The question catches me off guard. “Of course not. Murder is wrong.”
He tsks. “Your very hard cock says otherwise. You saidmurderand it started to weep. Look, it’s doing it again.”
He removes the knife from my throat and lowers it to wipe it off along my jean clad thigh, forcing me to follow the movement. My gaze detours to my dick. It’s painfully hard, and he’s correct, it’s leaking precum like this is normal. I must look just as shocked as I feel because he chuckles. He fuckingchuckleslike this is all a joke.
“I-I-I don’t know what is happening. I don’t get hard.”
“No? Cause I don’t think he’s gotten the message.” He moves closer to me, invading my space. He takes the edge of the knifeand skims it across the top of my shaft. “I think he’s loving everything right now.”
My lungs stop working—locking up—afraid to release the air in them. The intense coldness of the blade sends electrical zaps through my body, igniting my nervous system.
He continues to lazily glide the knife up and down my shaft. He’s clearly an expert with it. No sane person holds a knife to another man’s dick like this.
“I think our friend needs some attention. I want you to rub yourself like you do when you’re alone.” He leans in even closer, and I only see him—his green eyes appear brighter this close. I can now make out the levels of green, all swirled together. I can also smell him—instantly my mouth starts to water. Do I like the scent? It’s masculine, if masculinity had an aroma. Leather, something earthy, with a hint of copper. That’s clearly the blood I’m picking up on. But boy does it just add to him. Like it’s a part of him.
“Um, I don’t really do that,” I confess.
“What man doesn’t jack off?”
“I mean I have but just to try it out when I was a teenager. My dick is fundamentally broken. I don’t get hard for people. I never want sex. I’m a man who is giving his life to God. My desires have never been for the flesh but for knowledge.” There, I told him my truth. If I’m going to die, why not go with a clear conscience?
He moves his head back and forth, as he processes my word vomit. “I don’t think it’s broken. As we both can clearly see.” His gaze darts down for a second and then back up. “I want to see you rub it anyway.”
“No, please,” I whimper, slamming my eyes shut. Maybe I’m dreaming and this will force me to wake up.
He wraps his hand around mine—the hand that’s currently holding my dick. His is larger and calloused. “Let me showyou how.” I can sense him moving in closer, our chests almost touching. The feel of his spit hitting my erection causes me to jolt. His fingers tighten around mine, forcing me to tighten my grip. His hand starts to move mine up and down. It feels amazing. Anytime I’ve done this, it’s never felt this good. Is it his hand, my hand, or this whole situation making me this way? I witnessed death when I was younger, but it didn’t cause me to react likethis. Probably because of the situation and my age. Or is it this man, thiskiller, that’s forcing me to react?
“Your mouth said no, but your body and those moans? It doesn’t sound like you want me to stop.” Am I moaning? I don’t even know. Maybe it’s the alcohol? “You seem to be enjoying this. You’re fucking yourself into our hands. That’s not the action of someone who hates what’s happening.”
His hand continues to move mine, my dick loving every second. I’m feeling things like never before. Is this why everyone is so hung up on sex? Does it always feel this good?
He releases my hand. At the loss of him, my eyes fly open—from fear or from the lack of his presence I’m not sure—but my hand doesn’t get the memo as I continue to jack myself. I don’t want this sensation to stop.
He’s put a foot or so of distance between us, but his gaze devours me. What has my life become? I just watched this man kill someone, then he held the same knife to my throat, and helped me masturbate...
“You’re quite skilled with that hand. Does your God make your dick this hard? Is that what’s making you so horny right now? Thinking of Him?” He tsks and then steps so close to me that our chests are now fully flush. His breath fans across my lips, goosebumps spread all over my body. My hand stops moving. Again, I’m frozen, not knowing what to do or say. All brain functions have officially ceased to work. I flounder forsomething and before I can form a response, he says, “I want to know what you taste like.”
2
DECLAN
Don’t ask me why I didn’t just slit his throat the second I finished killing the annoyingly loud Marcos Bianchi. Maybe it was the fear in his eyes.No, I see fear all the time.Or maybe it was the fact he’s truly the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.Yeah, we’ll go with that.
He’s tall, with a swimmer’s body from what I can tell through his clothes, and curly blond hair that flops over his ears and forehead. His eyes are so wide they appear to be the size of saucers. They’re incredibly vibrant, like a neon light—electric, blazing the vibrant blue, and now my favorite color. And can we talk about his dick? It is fucking perfection. Long, thick, veiny, and clipped. Everything about him is perfect. Maybe he’s an angel sent to Earth to tempt me and my crooked soul.
We’re so close I could stick my tongue out and lick him. Tempting as it is, it’s not the way I want to taste him. I do, however, indulge myself. I lean in to smell him, running my nose along his jaw. Fuck, even his scent is perfect. Like clean laundry, mint, and something I can’t pinpoint but love instantly.
“Tell me, what’s the name of God’s Aingeal?” I ask, needing to know all I can about him. I know I should kill him. He saw what I did. He could go to the police. But do I care at thismoment? Not so much. If I’m going to be brought down by anyone, this perfect man can be my downfall.
He turns his head slightly, and his lips brush my cheek when he speaks. “My name is Ewen.” He pauses and licks his lips, the tip of his tongue grazing my skin. “What does ‘aingeal’ mean?” The touch of his lips moving on my skin almost breaks me. I feel like a fucking dog in heat, about to dry hump his leg.
Iamgoing to taste him—and steal his soul.
Dropping to my knees, which hurts like a bitch from the concrete, I grab his hips and pull him into me. My face shoved right in his groin, I fill my lungs with his scent. He’s like heroin. I don’t think I can get enough of him, already wanting another hit before I’ve even started.
“Aingeal is angel in Gaelic. You might want to brush up on it if you’re going to be in Boston. There’s a big Irish population.” And that’s all I say before I open wide and inhale his dick in one, powerful mouthful.
His hands fall instantly to my head. “Oh my, that’s amazing...” He trails off, trying to push my head away. “Wait, no. I can’t do this. I’m a man of faith and virtue, and pleasures like this are ones I vowed to not have.”
