Page 12 of Big Bad Boss: Moon Mad
Marco
The next morning, the pain in my back wakes me up. I’m on the living room sofa. It’s hard to swallow. Those painkillers always turn my throat dry. At least my migraine is gone, but my head feels fuzzy. Fucking hangover. The older I get, the longer it takes it to wear off.
I move myself into a sitting position. Thirty-eight years old, and I feel already like a junkyard car. The pain in my side reminds me of the hit I took yesterday, and when I brush the long, old scar with my hand, I realize I’m not wearing my shirt.
Yesterday’s events come back to me too vividly, and with them, Fly as well. Fuck, he could suck a cock. More shockingly, I got it up for a man. Well, technically I kept it up for him. I drank quite a lot, and he was…pretty. A man…pretty? I snort. I can’t have these kinds of thoughts this early in the morning. My brain feels like mush.
My eyes fall on the guns and leather shoulder holster on the coffee table near the empty bag of takeout food and my cell. I look around the living room, but I don’t see Fly. Did he leave?
It irritates me that I let a stranger inside my apartment when I was at my most vulnerable. I need to check the penthouse security cameras to see what the fuck he did while I was out.
I stand up and look at the time. Seven a.m. Luca must be on his way here. I yawn and run a hand through my hair before scratching my pec. My chest is clean, my dirty shirt and jacket are nowhere to be seen. I’m still wearing my suit pants. Fly said he’d pay for the ruined clothes.
Did he run? Part of me hopes so. Chasing prey is always fun.
A flash of a memory appears in front of my eyes, a hot, pierced tongue twisting over my cock, teary, satin-soft gray eyes, and unrestrained, slutty moans. The lust-filled look on his face while his rough fingers massaged my balls, and the scorching heat of his mouth. He sucked me with gusto, gasping for breath, and took me down his throat so fucking perfectly, swallowing my cum till the last drop. My morning wood gets even harder from the memory.Cazzo!
I walk to the kitchen sink and splash my face with cold water, then rinse my mouth and spit, willing my dick to behave. I let a man suck my cock, it's not a big deal. The fact that I keep thinking about it is the problem.
The fridge is empty except for a couple of beers and a carton of orange juice. I drink the OJ before turning to the espresso machine and starting my morningcafféroutine. When I open the bag, the coffee aroma invades my nostrils, soothing my uneasiness. I grind four spoons of beans first, then gently move the grounds to the machine portafilter. I press it against the group head and twist. I place two small cups under it and turn on the machine. My barefeet take me to the French doors in the living room, and I open them. As the smell of coffee grows inside the room, my mind goes back to those pale eyes. Light blue? Gray? I can’t give them a definite color, just like I can’t put my finger on the man himself.
The coffee machine stops huffing. Mycafféis ready. I grab the small cup and move back to the open French doors. It’s still too cool this time in the morning to drink all the way out on the balcony, so I remain on the threshold and look at the view, especially the small, peaceful wooded area among the high buildings.
My penthouse is in a luxurious building on Third Avenue. I can see Central Park in the distance from the other windows across the room, but I prefer this quieter side. The view is unbeatable. I’m so high up, that people strolling on the sidewalks look like small dots moving in groups.
The rich, bitter taste of coffee quickly revives my dead soul. I decide to drink the other cup when the beep of the front door announces Luca’s arrival. As he enters, I get a glimpse of Carlo and Jo, already standing guard outside my door.
Luca grunts, heading straight for the espresso machine. “Why the fuck aren’t you ready?”
“Fuck off,” I greet him.
Luca is a giant. I’m six-one, and he still looms over me by two inches. The fact that he is buff and rugged, and doesn’t talk much—to strangers—adds to the intimidating, aloof persona. The long scar on his face and across the bridge of his nose doesn't help, neither do the rumors about him liking to slash and disfigure people—which are not completely untrue.
“Didn’t get any fuzz? Or you got a shitty hand,” he drawls in his gruff voice.
A distant echo of Fly’s wet heat around my cock makes me grit my teeth. I gulp down the last drop of coffee when the sound of the toilet flushing from the bathroom makes me frown.Fly is still here, it can’t be anyone else, right?Luca looks at me with a raised brow. He knows I never let anyone, especially hookups, inside my apartment.
“Don’t look at me like that!” I bark at him while I make two more cups. I stroke the spent bullet tied to the cuff bracelet between my fingers, a familiar habit to remind myself what happens when I let my guard down. Not that I need it. I’ve got the scar on my side for that.
Fly appears at the end of the corridor, all smiles, wearing yesterday’s clothes except for the loose, midnight blue shirt he tied over his belly—which is mine. My favorite actually.
His long hair is high in a ponytail, and the absence of makeup from his face makes him look younger than his twenty-two. He really has such delicate features. Colorful pendants dangle from the small loops in his ears, and when he stretches his torso, lifting his arms toward the ceiling, that damn belly chain around his narrow waist makes an appearance before vanishing under the fabric again.
“I smelled coffee,” he utters, gliding into the living room, oblivious of my scrutiny. His eyes widen when they stop on Luca—not an unusual first reaction. Is it wariness in his gaze? He sent the same look at the Enzino guy yesterday. But not at me.
He still waves at Luca and then comes to me, to grab the espresso cup from my fingers. He gives me a closed-mouth smile that reaches his eyes. Eyes that are slowly taking my bare chest in.
“What do you think you’re doing?” It comes out like a threat. Good.
“You’re feeling better,” he states, standing too close to me. His scent seeps into my nostrils. The fresh rain smell is weaker than yesterday and is mixed with mine. It’s…nice.
“Cazzo hai fatto ieri?” Luca questions me with a hint of a smirk on his lips. His gaze keeps darting from my half-naked appearance to Fly’s relaxed attitude around me.
What didIdo yesterday?“Drank. Got in a fucking brawl at Rino’s. Suffered a major migraine.”
“That all?” he insists, since Fly’s presence in my penthouse is incredibly odd—given my distrustful and misanthropic nature.
I don’t give him a reply.
