9. Chapter 4
Lorenzo
I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking, texting the firefighter like this. Actually, scratch that, I know exactly what I’m thinking, and I’m not using the brain in my head—I’m using that goddamn brain in my Gucci underwear. That fucker’s doing all the talking right now.
After an hour at the hospital, they let me go. For someone who ran into a burning house, I have minimal burns, and my lungs are in good shape.
They gave me some oxygen, treated the burns on my arms and hands, gave me some medication to help with the mucus buildup in my lungs, and sent me away.
I haven’t lived at my father’s home in nineteen years, since I moved out at eighteen, but when I left the hospital, I still felt like I no longer had a home to go to.
Instead of going to my apartment, I texted my best friend, Pepe, and asked if I could crash at his place.
Pepe’s father, Carlo Belmonte, is—or, rather, was—my father’s consigliere, though Pepe has very little to do with Diamante Family business.
He owns and operates a gay nightclub, Lo Scandalo, and he’s rarely home at night.
I don’t expect a text back immediately—he’s probably in one of the dark backrooms of his club, getting absolutely railed by some hot daddy.
To my surprise, though, my phone buzzes only seconds after I send the text.
Pepe: Of course you can stay at my place. How are you doing? I heard what happened. Dad says they’re calling an emergency meeting soon. I’m so sorry about your father.
I stare expressionless at my phone while I wait for my driver to come pick me up from the hospital. Normally, I wouldn’t have to wait, but Pepe is right. The Diamante Family is scrambling right now, and all our normal operations are running behind.
Me: I’m as fine as I can be. Thanks for checking, and thanks for letting me crash.
The real reason I want to stay at Pepe’s, the reason I don’t tell him, is that I have my suspicions that this fire wasn’t an accident. And that my father wasn’t the only target.
After all, I was supposed to be there with him.
He’d summoned me for a meeting, and I was running late.
I’d been handling some business down by the docks, and it got a little messy.
Not everyone walked out of those docks alive.
If I’d been on time, I would’ve been stuck in that study with Father, and we would’ve burned or suffocated to death together.
But I’m alive, and everyone knows it. They also know that my life was saved by that handsome little firefighter, that Dashiell Novak, whom I can’t get out of my head.
Whoever killed Father is going to have it out for the firefighter. He has no idea how much danger he’s in.
I meant my promise to him, that I owe him a debt, and that he should call me if he needs help. I’m the only person I want him to call. No one else gets to protect him. He’s mine.
Jesus, Lorenzo, I think as Wolfe pulls up to the hospital entrance in a sleek black SUV. You don’t even know him.
Maybe I don’t know him, but I know exactly what I want to do to him, and that’s all I can think about while Wolfe drives me silently to Pepe’s apartment building.
My driver has been with the Family as long as I’ve been alive. He’s as loyal to us as if he were our blood, and I know he’s probably grieving the loss of Father almost as much as I am. But he remains stoic the entire drive. His job isn’t to grieve, but to protect me.
“Keep the car outside,” I tell Wolfe when he drops me off. “I might need to leave again. Let me know if you see anyone suspicious.”
The grizzled boulder of a man just nods. He’s got more firepower with him in that car than the average military unit. I pity any of our enemies who try to cross him.
Pepe’s apartment is large and tastefully decorated with antique furniture, elegant rugs, and simple, understated art. He has four bedrooms, including one that’s used primarily for orgies, and one that’s pretty much reserved for me whenever I want to stay over.
I only stop to pour myself a large glass of Sangiovese before going to my bedroom. It has exposed brick walls, a king-sized four-poster bed, and a large mirror over the bed, in which I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching myself many times before.
Though I desperately need a shower—I stink of stale smoke—there’s something else I have to take care of first.
Quickly, I shed my wrecked, charred clothing until I’m standing naked in the room. I take a long drink from my wine, then set the glass on the table beside the bed and stretch myself out on the quilt.
My body is firm and muscular, honed from years in the gym. Short dark hair coats my chest and tapers down my stomach to my thick bush, from which my cock is already rising, long and as hard as a rock.
I’ve been mentally fighting off a semi-erection ever since Dashiell Novak pulled me from the house. It’s fucked up, how I can’t stop thinking about him even though someone probably just murdered my father, but right now, I don’t care how depraved I am.
I need to get Dashiell Novak out of my system.
When he ripped off his helmet, all I got was a quick look at him. At his beautiful, heart-shaped face. His bright hazel eyes, his curly brown hair dampened with sweat.
Under different circumstances, I’d love to grab that hair in my fist and pull his head back while I fucked him from behind.
He’s stronger than his tiny frame suggests—he has to be, if he half-carried me out of that fire—and I bet that ass of his is perfectly firm and round.
It would look so good with my red handprints on it, my cock plunging into him while he whimpers and begs for mercy.
How he managed to leave such a fucking impression on me is beyond me. Maybe it was the adrenaline of the night, or maybe it’s something cosmic or divine, but I can’t get the thought of claiming him like that out of my head.
Why don’t you come find out?
That’s what he texted me when I asked him if he liked to be punished. A stupid thing for me to text him. Normally, I’m never that obvious when I’m interested in fucking someone.
But him…
How can I not be obvious?
I spit in my hand and wrap it around the hot length of my cock, stroking myself while pulling up a social media app on my phone. It doesn’t take me long to find Dashiell’s profile.
The profile is exactly what I was hoping for from him. Dashiell, you perfectly good, filthy boy, I think appreciatively as I scroll through the photos. He’s not wearing a shirt in a single one of the photos. Really, he’s not wearing much of anything.
While none of the pictures are technically porn or even erotic—and there are no links in his profile to anything else that would be more erotic—it’s still perfect for what I need.
He has photos of himself in underwear, in Speedos, in skimpy running shorts. I savor each of them, enjoying the deliciously clean lines of his lean, small muscles, the plush pillows of his lips, the mischievous sparkle in his large eyes.
I bet you like to be watched, huh? I think, playing with my heavy balls as I imagine just what I’d have Dashiell do if I were watching him.
Sadly, not everything is on display in the pictures, so I have to use my imagination to picture what that sweet ass must look like, what that tight rosebud hole must taste like.
It would taste even better full of my cum.
Why don’t you come find out?
God, I’d love to come find out just how much Dashiell likes to be punished, and show him just how much I like to punish. I have no shame in being dominant, no shame in being a sadist, because I would never, ever engage in my kink without the explicit and enthusiastic consent of my partner.
I’ll never actually find out what Dashiell’s like when he’s on his knees or tied up on my bed, but I have a pretty strong feeling we’d be compatible.
My orgasm hits me out of nowhere, a sudden explosion of pleasure as cum shoots from my cock, splattering across my chest hair and my abs.
“Fuck!” I cry, stroking the waves of ecstasy from myself as my cock jerks in my hand.
The roaring lust in me doesn’t quiet, not when I turn my phone off, not when I wipe myself clean, not when I drain my glass of wine in one long gulp.
I’m absolutely fucked.
I made Dashiell a promise that I’d protect him—and yet, all I want to do is make him beg me for mercy.