24. Chapter 18
Dashiell
Later that day
Lorenzo comes to me in my dreams, naked and ready to claim me.
His body is hard and tan, hairy in all the perfect places, as he crouches before me, spreading my legs and staring with holy lust at what he finds between them.
I want to devour you, he says to me, and I feel that voice through my entire being.
My atoms come apart when his tongue touches me.
I am a blaze of fire and pleasure and falling water—
When I wake, sometime in the late afternoon, my sheets are tangled around my legs, and cum stains the cotton of my boxer briefs.
A wet dream, I think.
Haven’t had one of those since I was a teenager.
I peel my underwear off, using it to wipe myself clean, and toss them off the bed. Then I roll over, burying my face in a pillow. I can’t believe what I did this morning.
Something came over me, some delirious, salacious part of me that I didn’t fully know existed, and it only wanted one thing: to perform.
And, by extension, to be watched.
I knew what I was doing when I told Lorenzo that I was going to shower. I knew what I was doing when I left the bedroom door open.
I hoped that he would follow.
Dreamed that he would follow.
When he did, when I saw him watching me through the glass, when I saw him take the length of his cock in his hands and stroke himself at the sight of me, it did something to me unlike any sensual experience before.
It had felt almost sacred, a rush of shivering pleasure through my body, as I knew that Lorenzo was getting off by watching me.
He was gone when I got out of the shower, nowhere to be found in the apartment. His door was shut, and I didn’t dare try it to see if he was in there. If he had locked himself away in shame or anger, or as some form of punishment.
Though who’s to say if he was punishing himself, or if he was punishing me.
A knock on my door draws my attention, and I prop myself up on my elbows. “Who is it?” I call, though I know there’s only one reasonable answer.
“Lorenzo. Family dinner tonight at my mother’s.”
“Tonight? Seriously?” I rub sleep from my eyes. “I just woke up. When are we leaving?”
“In an hour. Can you be ready by then?”
I slide out of bed. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Good,” he says through the door. “Wear something nice.”
I shower again, this time not putting on a show for anyone. I need to be quick, need to actually get clean and not get distracted. Still, I can’t help but picture Lorenzo watching me through the foggy glass, can’t help but remember how good it felt to be watched by him.
Nothing has ever felt so right.
I don’t know what one is supposed to wear to a mafia family dinner, but Lorenzo said to wear something nice, so I pick out the best outfit I have. Lorenzo’s people, whoever they are, have transferred everything I own to Lorenzo’s apartment, and I dig my only suit out of the closet.
It’s not a good suit—charcoal, bought off the rack two years ago for a high school friend’s wedding.
I’ve worn it exactly twice since then, because I don’t find myself in many situations that require suits.
But it’ll have to do. I definitely don’t own a Diamante-Family-dinner suit, and none of Lorenzo’s fine clothes will fit me.
Laying the suit out on the bed, I survey it for wrinkles (nothing too bad), and stains (none, thankfully). Then I return to my closet, find a white button-down and a blue tie. Again, purchased for the wedding.
Everything laid out, I toss aside my towel. My underwear is in my hands when there is another knock on the door.
Lorenzo’s voice sounds through the wood of the door. “Dash—are you ready?”
“It hasn’t been an hour yet!” I protest, squeezing my underwear in my fist.
“No. It’s not time to leave yet. Can I come in?”
I glance down at myself, as naked as I was when Lorenzo watched me give myself an orgasm in the shower. Oh, well. Nothing he hasn’t seen before—and I want him to see it again.
“Sure,” I say. The door is halfway open and he’s stepping through it when I add, “Fair warning, I’m naked.”
“Christ,” Lorenzo says, shielding his eyes. “Put some pants on.”
I drop the underwear and fold my arms. “No.”
“No?” His hand still covers his eyes. “What do you mean, no?”
“I mean, no. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, Lorenzo. And unless my short-term memory isn’t working, I think I can safely say that you enjoyed the sight.”
He’s fully dressed in a suit that’s far nicer than mine.
It fits him like it was made for him. It probably was.
The material is midnight blue, not quite black, and looks supple and silky.
I would love to run my hands over it, feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath the fabric.
Would love to undo the elegant buckle of that sleek belt, open his fly, free his cock from his underwear, and let him fuck me however he wants.
I’m not ashamed of the fact that I find something deeply erotic about being naked while others around me are clothed.
It’s my exhibitionist kink, for sure. I love being an object of desire, an object of scorn.
My nakedness is humiliating in a way that has nothing to do with shame and everything to do with deep sensuality.
Lorenzo’s broad shoulders relax slightly as he sighs, and then he lowers his hand. His dark gaze settles on me, those hooded eyes drinking in my nakedness.
Look at me, Lorenzo, I think. Lust after me.
“That is actually what I came to talk to you about,” he says huskily, drawing his eyes up to meet mine, an act that seems to require immense physical will.
“Oh? What do you mean?”
His jaw works, and he fiddles absently with a cufflink. Aw. Lorenzo is nervous. “That can’t happen again.”
“What can’t happen again? You getting yourself off while watching me cum?”
I wanted to make him blush, and it works. Red rises in his tan cheeks, and his eyes flare. “Yes, Dash. That.”
Without taking my eyes off him, I sit on my bed, bringing myself closer to him. Instead of crossing my legs, I let them spread, giving him a full view of my cock hanging between my legs. Let him see me soft and small, let him imagine all those dirty things he could do to get me hard again.
“Why not?”
“Because!” he bursts out, a brief loss of control. With a breath, he calms himself. “Because, I’m supposed to be protecting you, not…” He shakes his head. “It was a lapse in judgment. My judgment, not yours. It won’t happen again.”
My hand drifts toward my thighs, my fingers trailing a delicate touch up my sensitive skin. “What if I want it to happen again?”
And, God help me, heat flushes into my cock and I don’t need to look down at myself to see that I’m getting hard.
“See what you do to me, Lorenzo?” I whisper. “Your judgment didn’t lapse or whatever. You acknowledged what you want, what I want.”
My hand reaches my cock, but I don’t stroke. Instead, I play with my balls, squeezing them gently while he watches, then slip my fingers beneath them, behind them, feeling for the ticklish spot of my taint.
“I want this. I want you.” The admission comes out of me in a breathy whisper, almost like a prayer.
Lorenzo’s gaze is fixed on the spot where my fingers play in the shadows between my thighs. I shift my legs, spreading them more to give him a better view.
“You don’t know what you’re saying, Dash. You don’t know what I want.” He swallows, and the bob of his Adam’s apple is so inexplicably erotic that I give in to my desire and press a finger to my hole, while reaching for my cock with my other hand. “You don’t know how I like things.”
“How do you like them?” I ask, practically begging him to tell me.
He advances into the room, his voice low and dark. “I don’t make love. I fuck. And I fuck hard and rough. I like it filthy and depraved. I like to dominate and force my partner into submission. You couldn’t handle the things I like doing in sex. I would hurt you.”
It’s a battle to keep myself from actually whimpering at that. God, I’m pathetic, stroking and fingering myself for this man who says he doesn’t want me.
“How do you know that’s not what I like?
” I drop my voice until it’s hardly more than a gasp while I swirl a finger around my hole.
“How do you know I don’t like to be punished?
To be choked? To be spanked? How do you know I don’t like my hole stretched open, abused by a cock?
How do you know I don’t like to be smothered, to be dominated, to be crushed into submission? ”
Fucking hell, the very thought of it has me close to cumming again. Precum drips down the swollen head of my cock, and I catch it on my fingers, using it as lube to pierce into my hole.
“Because that’s exactly how I like to be fucked. I don’t want someone to make love to me. I want to be fucked, to be used.”
Knuckle deep in myself, I meet his eyes and say with the conviction of an oath, “I want to be hurt.”
He moves across the room as fast as he did when he found me being attacked on the street.
I’m thrown back against the bed, and suddenly, he’s got both my wrists pinned above my head in one of his hands, his knee wedged between my legs, his whole weight settled on top of me, pushing me into the bed.
It’s crushing, suffocating, frightening—and exhilarating. His other hand grips one of my bare thighs, pushing it to the side, stretching my muscles just to the point of pain.
I am completely immobilized. I can hardly breathe, and I fucking love it.
“This,” he says in a low voice right against my ear, “is what I could do to you. I could fuck you right now if I wanted to.”
My pulse flutters, pounding in my ears. I love his weight on me, the total, effortless control he exerts over me. I am genuinely, completely helpless beneath him.
“Please,” I whimper, but I’m not begging for him to release me. “Please do it.”
Our faces are inches apart, so close that I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the hint of silver in his stubble, the varied, fleshy pink of his lips.
“No,” he murmurs.
I struggle beneath him, trying to buck my hips, let him feel my arousal, but still I can’t move. His grip tightens around my wrists, his hip bones digging into me, and—I suck in a breath. I can feel him against me, the hard, hot length of his cock through his pants.
“Please,” I beg. “You want it. I know you want it.”
“Maybe I do,” he whispers, bringing his mouth down close to my neck, so close that I can feel the warm tickle of his breath on my skin. It drives me mad.
“Then why not?”
His lips are close enough to my neck that if I could move at all, one squirm would have them pressed to my skin. “Because,” he says, “I promised you I’d protect you. What I want to do to you has nothing to do with protecting you.”
Then he releases me, just enough that I can scoot back on the bed. He catches my wrist in one of his hands, draws it toward his face, an expression of furious hunger in his eyes as he stares at the finger that just moments ago was buried in my ass.
My heart thunders as he takes my finger in his mouth and sucks.
“Get dressed,” he says roughly, dropping my hand and climbing off my bed. “We have somewhere to be.”
I want to argue. I want to throw myself at his feet and kiss them and grovel until he fucks me, but I know it won’t be any use.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Family dinner. Now get out so that I can get dressed.”
He leaves without a word, and when the door shuts behind him, I look down mournfully at my throbbing, aching cock. He brought me so close, just by pinning me to the bed and sucking a finger. I can only imagine how good the orgasm would be if he actually let loose and did everything he wanted to me.
At last, I roll off my bed—cock still hard—and bend to pick up my discarded underwear.
I’m about to put it on when I think better of it.
Sitting in the back of my underwear drawer is a small lacy black thong, a delicate scrap of erotic fabric that I bought on a whim once for an underwear party I went to with Kenny. I’ve never had the occasion to wear it since that party, but now I have an idea.
Tonight, I decide, is exactly the right occasion for it.
If Lorenzo wants things between us to remain appropriate, fine. I can look appropriate. But I know what he wants. I know how he watched me, how he came at the sight of me, how he savored the taste of me just now on his tongue.
Fuck, what I’d give for his tongue to go right to the source.
I find the thong wadded up beneath other more discreet underwear, and pull it quickly on. My cock is still swollen, not quite hard, and I have to do some finagling to get it to fit in the thong. It’s nice and tight between my cheeks, the perfect pinch against my hole.
Then I go to the mirror in my bathroom with my phone, turn around so that my thong-pinched ass is fully on display in the mirror, and snap a picture of myself.
Before I can give myself time to second-guess my decision, I send the photo to Lorenzo, along with a short message:
Me: In case you’re wondering what I’m wearing under my suit <3
And then I finish getting ready.