Chapter 6 #5
Sign me the fuck up. I'm a fan.
Got the hottest one in the game and he's all mine. More. I feel that burn that flips into something filthy good.
Now he's all the way in, buried to the root. He moans right into my mouth, and I kiss him hard to swallow the sound. Tongue in, tasting him, shutting us both up. Holy fuck, I'd forgotten how good he feels inside.
"Good?" he murmurs, mouth still on mine. I nod fast. "Yeah. So good." He smiles and starts moving. Slow thrusts at first. Back, forth. Dragging out, sliding back in.
He reaches back blind, finds the edge of the blanket, and tugs it up just enough to drape over his hips. My hands never leave his ass.
I pull him deeper myself, take him all the way in one greedy push. Unreal. "Thank you," he whispers, as he starts moving.
He slides out, steady pushes back in. His hand drops between us, wraps around my dick, and starts stroking in time with his thrusts.
We're quiet. Have to be. The only sounds are the wet slide of lube, the soft taps when his hips meet my ass, our breathing getting rougher but swallowed fast.
Nothing like when it's just us. There’s no headboard banging, no filthy loud moans, no screaming each other's names. Antonio's probably drooling on his dinosaur pillow, and we're not about to scar the kid for life.
Not that he'd remember at his age, but try explaining to a three-year-old tomorrow morning why Daddy was making weird noises after bedtime.
Yeah, no. Hard pass.
He rolls his hips once with that deep grind that hits exactly right. Fuck. Didn't expect it to light me up that fast.
"Do that again," I mutter. He looks down at me. "This?" Does it again. Same angle, same pressure. Hits perfect. I want to curse loud, bite down on my fist instead because I'm a parent now.
He smirks and starts doing it over and over. I wrap my legs around his waist quick, lock my ankles behind his back. Pull him in closer, deeper.
No escape. I know he loves dragging this out, edging me until I'm begging, but fuck that tonight. He's not stopping now. He's gonna fuck me through it whether he likes it or not.
He doesn't fight it. Just groans low against my neck, hips snapping harder, hand speeding up on my dick. And I'm close. Too close. Trying to swallow every sound.
This orgasm is different.
It builds slower, deeper, spreads everywhere, not just in my dick. Longer wave than when I'm topping, but just as brutal.
Intense as fuck. And yeah, bad timing. Regretting the quiet rule hard right now. Want to groan his name, curse, make noise like we usually do.
But no. Bite my lip instead, hold it in. "I'm so close, Gio, I can't—" he gasps against my ear.
I just nod hard. Same. Fuck, same.
Couple seconds later, it hits. My dick pulses in his hand, and I cum hard, with ropes shooting up my abs, splattering my chest, some even hitting my chin.
Vision whites out for a beat. His rhythm falters. I feel it. He's right there with me. I grab the back of his neck quick, pull him down, slap my other hand over his mouth just in time.
He moans into my palm, muffled and desperate, while his eyes squeeze shut. Suddenly he slows, burying himself all the way each time.
I feel every twitch inside me as he unloads. His whole body shakes against mine. He exhales into my hand. I let go of his mouth. He lifts his head to look down at my chest.
"Wow," he whispers, still panting.
Yeah. Me too. "Enjoy your little control moment?"
He looks at me confused, completely fucked-out. "Hello?? Read the room."
I crack up. Then he turns his head slowly toward me.
"So..." he says. "Impressions."
I laugh even though I'm still trying to survive. "Impressions?? What are you, ?"
"Yes," he says. "Rate your stay."
I turn my head too, look at him properly. He looks nervous under all that smugness. That's the funniest part. His mouth says "rate your stay," but his eyes are like, did I do good or do I go cry in the bathroom now?
I reach over and hook my fingers in his, bringing his hand to my mouth to kiss his knuckles. "You look very proud of yourself," I say.
"I am," he admits immediately.
I grin. "Good. You should be."
He stares at me, waiting. I exhale slowly. "Okay. Full review? That was... insane."
He bites his lip, trying not to smile too big. "In a good way? Or 'insane, please never do that to me again' way?"
"In a 'if you stop doing that to me I'm filing for divorce' way," I say. He lets out this tiny, relieved laugh.
"So..." he says after a moment, a little shy. "You'd... let me do it again? Another night?"
I scoff. "You think this was a one-time event? No, baby. This is now an official part of the program. Limited access, very VIP, but definitely recurring."
29) Inner Picasso
Rava
I never thought I'd say this, but Gio officially has beef with a three-year-old. And in this specific case, the three-year-old is his own son.
The reason is Lorenzo and Noah. Obviously. The damage is double. And genuinely hilarious, because Gio is two seconds away from cutting both of them off after what they did.
"They hate us," he tells me, while I'm trying not to choke laughing. "They clearly hate us." It all started so innocent. Antonio is teething again, crying all the time, chewing literally anything that exists, and they "wanted to help him forget the pain."
Their words, not mine.
So yesterday they come over all sweet, all smiles, with two big bags. "Just something small for our favourite little man," Noah says. That was the first red flag.
The first present is a huge set of markers, every colour in the universe. Thin ones, thick ones, glitter, neon, all of it. We shared one look that said: we're screwed.
The second present... is from Lorenzo. A drum set. An actual, real, not-toy sounding drum set. Tiny, yes. But not tiny enough.
"I swear I thought he liked us," Gio whispered to me, watching Antonio unwrap it.
This morning, I come back from school, and I see Gio on the couch with his arms crossed, and Antonio on the armchair opposite him, teary-eyed, hugging his teddy.
It went like this:
"What happened here?" I ask. "What did you two do?" Gio doesn't even look at me, just jerks his chin toward the hallway.
"Go to Mr Antonio's room and see."
Antonio's mouth wobbles and he starts crying again, tighter around the teddy. Now I'm actually worried.
I go straight to his room, open the door fast… Oh.
I exhale. The entire wall, up to the exact height Antonio can reach, is covered.
Drawings. Lines. Colours. Circles. Clouds. Cars.
Random chaos. Every marker we own has had its moment on that wall. I close my eyes for one second, then go back out. Gio is still in the exact same position.
Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Antonio is a little puddle of guilt and tears. I slowly look at Gio. "Where were you when all this happened?"
"In the kitchen cooking?!" he snaps. "How was I supposed to know he'd unleash his inner Picasso on the wall because I left him alone for ten minutes?"
"Gio, he's three," I say. "Him being alone is your negligence."
"Negligence? Seriously??" His eyes go wide.
I sigh. "Yes?! He's tiny. Of course he's going to do something if he's too quiet."
"So now it's my fault he's a street artist?"
I ignore him and crouch in front of Antonio instead. No point arguing over his head like he's invisible. "Hey, bean," I say softly. "Can you tell me what happened?"
He sniffs, wipes his nose on the teddy. "I draw..."
"On... the wall?" I ask. He nods, eyes huge and wet. "Why on the wall, love?" I say. "Why not on the paper? Coloring books exist for a reason."
He looks at me like the answer is obvious. "Wall big," he says. "Paper small." Okay, fair logic from his point of view. I press my lips together.
"Did Daddy tell you not to draw on the walls?" I ask. He nods again, guilty. "He say no," he whispers. "I forget."
"Convenient," Gio mumbles from the couch.
I shoot him a look. "Helpful commentary, thank you.
" I turn back to Antonio. "Listen, bean.
Drawing is good. You're very good at it.
We love your drawings. But walls are not for drawing, okay?
Walls are for staying clean. Paper is for drawing. You understand?"
He nods slowly. "I in trouble?" he asks.
"You're not in big trouble," I say. "But it was something wrong, so we have to fix it. Together."
His chin trembles again. "Daddy mad," he whispers. I glance over my shoulder. Gio is still pretending to be stone, but his eyes are glassy.
"He's not mad at you," I say. "He's mad at the wall."
"I'm mad at both," Gio says.
"Gio," I warn. I turn back to Antonio and smooth his hair. "Listen. You're gonna help us clean it as much as you can, so you learn, okay?"
He nods, a bit braver now. "Come on, love. Show me what you drew." He slides off the armchair and takes my hand, pulling me to his room.
Gio follows behind us like a grumpy bodyguard. We stop in front of the wall. There's a sun. A bike. Something that might be Blu. Two stickmen holding hands. A tiny scribble next to them.
"Who's this?" I ask, pointing at the two figures. He lights up a little. "Daddy and Dada," he says.
Then he points at the tiny scribble. "And baby." I feel my chest squeeze. "Oh," I say. "So this is us."
He nods proud. I look at the wall. Yeah. That's paint-job level damage. No amount of "little wipe" is fixing all that. But he's three.
A three-year-old can't understand "property value" or "this will take three coats of white, you tiny criminal.
" All he knows is colours and space. So I can't scream at him.
There's no point. I just have to somehow show him that what we do has consequences, without making him scared of making mistakes.