14. Chapter 8
Dashiell
First Day living with Lorenzo
Lorenzo is already gone when I wake up at five the next morning. The apartment is eerily empty, but I find a note on the vast kitchen island, along with a cardboard box. I pick the note up—it’s written in surprisingly elegant handwriting.
Dashiell,
My bodyguard, Wolfe, went to your apartment to get some things we thought might be necessary.
You’ll find your belongings in the box. I’ve written Wolfe’s phone number at the bottom of this note.
If you have any questions and can’t reach me, he’s your point person.
He will also be driving you to and from work.
He’ll be at the apartment at 6:30 to pick you up.
Trust him with your life, if it comes to it.
Please help yourself to anything you find in the fridge. I’ve started a pot of coffee. Feel free to make more.
Sincerely, L.
I glance around the kitchen. Indeed, there is a pot of coffee brewed in a machine so fancy and complex it looks like it might have the ability to stop time.
Pouring myself a large mug, I absently check my phone. There’s a message from Mom, asking me when my new boyfriend would like to come over for dinner.
Jesus.
I text her back, saying that I’ll have to find a time that’ll work with his busy schedule (e.g., never), and then navigate to my thread with Lorenzo. I still haven’t saved his number, and in my sleepy haze, I open his contact information and save his number under a cheeky title:
Yes, sir
Probably a horrible idea, but it makes me chuckle, and that’s worth it, especially at five in the morning.
As I move around the kitchen, finding what I need to make an omelet and toast, I wonder when—or if—Lorenzo went to bed last night. After I went to my room, I was pretty sure I heard him go out, and I was asleep by the time he might’ve gotten back.
What was he doing out there? Having fun? Doing work? Doing…mafia stuff? What exactly does a mafia heir do during the day, or during the night?
I did some digging on Lorenzo yesterday. Only practical, if we’re going to be roommates and fake-boyfriends, right?
Here’s what I found:
He’s thirty-seven, fifteen years older than me.
He has one brother, Giovanni, who is three years older than him.
He is an active member of the Diamante organizations, which seemingly have legitimate covers through construction companies and real estate development.
There’s a large subset of strange internet fandom that writes erotic fan fiction about him. I may or may not have read some of that erotic fan fiction, and, well, Jesus.
After making my omelet and toast, I sit at the kitchen table with my food, my coffee, and my phone. Against my better judgment, I pull one of those erotic fan fiction stories back up.
For research purposes, of course.
Lorenzo stomps up to me scarily, his biceps bulging beefily in his tight shirt. I’m so small compared to him, just a tiny little thing he could snap in those strong, muscular, manly hands of his.
“Have you been a bad girl, YN?” he asked in his deep, rumbling voice, which rumbled like thunder rumbling on a dark and stormy night. It made me flutter inside like a thousand butterflies were wanting to escape through my pleasure.
“Oh, no, Lorenzo,” I said in my breathy, not at all attractive voice, “I promise I haven’t been bad!”
“No, YN!” he roared meanly. “You have been a very very naughty bad girl.”
He’s right, I have been a very bad girl.
I fall down at his feet. “I’m so sorry, Signor Lorenzo! How can I ever make it up to you?”
He rips open his pants menacingly and takes out his massive cock, thicker than my delicate arm and dripping with precum.
I quivered looking at it. It’s so scary and beautiful, but I also want to lick it.
“What’s that?” I ask, because I’ve never seen a cock before in my life.
“It’s a cock, YN,” he said explainingly. “It goes in your mouth. Or in your—”
“Excuse me, Mr. Novak?” says a pleasant voice.
I yelp, dropping my phone and ripping my hand out of my underwear. Yes, I’m sitting in just my white briefs, and yes, I’ve been absently stroking myself to badly-written mafia erotica, and yes, I’ve been imagining myself being the “very very naughty bad girl.” And??
Wolfe, Lorenzo’s bodyguard and driver, stands in the kitchen doorway, looking completely unperturbed by my state of almost-nakedness, or the fact that I was clearly just jacking myself off.
“Signor Diamante said that you would be needing the car at six, and to let you know when I arrived. If you need anything before we go, please let me know.”
With that, he inclines his head and walks quickly out.
“Thank you!” I call after him, my cheeks blazing with embarrassment.
I don’t know what I expected from a mafia bodyguard/driver, but it isn’t Wolfe. He’s middle-aged, about my height, very muscular, and impeccably dressed, with combed-over gray hair and olive skin. And from what Lorenzo has told me, he’s pretty damn fierce.
My breakfast is finished, my coffee is gone, and my cock has some opinions about how I should spend the rest of my time before work.
After all…I have time.
I know exactly what I’m going to do with it.
The bed is still a wreck from my sleep. I shove the covers aside and then get out of my briefs. For a second I just stand there naked, letting the cool air tickle my bare skin and imagining it’s a certain mafia prince’s tongue.
My cock stands straight and hard, ready to be touched, stroked, brought to release.
I stretch out on the bed, legs spread, head and shoulders propped up on pillows that are probably five hundred dollars each, cock in one hand and phone in the other. Gotta love multitasking.
Mafia erotica was cute, but it’s not going to finish the job it started. Instead, I navigate to one of my favorite sites and search for one of my usual guys, who does extreme-submission stuff: tied up, gagged, thrown around by men twice his size.
You know, living the dream!
There is, blessedly, a new upload, artfully titled “HOT MUSCLE COUPLE FINDS ME IN THEIR HOUSE AND PUNISHES ME!”
Love the subtlety.
I skip the two minutes of world-building until I get to the part where the guy’s wrists are zip-tied, a blindfold is tight across his face, and a gag shaped like an erect penis is shoved into his mouth.
Then, the couple proceeds to throw him down on the bed, spank him until his ass practically glows, and take turns fucking him mercilessly.
Fuck, I think, and start stroking myself in earnest.
To be used like that…
The type of using I want requires trust and communication that I haven’t found yet with another partner. Even if I haven’t really experienced kink to this level, I know in my bones what I want.
I put myself into that video.
Zip-tied.
Legs spread.
Hole gaping.
Called something ugly and demeaning and loving it.
The men doing the fucking in the video blur into a single person, a specific person. A man with thick black hair streaked with silver, biceps like boulders, punishing hands strong and veiny.
Lorenzo.
Lorenzo, with those long fingers around my neck, squeezing off my air supply.
Lorenzo, pulling my hair.
Lorenzo, shoving me into a mattress.
Lorenzo, spitting on my hole.
Lorenzo, taking his cock out and thrusting it inside me as I cry out and squirm, writhing on the bed beneath him, tears streaming from my eyes because of how fucking good it feels.
“Oh, fuck!” I gasp as the crest of my orgasm breaks over me, cum spilling from the tip of my cock in great spurts, covering my stomach and pooling in the shallow V at my hips.
Fucking hell, I think.
Dragging a finger through my cum, I lift it to my lips and suck it clean. The only thing that would’ve been better than tasting my own cum would be tasting Lorenzo’s, if he’d sprayed it on my face, my chest, or even in my hole and then eaten it out of me before kissing me.
“Lord have mercy,” I mutter, staring at the ceiling. “What am I doing?”
But the ceiling has no answers for me.