“Maybe you shouldn’t have been such a smug jackass over how I cook hamburger.”
“Mmm, master… that’s not fair. I was trying to help you! Please! I wanna come!”
“Later,” Mickey said briskly. “Get dressed. Get the plates ready. Make sure everyone gets something to eat.” He smiled wickedly. “Then you can have your dessert.”
If looks could kill, Mickey was sure he would have dropped dead.
Roger kissed Mickey hard, and it felt absolutely electric. It was somehow more intimate than the rough pounding from a few minutes ago, and Mickey let himself sink into the sweet connection. He wanted to take Roger again right there on the counter, lift him up and slide back in…
Dinner first.
He made himself pull away, bowing his head to kiss the bruise on Roger’s neck. “Go on.”
Roger’s face was red, and he was obviously frustrated judging by the equally bright flush of the head of his cock. Even so, he obediently grabbed his clothes and pulled them on. “Yes, master. I got it.”
“Good boy.”
Roger served using a mix-matched collection of plates from inside the cabinets, and he found Valdemar still hanging out at the dining room table. If Valdemar had heard anything that went down during the cooking—surely he did—he made no comment. Thirdsies showed up a few minutes later, his mission for soda having turned into an adventure chasing down a stray cat or something.
Mickey stayed in the kitchen and refilled their wine glasses so he didn’t hear the whole rousing tale. He’d fucked off his buzz, and he wanted to get back on track, chugging back his glass before pouring another to sip on.
The lasagna really did smell incredible, but he found himself hesitating to eat it.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Roger was back and frowning at Mickey.
“Nothing.”
“Aren’t you gonna eat?”
“I was waiting for you.”
“Liar.” Roger smirked and grabbed his plate. He gobbled down a big bite and moaned excitedly. “Wow, that is good.”
“Again? Already?” Valdemar complained loudly.
“Huh?” Thirdsies sounded very confused.
Roger snorted and laughed. “Mmm, maybe we’ll take our dessert upstairs?”
“Not a bad suggestion.” Mickey poked at the edge of the lasagna with his fork, frustrated his appetite had left him so abruptly. All he could think about now was Pops, and he wondered if this was even close to what they would have cooked together.
His frustration turned into anger, and he imagined all the horrible ways he was going to murder Salvatore Luchesi. He set his fork down, stomach sloshing, and reached for the wine again.
Roger was eerily quiet once he’d finished eating, and he moved around the kitchen, cleaning up. Once it was obvious Mickey wasn’t going to eat, he took his piece and wrapped it up with the rest of the pan in foil to stick in the fridge. “Pasta’s usually better the next day, you know?”
“Yeah, sure.” Mickey kept drinking.
“Wanna go to bed?” Roger reached for Mickey’s hand, gently prying it off the glass. “You can call me a slut some more. We can fuck again…”
Mickey tried to smile.
“You know, if you think you can even get it up,” Roger taunted. “You’re not getting any younger.”
Oh, that did it.
“Get your ass upstairs right now,” Mickey commanded, seizing control of his emotions and focusing on making Roger answer for that smart mouth. “I’m definitely fucking you again, and I’m not stopping until I’m good and fuckin’ ready.”
“Oh, yes, master.” Roger grinned.
