He nods frantically. A minute later, instinct takes over, and he tries to reach down and grab himself. I slap his hand away. “Are you fucking serious?” I growl.
“S-sorry,” he hisses.
“You touch it without permission, I’ll put it back in a cage.” He grips the sheets instead. His face twists, and he whimpers. “Shhh.” I push another finger inside him. Three now. Stretching him wider. “I’ll give you what you need. Just relax.”
He’s already so fucking close. He’s riding my hand, his dick an angry red, his balls tight and high. Usually his face is cold, unreadable, but right now he’s wearing a mask of exquisite agony.
“Dami, please,” he says, his voice raw.
“Again.”
“Please.”
“No,” I grit out. “My name. Say my name again.”
“Dami, please,please.” He’s desperate for it. His voice is broken, and the way he says my name?—
“What are you?” I demand.
“Yours,” he gasps. “Your property.”
Good boys get rewarded. I want him to learn that.
I reach for his dick with my other hand, give it a hard stroke, root to tip, then another and another—and he’s done. His eyes roll back in his head, and he shoots, spurting across his belly and chest. His mouth opens in a long, choked groan, and his ass clenches around my fingers so hard my hand could go numb if I leave it in there much longer.
It’s not a pretty orgasm. It’s messy. Filthy. Loud. His hair is sweat-soaked, his cheeks flushed, his body limp. Totally spent.
And he’s never been prettier.
He looks up at me, still panting, and smiles—a slow, sweet smile that doesn’t belong on his face right now, and sure as fuck shouldn’t be aimed atme. I stare back at him, wondering why my heart is pounding so hard.
I roll off the bed and grab the towel he dumped just outside the bathroom door, my dick wagging like a dog tail. It dies down a little as I wipe off my face, and then I turn back to him and clean him up without a word. Wipe away the evidence of what we just did.
He doesn’t speak, too fucked-out to do anything much except lie there.
I go wash my hands and face and then come back to bed, settling up against the headboard. He curls into me like a hopeful stray dog who doesn’t know if it’s welcome or not. I put my arm around him because I’ve got nowhere else to put it, and the stitch job Rosa did is aching. His breathing evens out, and I swear to God, he’s falling asleep in my fucking arms.
I need to return him to the basement. To his proper fucking place.
But…he’s still hunted. Still mine to protect. “They won’t stop,” I say finally.
He gives a little jerk as I yank him off the train to Dreamland, and tilts his sleepy face up toward mine. “Hm?” he mumbles.
“Whoever’s cleaning up what’s left of the Clemenza mess.” I ignore the throbbing pain in my arm as I shift him closer, hold him tighter. “They want you dead, little prince. And they’re not going to stop until they finish the job.”
I reach up to run my fingers through his hair. It’s like damp silk between my fingers. I’ve enjoyed gathering it up in my fist to hurt him. Now I can’t stop stroking it gently, like he might dissolve away if I’m not careful enough.
“You think they’ll try again?” he asks at last.
“Yeah.” I pause, let him soak in that idea for a minute. “But you belong to me. So I’ll stop them, Caligula. I can promise you that.”
His eyes flutter closed. “I—” He starts, then pauses.
“What is it?”
“Most people—my friends—they call me ‘Cal.’”
“I’m not most people. And I’m definitely not your friend.”
