Never! Not Remo Rossi. Like me, he feared nothing, not even death. I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head.
No one would grasp this bizarre connection I felt toward him, understand the ray of light he shone on my darkness, the only true color in my black and white world. We were made for each other, the perfect fit.
I killed, yes. Without remorse, yes. But I’d never let him bleed, not by my hand or another, as long as I lived.
Key to ridding this world of mafia scum, was to study my targets so well, I could sit down at their dinner tables and have a conversation about anything. Not that I would. The first time Isaw Remo’s photo, I knew it hadn’t done him justice and against my innate perception to stay away I decided on a closer look.
And God fucking almighty was I charmed. Just one glimpse and I knew he was mine.
He became my obsession and one day, I’d become his, he just didn’t know it yet. Regardless, I had yet to physically introduce myself to him.
Soon.
Confident, I studied his intricate tattoos. They always fascinated me. Skulls in varying sizes, some with a venomous snake through the eye, others adorned either with poisonous flowers or a deadly creature. Each representing a torment he’d defeated. Few if not none, knew that.
I did.
Because I’d watched him, learned him, anchored myself to him for so long, I knew everything. Planning our introduction while he continued to pretend he’d picked up the pieces, crushed those demons, buried them. But I saw the real him. I saw the mask and the broken soul behind it. Regardless, he remained breathtaking, more that he’d survived it all.
“Don’t!” the sudden whimper, the sound of a boy’s voice jerked my eyes up to Remo’s face and my unemotional heart skipped a beat or two.
His jaw clenched, his brows drawn together in a severe frown, a light sheen of sweat dotted his forehead and the skin above his pursed lips. The quick rise and fall of his chest suggested his torment strangulated the air to his lungs, probably making him desperate to wake up. Like always, I knew he couldn’t.
Movements that would trick a lion into believing it was just a brush of the wind against his fur, I climbed up onto the bed and drew closer to his sleeping form. If his usual vigilance was anything like mine, he’d either keep up the pretense todetermine my next move or launch a surprise attack. And if my reaction was anything like his, I’d easily defend that strike.
But I knew better.
Caught in the throes of a dark dream, a constant torment, it debilitated his awareness. The first time I witnessed his nightmare, I refrained from touching him, unsure how he’d react. Now though, his distress called to my soul, begging reprieve.
Taking care not to startle him, I placed my hand over his heart. It sprinted a mile a minute, leaving me wondering what terrified a man who didn’t even fear death. Perhaps a little part of me knew and why I decided to help him.
My hands on the waistband of his pants, I eased it down gently. Slowly, my hand drifted over his cock, fingers brushing the placid skin. He shuddered and I paused briefly before wrapping my fingers around the beautiful girth. I began stroking, watching as he hardened beneath my touch. The way his body responded, even unconscious, sent warmth coursing through me, gradual and deep. It wasn’t just desire but something older, quieter. The need to soothe him. To drag him back from whatever ghosts were clawing at his mind.
His breathing stuttered, chest rising sharper now, fingers twitching against the sheets like he was fighting some invisible enemy. I leaned closer, brushing my lips against his shoulder, then his neck, letting my mouth follow the familiar lines of him.
“Come back,” I murmured against his skin. “I’m here.”
My hand moved with slow intention, not urgency, learning him the way I always did, patient and certain. A low sound escaped him, rough and half-formed, my name maybe, or maybe I just wanted it to be true. That did something reckless to my heart I couldn’t quite fathom.
My touch slowed, steadier now, less about want and more about grounding him, about reminding his body there wassomething warm and real here, not whatever darkness his mind kept dragging him into.
His breathing hitched then changed, the frantic rhythm softening. His chest stopped jolting and began to rise slow and deep, as if he was finally surfacing from underwater. The tension in his muscles began to melt under my palm, the tightness leaving him piece by piece. His brow smoothed. His jaw unclenched. The nightmare loosening its grip.
His hand slid across the mattress, brushing my thigh in a blind search before settling there, warm and heavy. He didn’t wake, would never know who was there. Still, he held on until he succumbed. The quiet release moved through him, stealing the air from his lungs, and painting my hand in his beautiful cum, until his body went slack, head rolling to the side, a faint sigh leaving his lips.
The last of the nightmare dissolving as his face finally smoothed into something peaceful, almost boyish, almost soft. I stayed a moment longer than I should have, memorizing him like this.
Vulnerable. Human. Mine.
Then bringing my fingers to my mouth, my tongue snaked a rampant pattern over the salty wetness, savoring his taste. Heat pooled low in my stomach, a warm rush of wetness staining the latex between my thighs. Satisfied, I eased his waistband back into place, and moved away, careful not to disturb the sheets.
“Sweet dreams, my dark prince,” I whispered.
By the time he woke, he’d think the calm was his own. He’d never know someone had chased his demons out and slipped away before dawn. But I would. And tomorrow night, when the nightmares came back, I’d be there again. Watching. Waiting.
What I felt for Remo Rossi might not have a name, but I knew it started at forever and would always end at never.
three
