Chapter 12 #2
I tighten my grip, just enough. His whole body shudders. His reflection in the glass is wrecked—lips parted, eyes half-shut, that aristocratic composure dissolving into something much more needy.
And I don’t speed up. I keep it slow and thorough and deliberate, each stroke pulling another sound out of him that he’s trying not to make. He’s close; his thighs tense up and his breathing fractures into sharp gasps.
He’ll never be more vulnerable than right now, and never more likely to be reduced to honesty.
So I stop.
“Why did you leave?” I murmur in his ear, like it’s just dirty talk.
Like that question hasn’t been eating me alive.
“What?” he gasps out. “Dami, come on, I’m so close—”
“Why. Did you. Leave? Tell me, or I’ll leave you all backed up again.”
He’s panting and shaking in my arms as though that might make me take pity on him. But I’ll never feel sorry for him again, not after what he did to me.
Not just to me—to the household.
“Tell me,” I say again, when the Clemenza stays mute. I close a hand on his balls again, squeeze a warning.
“I had to,” he yelps out. “I couldn’t trust you. I heard—I heard—oh, God, please, could you just—”
“You heard what?”
“I heard you telling Sammy,” he gasps out, “about my Loyalists…”
It takes a second for his meaning to click. Sammy? His Loyalists?
And then it rushes back. Sitting around the kitchen table and eating dinner with everyone like I had any right to play happy families.
Going out to the trash with Sammy, worried about the Bratva.
And this little snake was hiding inside, listening in as I assured Sammy I was keeping the Clemenza under control.
Caligula is pulling at my arm around his chest. I’m so angry my hold has tightened without me knowing it.
When I let go, he breathes in, harsh and ragged, and I catch sight of my own face in the glass.
Hollow eyes, clenched jaw, the cords in my neck standing out.
I’m looming over his shoulder like a demon riding him, my face twisted up.
And he’s still hard. Still pressed back against me. Still wanting the demon.
If he hadn’t overheard me, he might never have left. We wouldn’t be here—him thinking he can lord it over my household, command me like some servant.
But we are here. Him trembling in my arms, still hard, still desperate, still begging for my touch even after I nearly cracked his ribs.
I should stop. Walk away.
Instead, I wrap my hand back around his cock and jack him hard and fast. He cries out, shocked, his back arching off my chest until I pull him close again.
I set my mouth against his neck—not a kiss, just my open mouth against his pulse, breathing him in while I work him—and his hand flies back and grabs my hip.
Again. Holding on like I’m the only solid thing in the world.
He’s loud. He’s so fucking loud, his cries working up into a crescendo and echoing through the room until I want to slap a hand over his mouth.
But I don’t. I still get off on hearing it, on knowing that the icy Clemenza prince will melt into a torrent for me.
I work him through it until his knees buckle and I have to hold him up, his full weight collapsed against my chest. I’m holding him, supporting him, my arm wrapped around him in an embrace instead of a prison…
And then I shove him forward so he has to catch himself on the glass.
Caligula Clemenza doesn’t need propping up. He proved that by playing me, and playing the Morellis as well. He’s supposed to be their fucking enemy, and a flutter of lashes over those golden eyes had them wanting to kiss and make up.
He takes a breath or two, then leans down to pull the robe back on. And when he turns around to face me, he’s no longer that needy little slut who couldn’t think because his balls were so heavy. His eyes are glittering and cold and calculating.
“I know what we need to do,” he says.
I almost laugh. “There’s that venomous little viper,” I say.
“Brain back online, huh?” It’s unnerving how fast he can clear his head.
That was the point, of course, of jerking him off on my French doors—which I’ll have to fucking clean down myself, since I don’t want Rosa to see the evidence of what just happened.
But as much as his brain has cleared, I can’t seem to get the buzzing out of mine. I can still hear those sounds he made, feel his weight and his warmth in my arms. And I’m hard as iron, half thinking about throwing him over the breakfast table and fucking him until I empty out deep in his gut.
“Well?” I ask, since I need to keep his focus on my face. I don’t want him to know he makes me just as hard as I make him. “What’s your genius idea?”
“We’ll meet with my Loyalists,” he says.
At least it kills my hard-on. “No fucking way.”
“Yes fucking way,” he says, hard and haughty. “I don’t care if you—”
But he breaks off as we both hear it—footsteps, running down the staircase and getting fainter.
Shit. There’s only one member of my household who can move that fast and light.
Sammy must have seen us.