Perhaps I had, but it was hard to know. There were too many variables with the Fed showing up. Had the shooter been after him, or me?
Either way, I needed to let the Boss know about the federal interference. About the fact that I’d had Flynn in my apartment, certainly. But that was a conversation that couldn’t be had on the phone.
“I need to talk in person,” was all I said to the Boss when he answered.
“Eight,” he replied briefly, and hung up.
I checked my alarm, but as always, it was set for six. Then I headed to bed, although sleep did not come easily. My mind was still too active, turning over the events of the night. The shooting. My reaction. My immediate instinct to take the kid with me, to make sure he was safe.
I thought about the way we’d moved together.
It had been critical as a bodyguard to understand how my charge would react under fire. Because I’d grown up with Tino, because he’d molded me himself, I’d learned early how he moved, and adjusted my actions to his. Luca D’Amato had been more of a challenge—more likely to run toward the danger himself, instead of away. But I’d adapted.
With Special Agent Baxter Flynn, I’d justknownhow he’d move. And he’d reacted to my protection perfectly, ducking in tandem, allowing me to push his head down, curling into my body.
I’d also known that it would eventually occur to him to stop running. To go back. To be the hero. I should have let him, of course; it was none of my concern if an FBI agent wanted to get himself killed.
But I hadn’t. I’d been half a block up, but I’d turned back and convinced him to come with me. To come up to my apartment. To undress for me…
I wrenched my mind away from him, turned over in bed, and forced my thoughts back to the shooting, to the possibilities, to the suspects.
They seemed endless.
There was one thing Special Agent Baxter Flynn had been correct about. This was a long way from over.
Chapter Six
Baxter
When I woke the next morning, my first memory was of Angelo Messina’s inscrutable eyes as he told me to take off my clothes. I gave a strange little shiver as I stretched, and pretended to myself that it was just part of waking up.
Or maybe it was about the fact that I’d have to own up to Villiers about what I’d been doing over the last week, including the loss of my registered firearm. Part of me wanted to repress the whole thing and just “forget” to mention the whole night. But if nothing else it seemed like proof that the Morellisweren’tactually exempt from attacks. Messina’s suggestion that he might not have been the target didn’t make any sense to me after I’d thought it over. I wasn’t the one who’d spent a lifetime building up any number of enemies who’d be happy to take a shot at me. No, he’d definitely been the target.
It seemed unlikely that he’d set it up as a way to establish innocence, either. Why bother, first of all? And aside from that, I wasn’t exactly an influential member of the task force. I wasn’t looking forward to trying to convince the Captain of my point of view, but I also knew that I owed it to New York to make sure that we didn’t just catchakiller, but therightkiller.
Messina was not our man; of that I was certain. And yet I couldn’t keep my mind off him. My right hand was absently rubbing against my neck where he’d grabbed at me in the Park. I felt hot, despite the cold air of the bedroom, and pushed down the sheets.
Take off your clothes.
My wrist brushed against my nipples when I pushed the blankets further down, and they tightened.
Werethe rumors true? Was the Monster of the Morellis gay, just like their new Don? Was that why Messina had supported Luca D’Amato’s ascendency so immediately?
I shivered again and pulled the blanket back up, spread my legs to stretch again. Thought about that dark gaze moving over my chest. Thought about his black hair threaded with glittering silver. Thought about the complete lack of fear he’d shown in the face of danger. My cock started to fill out.
I was stressed out, that was all. Stress made me horny.
Being shot at made me horny, too, apparently. I thought about Messina shoving me down just as he had in the Park, only this time we were in his apartment, and his fly was undone. I wondered what kind of lover he was when his persona was stripped away.
Selfish? Dominant? Or was he one of those men whose cold exteriors masked a volcano underneath?
My dick seemed to have leaped into my hand of its own accord. Sexual desire was a normal and healthy reaction to a near-death experience. In fact, I told myself, warming to my theme, it could be psychologically harmfulnotto jerk off after a night like the one I’d had.
A small part of me pointed out that maybe thinking about Angelo Messina while I did it wasn’t strictly necessary, but it was easy enough to quash that voice. I’d already spread my legs and started jacking off in earnest, my skin tingling all over in the cool morning air of the bedroom. So I thought about Messina’s hand over my mouth, his other hand on my dick, urging me to be quiet and fast, to give him my cum like the dirty little boy I was…
It was supposed to be perfunctory, a quick orgasm just to clear the head, but it built up in my gut, in my balls, at the base of my dick, and then ripped through me like a tsunami, leaving me weak and gasping for air, my cock giving painful spasms for another minute after.
When I’d caught my breath I wiped off my belly with a handful of Kleenex and then let my hand thump back on the mattress. There was no shame in fantasy, I reminded myself, as long as fantasy and reality never ran on parallel tracks. There wasno wayAngelo Messina would be down for something like that with a Fed, anyway. Although for some reason Messina had protected me in the Park, led me to safety, taken me into his home readily.
