He reached for my shirt and tried to pull me in. When I didn’t budge, his hand slipped, and he pouted. God, he was drunk again. The third time this week.
Elle had finished university and moved back home, so we’d been able to see each other a lot more, and I’d realised just how much Enzo was struggling after another attempted murder. His blue eyes were glassy, and his blonde hair was all out of place.
“Where the fuck have you been? Are you drunk?”
He scoffed, pushed away from the door, and walked into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge.
“I had to get drunk to endure the strippers.”
His head was submerged in the fridge while I stood there, fists clenched and anger rising at his answer. We’d argued about this before, numerous times, when he’d come back smelling of perfume or with a woman’s lipstick on his shirt. It was always the same. He had a meeting, they ended up in a strip club, and he had to allow a lap dance so no one suspected anything.
“I’m starving,” he slurred. “Where’s all the food?”
“Ruined. If you’d been here when you said you were coming, you would’ve had a home-cooked meal,” I snapped, walking towards him as he slammed the fridge door shut and grabbed a glass of wine. I snatched it from his hand, and he glared at me. “Tell me where you’ve been.”
“You’re not my fucking mother, Finn. Even she doesn’t give a fuck where I am. I told you I had a meeting. It ran on and on and…” he chuckled, his hand dancing through the air. “And on. Then the whiskey came out, and they wanted to hit the club. But I closed the deal, so, yay me.”
“With who?”
He tapped his nose with a drunken smirk. “Can’t be giving away all my business secrets to a Buccini soldier, can I?”
Rage roiled up, bursting at the seams. Drunk Enzo was bad enough, but when he treated me like an enemy, it was the fucking worst. He refused to tell me anything he was doing because I was a ‘Buccini soldier’. I understood at first, but we’d been together for over a year.
“So that’s all I am? A Buccini soldier who fucks you behind closed doors? Is that it?” I growled, spinning away from him and storming into the living room to grab my jacket. Fuck this shit again.
“Finn,” he moaned, following me in. “It was a joke. Don’t be angry with me.” He grabbed the jacket and tugged it from my hands, pressing his chest against mine. His crystal-blue eyessoftened and took on a doe-like look. I let the jacket slip from my fingers, my anger faltering as he tossed it aside and threw his arms around my neck. “I missed you so much. All I wanted was to come home to you as soon as I could. Let’s not argue when we could be doing better things. Please.”
He pressed his lips to mine, and I groaned. He tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, with that underlying sweetness of strawberries that was so him.
“I’m sorry. I can’t fucking stand anyone touching me but you,” he mumbled between kisses, his lips trailing down my throat as his hands caressed my body through my top. “I’m sorry I was late. Punish me. I think I’d like your punishment.” He bit the curve of my pec hard. “Make it hurt.”
I closed my eyes, dropping my head back as desire overshadowed the annoyance that still simmered beneath my skin. When he dropped to his knees, he shoved my top up over my abs, licking and biting at my skin before dragging his mouth over the growing bulge beneath my joggers. I glanced down to watch him trace the outline of my erection with his fingers, then followed it with his mouth, keeping his eyes locked with mine.
I groaned as he took the head of my cock into his mouth over my sweatpants, and the heat seeped through the fabric. He kept going, running his fingers over me, squeezing me through my joggers, then nuzzling me with his nose, tongue and lips, but never pulling my trousers down. He was teasing me, but I wasn’t in the mood to be toyed with.
“Stop being a brat,” I growled, running my hand through his hair and gripping it. His teeth latched onto the waistband of my joggers, pulling them away, then releasing them so they slapped back against my stomach. He smirked, and I lost it.
Grabbing his arms, I pulled him to his feet and gripped his jaw, kissing him hard with all the frustration, anger and love he made me feel. Our tongues fought a war neither of us voiced,but it was there. The tension. The arguments that kept being silenced by our desire.
How long could we keep going like this? How much more time did he need? When would we finally be able to walk down the street hand in hand? All the questions I still didn’t have answers to, because he wasn’t ready to show the world who he was.
I was a patient man as long as I had some idea that this was all going to be worth it in the end. That he was mine. The only way that ever felt true was when he was here, in this apartment, and I was inside him. I twisted him, bending him over the back of the sofa. He gasped, then moaned as I tore his trousers below his ass and dropped to my knees, burying my face between his cheeks. I licked, sucked, and tongued his hole, making it as ready as possible.
“Fuck, yes,” he moaned, bending further over and grabbing the sofa cushion to hold himself up.
I stood up, pulling my joggers down to my thighs, and dropped spit on my dick, lubing it with my own pre-cum. With one hand holding his ass cheek, I dragged my solid dick up and down his crack, teasing his hole with a little pressure each time it came into line.
“Finn,” he whimpered, turning to look at me.
I grabbed one of his arms, twisted it over his back, and pushed in, inch by inch, as he cried out until my balls slapped against his. His back arched, and his cry echoed around the flat as I groaned at the feeling of being seated inside him. Once I’d got over the initial sensation, I dragged my cock back out and grabbed his hips with a bruising grip.
“If you’re going to act like a brat, I’ll fuck you like one.”
I slammed into him. He screamed. His head tossed back. His spine curved. I unleashed every powerful thrust into him with a growl, feeling his ass clench and fight against me while pulling me back in. I’d never fucked him this hard before, but I knewhe liked it rough sometimes, especially after a few drinks. And I was too pissed at him to hold back. With every swing of my hips, his were shoved against the back of the sofa, bouncing it forward across the marble floor. I leaned over him, pinning his wrists to his lower back with one hand and gripping the nape of his neck with the other, fucking into him with wild abandon.
“Fuck, shit,” he panted, moaning and whimpering, loving every second. “Harder. Punish me harder! Is that all you’ve got, Rossetti?”
Such. A. Brat.
