17. Chapter 11
Lorenzo
A very, very naughty boy? What the hell am I thinking?
I lean back in my chair in my office at Giovanni’s house. I’m not thinking. That’s the obvious answer.
Ever since Dashiell Fucking Novak has entered my life, it’s like I’ve lost the ability to think straight. His fucking messages. Or the way I’ve seen him on my security cameras, wandering around my apartment in his underwear when I’m not home.
The first time I saw that, I wanted to drive right back to my apartment and throw him down on that kitchen table. I wanted to rip those white briefs off, exposing his ass, and then absolutely devour him, before pushing into him, with just my spit and precum as lube.
Instead, I looked over some files.
Very exciting.
And utterly unfulfilling, sexually speaking.
I lower my head to my desk and knock my forehead against the smooth, cold wood. The frigid office does nothing to cool the heat of my arousal. I’ve got to do something about it.
Giovanni is gone, off meeting with some capos, and I’m alone in the house except for some staff members who know better than to barge into my office.
Still, I get up and lock the door before returning to my desk and slipping my phone out of my pocket. Though I’ll admit that sometimes I enjoy it when people watch me getting off, my brother’s home isn’t the best setting for that.
Settling back into my desk chair, I unzip my pants and reach into my underwear, palming the length of my cock. I’m already halfway there in terms of arousal, my dick half-hard and ready to get harder.
Honestly, I might not even need my phone. Might not need to look up anything depraved and delectable online, because I’ve got plenty of those fantasies stored in my mind. Recently, all of those fantasies involve the fucking firefighter now staying in my apartment.
I push my pants down a bit further, freeing both my cock and my balls. Full and heavy, they are warm and sensitive and ready to be touched.
Imagining that it isn’t my hand but Dashiell’s—or even better, his mouth—I stroke myself, gently at first. I draw light fingers up my shaft, teasing it, swirling a finger through the pearl of precum that’s already dripping down my head.
What I’d give to smear that precum along Dashiell’s full, beautiful lips.
Gradually, I let myself fall into my fantasy, sinking into it like a faithful penitent genuflecting before a holy altar.
I see Dashiell in my kitchen, wearing only that thin white cotton, tantalizingly translucent, just barely hiding the shadows of his manhood. Unaware of me, or pretending to be unaware. Pretending not to notice my gaze on him, pretending not to notice the effect he has on me.
When I make myself known, he offers himself to me willingly, kneeling at my command—it’s a relief, his soft hazel eyes tell me, to submit.
“What do you need, sir?” he murmurs, his voice full of an eager, earnest promise: whatever I need from him, it’s mine. I can have it all, can take it all, and he won’t stop me, for he wants me to take it.
But I don’t answer him immediately. Rather, I let that beautiful question hang in the air like sacred incense, and only when he trembles do I tell him what I need.
I need nothing. I need everything.
I need him.
My hand moves around my cock the way I imagine his mouth would. Unhurried, and then frantic, then unhurried again. A rhythm without mercy because mercy isn’t what either of us wants.
I imagine his throat bobbing, filled with my cock, imagine the tears that might stream down his cheeks in ecstasy, imagine the warm wetness of his tongue on my length.
Good boy, obedient, submissive, perfect, mine.
All words that I allow to fill the fantasy, filthy praise and adoring degradation falling equally from my imagined lips like the spit that rolls down his chin.
I can say them in the fantasy, words that I keep locked inside in reality.
His hands are bound, not because I need him helpless, but because even in a fantasy I need to know he’d surrender. That he would choose to let me take control. That choice is the whole point.
I imagine his eyes on mine, hazel and wet and unashamed while he gives himself to me freely, lets me claim him, use him, mark him and fill him.
When my orgasm comes, it isn’t gentle. I gasp his name, those beautiful syllables jumping unbidden from my lips as my climax jerks and shocks through my body, as I mark my own shirt with my cum.
For a long moment afterward, I sit there at my desk, my head bowed, breathing carefully.
Almost like I’m lost in prayer.
“Fuck…” I whisper, drawing the word out in a long sigh.
The fantasy fades, vanishing with the dissipating mists of the orgasm. When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the cum smeared down the front of my shirt.
Thankfully, I have some extras in my office here. Not for this purpose, of course, but because when you work in the mafia you never know when you might end up with blood or other unsavory things on your clothes.
I stand and strip off my shirt. My pants are still unzipped, and my cock, still swollen and tender, hangs heavy in front of me.
What am I thinking? I wonder as I grab a fresh shirt and slowly go about buttoning it. Indulging in my attraction to Dashiell is a dangerous game, and probably an inappropriate one.
I might love a power imbalance in a fantasy, but I recognize that power imbalances have to be consensually negotiated if they’re going to be appropriate.
Whatever this is, whatever I feel for Dashiell, can’t go beyond fantasy. He’s under my protection, and the things I want to do to him don’t exactly involve “keeping him free from harm.” Rather, I would like to hurt him—if that’s what he wants.
Problem is, I think he does want it.
It seems like it, at least, if the way he texts is any indication. Always pushing me, poking me, like he wants to make me angry, wants to provoke a reaction from me, wants me to punish him.
And, god, I want to.
But I can’t.
I won’t.
I promise myself that as I finish buttoning my shirt and fold the cum-smeared one, hiding it under my desk.
I will not lay a hand on Dashiell Novak.
I’ve had a few moments of weakness, like letting him feel my arousal when I stepped close to him, but no more.
That’s done. I made him a promise to protect him, and now I promise myself that I won’t ever, ever touch him.