Chapter 19
DAMIANO
I shouldn’t be doing this.
Caligula Clemenza is wrapping himself around me like chains, and every part of my brain that still functions is screaming at me to get up, go to the guest room, put a few solid walls between us, plus a locked door.
But he agreed this won’t change anything, and I’m stupid enough to believe it.
Or maybe I just want to believe it.
His pulse is going fast, faster than mine, and the knowledge that this arrogant little prince with his steady voice and his ice-cold composure has a heartbeat that gives him away every single time…
It’s gratifying.
I pin his wrists to the pillow. Not hard. Just enough to feel him test the hold.
He tests it. And then he stops.
“Don’t talk,” I tell him. “And don’t move.”
His breath hitches. I feel his cock pressing against my stomach, already hard, and I’m almost angry at how good he feels under me, slim and warm and giving, this man who has stolen my bedroom and my chair and my household right out from under me.
I let go of his wrists to reach for the lube in the nightstand. He keeps perfectly still, leaving his hands exactly where I put them.
“Good boy.”
I say it out loud without meaning to, and it shocks me. Where the fuck did that come from? I squeeze some lube onto my fingers, then shove them into him. Rough. Too rough. But I’m not doing this for his pleasure. He’s my property. I can do what I like with him.
But he’s so fucking responsive, arching into my touch, a sound escaping him as I crook my fingers to find the place that really makes him melt for me.
And that thought comes crawling back.
Good boy. Like that. Just like that.
I work him open and I take my time with it, enjoy the way every muscle in his body is taut and trembling, his breath getting faster while he tries so goddamn hard to stay quiet like I told him to. With every noise he swallows, every tiny moan, his body tightens around my fingers.
He jerks as I run my fingers over that magic button again, his hips pushing down, and I grab a handful of his hair in warning. “I said don’t move.”
A sound escapes him. Not a word. More like air shoved out of his lungs. I pull my fingers out, push his knees up into his chest and settle my hips between his thighs.
Face to face. I shouldn’t…
But it’s dark in here. I can’t see him. He can’t see me.
That makes it okay.
When I push in, I do it slow, maybe slower than I’ve ever taken him.
I feel every inch of resistance, every inch of give, the tight, wet heat of him opening up for me.
His legs slide around me and pull me in deeper, and for one terrible second I think about kissing him.
I’m close enough that I can feel his breath on my mouth.
Close enough that if I moved half an inch forward—
I don’t.
This was a stupid idea, but I don’t want to be anywhere else in the world right now. Buried inside the last surviving Clemenza, in my bed, in the dark, where nobody can see me.
This was a really stupid idea.
I start to move. Long, deep strokes, and his body rocks to meet mine every time, despite what I told him about staying still. I don’t correct him.
And then his fingers find my shoulders, my arms, the back of my neck.
I let him hold on.
I want to say something cruel. Something to put distance back between us, even though our bodies are close. Something to remind us both that this is born out of hatred. But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out except a groan of encouragement.
He’s close. I know it from the way he tightens around me, from the trembling in his thighs, from the desperate, almost silent sounds he’s making beneath me. His cock is leaking between us and if I gave him one stroke, two, he’d come apart.
I don’t. That’s the one cruelty that will remain between us tonight.
I drive into him harder instead, and he makes a strangled sound, his hands and legs both clutching at me, his whole body begging for what I won’t give him. His hips tilt up, trying to get friction against my stomach, and I shift my weight up so he can’t.
“Dami,” he gasps. The first word he’s spoken. “Please.”
I put a hand over his mouth, keep my pace deep and steady, and when that familiar tension swells at the base of my spine, I bury my face in the crook of his neck and fuck into him faster, chasing it.
He’s writhing under me now, desperate, on the edge, and I grab both his wrists in one hand this time, stretching him out under me.
It hits me hard. I bury myself in him to the hilt, every muscle in my body locked up tight.
For a few seconds, I can’t think. Can’t remember what I’m supposed to hate about him. Can’t remember why I was angry. There’s just the euphoria of release and his wrists in my hand, and my other hand…
My other hand is cradling the back of his head. I’m not gripping his hair. Not pulling. I’m just holding him.
I yank my hand away and pull out. He makes a pitiful noise at the loss. “Dami,” he says again, and the word is wrecked, full of need. “Please.”
I shove his legs away from me so I can roll onto my back, my chest heaving, and lie there staring up at the darkness.
“Go clean yourself up,” I say at last.
He’s quiet for a long time. I think maybe he’s going to argue, demand, order me to finish him off. But after a moment, he gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom.
When he slides back into the bed, all he says is, “Goodnight, Dami.”
No sarcasm, no venom this time. Just his voice in the dark, stripped of everything.
I close my eyes. I listen to his breathing slow down, bit by bit. He shifts once, pulling the sheet up. I feel his knee touch mine and I don’t move away from it.
Time passes. Could be ten minutes, could be an hour. His breathing evens out, deepens. He’s asleep.
My hand finds his hip. Just rests there. My thumb on the bone, fingers curving around it. I’m not pulling him closer. I’m not holding him.
Just touching him.
He makes a small sound in his sleep and shifts further into my palm.
I leave my hand where it is.