the moment or derail the dirty talk, I can’t help but ask, “Why?”
He slides his finger deeper, fucking it in and out a little faster, his breathing speeding up to match the impatient pace. “I have no fucking clue. Something in your eyes, the sound of your voice, I can’t get you out of my head.”
A surge of unexpected emotions rushes through me, and that voice in the back of my head warns me again that this whole thing is a bad idea, maybe even a dangerous one.
But a much more primal part of me doesn’t give a fuck.
All it knows is craving, and it turns out that being wanted by Alessio is even more addictive than meth.