“I’d like some privacy,” I say with as much dignity and bravery as I can muster, which isn’t a lot right now.
Something changes in Alessandro’s face. “You’ll have your privacy,” he says, more gently than he’s said anything so far this morning. “But I want my jacket back.”
“Oh.” Relief makes me shaky again, and I struggle with trying to remove it so much that he comes over to help me. “Th-thank you,” I say, once I’m finally out of it. He folds the jacket over his arm and regards me with those dark, dark eyes. For a moment I fear that he’s changed his mind, that he’ll stay and watch, just to humiliate me.
He raises up a hand slowly, and I try not to flinch as he brushes a fingertip over the corner of my mouth. “Pastry flake,” he says, still staring at my mouth.
This close up, I can see how the scar that runs down his face is ridged and white in the middle, but still shows pink around some of the edges. It bisects his eyebrow. He must have been lucky to escape with his eye intact—that same mahogany-dark eye that is staring right back at me now.
He takes a step back, turning away. “Take your time,” he says over his shoulder, and leaves me there alone. I should be thankful. Thankful, not…disappointed.
I go to the door and lock it, wondering if I’m allowed to do that. But there’s no shout from outside, no protest. It’s not like Alessandro Castellani couldn’t break down the door with a casual kick, after all. And where could I even go from in here? There’s a huge window to one side, and another set a little higher in the multi-headed shower, but we’re on the second floor, and there are guards wandering around the grounds outside. I see one of them going by as I stand by the window, looking down.
I’m probably going to die.
I repeat that out loud as I turn on the shower taps and fiddle with knobs until the water is coming out of the nearest showerhead. “I’m probably going to die.”
I’m trying out the thought. It doesn’t seem as devastating as it should, maybe because when I step under the warm water, the pressure working at the knots in my neck, it feelsreallygood.
I use liberal amounts of Alessandro’s body wash, and then I soak my hair and wash it with his shampoo. I shouldn’t enjoy it as much as I do, but I can’t help it. I’m fascinated by him, even now, even though I should be terrified.
I go for another round of body wash, wanting to make sure every odorous atom of the cells is off my body. I wonder what Alessandro looks like when he stands here in this shower. I couldn’t help staring at him down there on the patio. He was stretched out in his chair under the sunshine like a cat, no cares in the world, nothing to do but enjoy himself. The way his skin dipped and flowed over muscles, the tattoo over his heart of a rearing bull, the trail of hair from his bellybutton that disappeared into his low-slung underwear…
Oh, no. I’m getting hard.
I stick my head out of the shower door for a second, listening. I hear nothing. No movement outside, no shouts to hurry up.
I’m probably going to die.
If that’s the case…
I take another handful of body wash and start stroking myself lightly. Am Ireallyturned on? I guess what they say is true, fear is an aphrodisiac. And if not fear, Alessandro himself, the power in his glare, the strength of his wide shoulders, the way his ass moved as he walked up the stairs in front of me…
I lean under the showerhead, my forehead on the tiles, and watch myself as I stroke harder, pretending that the hand is not mine, but Alessandro’s. That he’s in here with me, teasing me, one of his hands sliding down my crack, that it’shisfinger massaging my hole,hisfingertip wriggling into me, while he jerks me off in long, firm strokes.
My mouth opens wide, water streaming down my neck, over my back, like Alessandro is holding me close and I can feel his warmth up close as he works me. I cling onto that fantasy, let the tension and the need build up in me—God, this is not going to take long—and I think about how I could see his heavy cock clearly outlined under those tight white briefs as he stretched out in the chair, imagine that I’d had the guts to do what I wanted to do, get on my knees for him, crawl over, pull down his underwear and take him into my mouth while the sun heated the back of my neck, just like the water now—
It spatters out of me, coating the tiles opposite in spurts as I arch into my pleasure. The water runs straight into my open mouth and I imagine it’s him, his cum pouring into me, and my dick gives one last valiant shot, my balls aching happily.
Breathing hard, I splash water over the tile, clean off my jizz, and try to ignore the panicky feelings rushing in to fill the space of desire. I get out and dry myself, and look around for my clothes. They’re piled on the floor where I left them, but as I reach for them, the stench hits me again.Ugh. I can’t putthemback on.
But I can’t go back out there naked and vulnerable.
There’s a fluffy, slate-gray bath robe hanging on the back of the door. I reach out for it, hesitate, and then grab it. It’s a compromise between re-dressing in my filthy clothes versus having just a towel for modesty.
When I wrap myself in the soft robe, the familiar scent of Alessandro surrounds me. I head to the vanity and check my reflection, then—with another glance at the locked door—I open the cabinet, just to see if his cologne happens to be in there.
It is. It’s by some Italian-sounding boutique I’ve never heard of, and the name of the cologne, apparently, is “Alessandro.” Huh. Maybe it’s a personal blend. I inhale it again, closing my eyes. It really suits him.
When I replace the spray bottle in the cabinet, my hand is shaking.
I wasn’t frightened before. But now I have to go back out and face him again.
Therealman, not my fantasy.
* * *
Alessandro is not in his bedroom, and he’s not in the living area, either, when I finally make my way out there. “Hello?” I say at last, then again, a little louder, “Alessandro?”
