Chapter 28
CALIGULA
“Caligula?”
I wake slowly, swimming back up from dreams. I yawn and stretch, blinking up at Damiano. “Hi,” I say.
“You need to drink this.” He holds up a cup with a bendy straw. “And then you need to take a bath.”
“I just showered before. When I—when I passed out.”
“That was yesterday. You’ve been asleep for a long time.”
I push myself up a little, looking around, as though the change in day will be observable. Not with the steel shutters still down over all the windows. “What time is it?”
“It’s morning. Ten o’clock.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, in that case…” I try to sit up, but the dizziness hits right away, sending me back to the pillows with a nausea-inducing spin of the room.
Damiano just stands there looking down at me. “Here,” he says at last, offering me the cup again.
I take a tentative suck at the straw and make a face. “What is this?”
“It’s a protein shake. The nurse left a bunch for you. Said you had to get nutrients into you, and this was the easiest way.”
Maybe she’s actually the Morellis’ assassin, because this shit? Is going to kill me. “Gross,” I announce, and try to hand it back.
“What’s rule number one?” Damiano asks impassively.
I squint up at him. “Do what you fucking tell me?”
“And I’m telling you to drink it.”
Fuck this guy. Seriously. But I drink the toxic sludge down until the cup is empty and he’s satisfied. Then he leans down, whips the covers off of me, and slides his arms under me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I demand as he lifts me in his arms like I weigh nothing at all, which is definitely not true. I’ve lost a little weight over the last few months—okay, a lot of weight—but I’m still a grown man, and…
And he’s ignoring my protests, carrying me through into his bathroom in a cradling hold that forces me to put my arms around his neck and just hang on. Kind of a metaphor for our whole acquaintance so far. Him manhandling me however he likes, while I just hold on tight and hope.
He takes me into the bathroom, where he sets me down on the ottoman while he checks the water temperature in the tub.
“Strip,” he says over his shoulder, so I do. Weirdly, he doesn’t watch me. But then he beckons me over and helps me into the water.
“Oh,” I sigh. The water is lukewarm, not hot like I dreaded. I’m so sweaty and sticky all over that it feels delicious. I sink right down to my chin and then below, letting my hair soak in the water while I blow bubbles through my nose, resurfacing with a gasp.
“Don’t fucking drown yourself,” Damiano growls.
I blink the water out of my eyes. “I couldn’t if I tried, Dami. Not with you watching over me. Right?”
“Sit still,” is all he says. He starts to wash me down with a cloth, starting with my shoulders, my arms, my torso. My nipples are tight buds, and I’m not sure if it’s in reaction to the temperature of the water or the attention he’s giving them, disguised as washing down my chest.
I guess it doesn’t matter. Not right now.
I loll my head back against the tub and enjoy it. But I can’t help watching through half-lidded eyes the way his muscles shift beneath his skin, the way the ink dances on his arms as he works.
A few minutes in, I break the silence. “Who’s Sammy?”
“We still on that?” he asks flatly.
“We still on that,” I confirm.
I don’t expect an answer, but I get one. “Few years ago I found him getting beat to death behind a gay club by a group of Clemenzas.”
It hurts to hear that—as he intended, I suspect—but I still want to see how much more I can get out of Damiano Orsini while he’s in a giving mood. “And now he works for you?”
“He’s a runner for me. Carries messages. Does odd jobs, brings in the groceries for Rosa. He’s loyal. Good at staying invisible.”
“Have you slept with him?” I ask.
He looks at me, long and hard, his dark eyes unreadable. “I would never demand gratitude that way.”
The relief that floods through me is so intense, it’s dizzying. Good thing I’m already lying down. But why should I care who Damiano Orsini sleeps with?
I home in on his wording to take my mind off disquieting thoughts. “You say you don’t demand gratitude that way,” I echo him. “But that’s not quite true, Dami, is it? When I wanted the townhouse—”
“When you wanted the townhouse, you made me an offer. Not my fault you decided to get on your knees. That was all you.”
That’s what he says, but guilt flickers across his features like lightning—there and gone so fast I almost miss it. He turns to pick up a sponge this time and lathers it with soap.
“I can wash myself, you know.”
“You’re mine,” he replies. “If I don’t take care of you, you’ll break. And I hate broken things.”
The words are designed to remind me that I’m his property, that I belong to him whether I like it or not. Instead, they send heat spiraling through me, and I have to bite back a moan as he starts to sponge me down.
What is wrong with me?
I order my brain to put aside bliss, since my body won’t play along. And for a precious moment, rational thought kicks in again—because it occurs to me that Damiano Orsini is lying, right after I made him promise not to.
He doesn’t hate broken things. If anything, it’s the opposite.
Look at Rosa. Vito. Sammy. He gathers up broken things and keeps them in his care.
He runs the sponge all over me, soaping me up. Down my arms, over my collarbone, across my nipples that are too sensitive, too responsive to his touch. When he moves under the water to my stomach, I can’t suppress a shiver.
“Cold?” he asks. His hands linger just above my hips, and his eyes are fixed on my face, reading every micro-expression.
“No,” I say. “Not cold.” I let my thighs part in clear invitation. Let my head fall back again against the marble edge of the tub.
His hand replaces the sponge. Wraps around me under the water, and the touch is sure, maddeningly slow. My breath catches, and I have to grip the edge of the tub to keep from arching into his palm like a cat in heat. We both feel it, my body responding to him.
I close my eyes, but he leans closer, close enough that I feel his breath against my ear. “Look at me.”
I force my eyes open to meet his dark gaze, and it’s like looking into a storm—dangerous and consuming. His pupils are blown wide. His breath is faster than it should be. But his hand doesn’t make another movement.
“You want it, you ask for it,” he says.
“Please, Dami,” I breathe. “I want it. Touch me.”
“You’re hard,” he says, running his thumb under my ridge until I groan. “And you’re my responsibility now, so I guess that means I need to do this for you, too. Right?”
“Right,” I gasp out.
His other hand traces my jaw, possessive and gentle. “Remind me who you belong to, Caligula Clemenza.”
The words should make me revolt. They just make me harder, and we both know it.
“Say it,” he commands.
I stay silent.
He lets me go completely. “Say it.”
“I belong to you,” I mutter.
“Again. Louder, this time. Make me believe you finally learned your lesson.”
“I’m yours, Dami.”
“Good boy.” He takes me in hand again and moves faster now, so the pleasure builds like a tide I can’t fight.
When he touches me like this, everything falls away except the sensation.
I can’t tell what’s real anymore except his hand on my cock, the sloshing water, the feel of his breath on my wet skin.
His thumb presses hard into my slit, and I bite my lip to stop from crying out. Then his fingers tighten, a slow, deliberate squeeze. He’s so good at this, so sure, that it almost doesn’t seem fair. I’m at his mercy.
Almost.
“You gonna come for me, Caligula?” he murmurs, and the use of my full name, usually so hated, sends a jolt straight to my balls, sharp but sweet.
“Yeah,” I gasp.
“Not yet.” He backs off immediately, loosening his grip, letting the sensation ebb. I groan in frustration, my hips pushing up into nothing. “You come when I say you can come.”
The water sloshes as I shift. “Dami—”
“Quiet.” His free hand presses on my sternum, a clear command to stay still. “Last thing you need is to get all worked up.”
“I’ll be good,” I promise. “Please...”
He starts again. Slower this time, a maddening, teasing rhythm. He knows what he’s doing, the bastard. He knows exactly how to push me to the edge and then pull me back, leaving me hanging. If this is going to end in frustration like it did at the opera—
“Dami,” I groan, “seriously—”
He leans into my ear. “You’re a greedy little slut, aren’t you?”
My cheeks burn, but my dick throbs. I nod, not even caring about the admission.
“Alright,” he says, concession in his tone. “Since you’re being such a good boy.” His grip changes. He’s not playing anymore. His thumb finds that spot under the head, rubbing hard, fast circles. My balls draw up tight, and I’m just about there—
“Come on,” he coaxes, all traces of teasing gone. “Let it all out.”
The water churns around me as my hips jerk, and I come with a rising, helpless cry as he strokes me through it, the bathwater splashing in a tiny tsunami. When it’s over, I sink back, marinating in my own mess.
Goddamn that felt good.
But more importantly, for the first time, I’ve successfully manipulated Damiano Orsini with my sexuality. Made him see me as helpless. Needy.
Another one of those broken things he instinctively collects and cares for.
He helps me from the tub and wraps me in a soft towel. Leads me back to his bed where he makes sure I sit up gently, arranging pillows behind my back with care.
Food is waiting on a tray beside the bed, so I assume Rosa must have come in while we were in the bathroom.
I hope she didn’t hear—well, no point worrying about that.
I’m too hungry, for one thing, eagerly taking up a bowl of rice and soft chicken in a broth scented with lemon and herbs.
The kind of meal that’s meant to heal, to comfort.
To help Damiano maintain his property.
I eat, letting it soak into my bones. Damiano watches me the entire time, as usual.
The silence stretches out between us. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s also not helping me any. “You could have left me down there in the basement to die,” I say at last, deciding to push a little. “Why didn’t you?”
“I told you. I don’t plan to kill you.”
“And why is that?” I raise an eyebrow when he doesn’t reply. “Why is that, Dami? You said yourself you don’t care about the contract. And you made a big deal out of telling me you wanted revenge for your father when you first bought me. He’s dead. So why aren’t I?”
Nothing. But I figure my fainting spell has won me a little more leeway than usual. So I keep going.
“And what was that in the bathtub? A reward?”
He gives the tiniest flicker of the eyelid, but I catch it.
“Or was it an apology orgasm?”
“It was supposed to shut you up.”
At last I’ve provoked him to speech. “Was it Darla-sanctioned?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Then—”
“Enough,” he cuts in, folding his arms over his impressive chest. “My turn. What were you doing at my new property the night your cousin got iced? Your grandfather’s townhouse,” he adds as I look at him blankly.
Oh, fuck this guy. And if we’re going into that, I want something back. “I’ll tell you if you answer a few questions of mine, Dami.”
“We’re not bargaining here, golden boy. You belong to me, so—”
“I belong to you. My knowledge does not. So if you want to know what I know, Dami, you’ll need to give a little yourself, or torture it out of me—but in that case, I might just die on you.” He says nothing, but it’s not a refusal. “Come on, Dami. Two heads are better than one.”
He sighs. “Fine.”