“Do it like this,” he begs, and part of me wants to, wants to screw into him, push his face hard up against the door, watch his eyes squeeze tight with pain, watch him feel every inch as I drive into him dry, my pre-cum the only lube…but we’ve done it that way before, on his insistence, and I know how long it takes him to recover. I want to spend as much time inside him as I can on this vacation, not leave him limping.
“Maybe you like getting torn open, but I like a smooth ride.” I clench my fist hard in his hair and he yelps.
“Fine, fine,” he mutters. He shifts on my fingers, gets his hand into his jeans pocket, down by his thigh, and passes me a small foil packet. “Here,” he says in this mock-sullen tone that makes me twist my fingers inside him, just to hear him swear at me.
I put my lips to his ear as I finger him, bite at his earlobe, then say, “You should be thanking me. Once I get inside this tight little hole, you’ll start begging me to stop. Because I plan to wreck you.” Finch’s head falls back against my shoulder, his eyes heavy-lidded, lips curled into a smile.
“Go on then,” he murmurs.
I smear his hole with lube and slap the rest on myself. There’s not enough of it. I haven’t fucked him for weeks—months—and I worry that I’ll hurt him, that he’ll be out of practice, but the second I get my cockhead into his ass, feel his ring around me, tight but welcoming, all my anxieties go up in a puff of smoke, incinerated as my fire for him rages out of control.
“Fuck.” I’m the one who curses, and I keep cursing, hissing out words as I shove my way into him inch by inch—Christ,fuck, fuck, Finch, oh fuck—as thoughI’mthe one having a dick crammed into my ass with minimal prep in a reeking Roman back alley. He feels unyielding all the way in until he isn’t, suddenly, his body giving way, and I swear to God I can feel his soul opening up to me along with his gut.
Finch is hiking up his hips, forced up on his toes, his jaw clenched tight against my profane lips, his ass clamping down on me. I let out a shaky breath of relief.Finally. He makes his first noise since I started pushing into him: a whimper.
It’s fuel to my fire. I open my mouth wide to bite at the side of his neck, pull his head back, force him to expose his throat as though I’m about to cut it, spray his life all over the wooden door I’m fucking him against. But I don’t want to kill.
I only want to fuck.
The need is burning through me, fizzing under my skin, theneedto rut into him, but I’m still waiting for him to adjust, for the tension in his body to lessen, just a little. I get one hand on his cock and coax it back into full hardness. His throat muscles bounce under my other hand as he swallows, gets his breath back, and when I press my lips back to the side of his neck, I feel his pulse, fluttering like a new butterfly.
He says something, hoarse and gravelly, and I release his throat, let him try again. “Wreck me,” he whispers into the door. His hand finds mine on his junk, pushes it aside, takes over jacking his cock. “Like you promised. Comeon,” he growls at me.
I grab the back of his neck, squeezing hard, and force his face against the door. And then I drill into him, making his ass shake with the force of it. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth pulled into a grimace, but when I reach around to check, his dick is dripping like a tap, his hand flying over it.
Slap me around a little, he asked before we started, so I crack my hand down hard on his asscheek, and he jerks. The noise reverberates through the alleyway. I spank him again, then grab the meat of his ass and squeeze it hard until he whines a protest.
I’ve reached that stage where I feel like I could fuck forever, like I could give him my dick all night, stay as iron-hard when the sun rises as I am right now. So I switch it up, start pulling out further, driving into him harder, shoving him against the door, and lean in to lick the flat of my tongue up his cheek, bite at his jawline.
“You tell me now,uccellino. Who do you belong to?”
I fuck a shaky, soft, “You,” out of him, so I smack his ass again, hard as I can, in rhythm with sharp, shallow thrusts of my cock, until he cries out, “You, fuck, Luca, I belong to you!”
“You’re goddamn right you do.” I bite hard at his neck, making him squeal. But I want him to have my marks all over him tomorrow. I want people walking in the streets by to know exactly what he was doing the night before and then, as they see my arm around him, and my smug, lazy grin back at them, to understand exactly who put those brands on him. “You belong tome, and everyone in Rome is going to know it.”
I wriggle a hand between Finch’s chest and the door, find his nipple, and twist it hard, the way I know he likes it when he’s in these moods. And that’s what does it for him. He arches back into me, throwing his head back so fast that I’m lucky he doesn’t break my damn nose, and gives a strangled yelp as his balls unload. I can feel the waves of his orgasm as his ass spasms around me, milking my dick as his own sprays against the wood. I hold on as long as I can, let him enjoy it, but I can’t last much longer.
I wrap my arms around him and lift him right off his feet so he’s impaled on my cock, half-crushed against the door, and I blast into him, the force of it making my knees shake as I coat him inside with my spunk. He writhes around helplessly, gasping out my name, and then I let him back to his feet, but keep him held tight in my arms.
I moan into his neck, half-laughing, and let reality return only slowly. But eventually the stench of the place wins out over our snuggling and petting, and my cock has softened enough that it slips out of him, slapping down against my thigh spent and tender.
Fucking my husband in a piss-stained alley is an odd form of therapy, but it’s worked. I feel so much calmer, so much closer to Finch now as we rearrange our clothes, murmur words of love, steal kisses and promises from each other.
But after we emerge from the alley, hand in sticky hand, and make our way back to the hotel, I see the very same man I saw at the newsstand this morning. He’s pacing back and forth down at the bottom of the street our hotel is on, and just as I spot him, he turns to walk quickly away.
He gives one furtive backward glance, and I lock eyes with him just before he disappears around the corner.
Paranoia or no paranoia, sometimes they reallyareout to get you.
Chapter Forty-Three
FINCH
Ican tell right away when we get to the hotel that there’s something wrong. I mean, it wouldn’t take a genius. Luca shepherds me into the tiny, deserted reception area with his arm tight around me, eyes darting everywhere.
“What is it?” I pant, as he pulls me up the stairs to our room, double-time. We get inside and he locks the door, then hustles me into the bathroom. When I look out the door to see what the fuck he’s doing, he’s leaning up against the wall next to the window, peeking down at the street through the curtain. He switches sides to look up the other side of the street, and then I see him looking carefully at the buildings opposite us.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask. He holds up a hand without even looking at me, aplease be quiet hand—there fuckingbetterbe a “please” in there, anyway—and I sigh loudly until he’s finished being paranoid and leaves the curtain.
