“Can you take your erect cock out of my face, please?”
He blinks, blushes — an act that’s both cute and shockingly out of place — and then places both hands down to cover himself.
Both hands are barely enough.
“Oh, fuck, sorry.”
Then he stands, whirls, hunting for a towel.
It gives me a superb view of his ass.
I like this view.
I liked the other, too. It just wasn’t the right time, being in pain, bruised, head ringing from a sucker punch, and with multiple dead bodies lying around me; the vibe’s more morgue than bordello, and the only wet I’m feeling is the blood on my knuckles.
Wrapped in a towel, he’s a lot less distracting.
“Better?” He says.
“Yes.”
He’s still blushing; his eyes are on the ceiling. There’s hesitation — nerves — shaking his voice. Blood slowly streams from the cut across his shoulder. “I wasn’t hard because of you, just so you know.”
I blink. “You weren’t?”
“No. It wasn’t you.”
“So what was it that got you hard?”
“What?”
“What got you hard?” I look around. “Was it the dead ugly Russians, the living ugly Russians that were beating you, or was it just the blood that got you hard?”
“It’s not important.”
“No, it’s really fucking important. I want to know if I’m trapped in a small room with a man who gets erections from dead bodies and blood.” He shifts from side to side, his eyes still on the ceiling. There must be something really interesting up there. I look and see nothing except for ceiling tiles and a few blood spatters. “There’s a bit of blood up there, too. Is that why you’re looking up there so hard? You getting yourself a little peek at something that excites you?”
He meets my gaze for a second, his eyes wide, shocked, and I flicker my eyes toward his crotch. The second I do it, his hands shoot down to cover himself. Even with the towel, if that blood was really turning him on, two hands would barely be enough to conceal himself.
“I’m not turned on by the blood.”
“So it’s the bodies, huh?”
“I’m not sexually aroused by dead bodies, either.”
“Got it, so now we know what it was: all those Borises — or is it Borii? — they’re the reason you got all hot and bothered.”
Ricky shakes his head, lets out a sigh, and then he smiles. It’s a slow smile that creeps across his face — sly, teasing. “You seem really fixated on my cock. If you want some, Adriana, just say the word. I bet this little revenge quest of yours means you haven’t cum in a long fucking time. I can fix that for you.”
Now, it’s my turn to blush. Blush, and feel a rush of blood to somewhere I definitely don’t want it to go. And maybe my eyes are deceiving me, but the bulge beneath Ricky’s towel seems larger than it was just a second ago.
“I was just fucking with you earlier. I don’t give a shit if you’re turned on by blood or dead bodies, so can we just drop it, OK? I have enough of a headache without playing sexual chicken with a piece of shit like you.”
“You OK?” He says again, with no hesitation. It’s like he actually gives a damn.
“Just sore,” I say. Then, “No, correction: I hurt like fuck. But I’ve had worse pain in my life. I’ll survive.”
“Good. I couldn’t deal with it if you…” His voice trails off and he turns away. He’s got his back to me, which surprises me. We did just fight for our lives through an attack by Bratva killers, but that he would actually turn away from me is a shocking act of trust. I could stand up right now and take one of the Russian guns and put a bullet in his skull. It would be so easy.
