Page 42 of Fallen Rook

“Nod once if you plan on being a good boy,” I ordered him.

He did, his eyes dancing with the same malicious contempt I’d seen before when I asked about his scars.

I removed my hands from him, the cold sense of loss already frosting my fingertips.

“We’ll save the tough conversation for after your orgasm.” I pushed off him, smoothing out my suit and offering him a hand. He didn’t take it, climbing back to his feet with a sulky pout. I didn’t like that the warm, tingly fire had dimmed from his playful eyes. And I especially didn’t like that I was the one who’d extinguished it.

“What now?” He folded his arms over his broad chest.

I shoved him against the TV stand and covered his mouth with mine, a grunt of pained desperation rolling off my throat.

Thrusting my tongue deep into his mouth, I twisted my fingers in his hair, pressing my straining, engorged cock against his, rubbing them together through our clothes. I tasted my blood and his cigarettes in the kiss, a ghastly potion that shouldn’t be palatable and yet I couldn’t get enough of. This time, he fought for dominance, pushing back, rolling his tongue against mine, and penetrating my mouth as deep as he could get.

He kissed me like he wanted to destroy me.

I kissed him like I was going to let him.

We ground against each other, my hands roaming his hot, hard body. Every inch of him was carved in measurements that’d make Michelangelo’s David weep in envy.

Perfect.

Perfect.

Fuck.

My mouth ran down his throat, skimming the fading hickey I’d left on his neck and closing on the same spot to mark him again. Fucking mine.

For the time being, but still.

From there, I traveled down to his flat, brown nipple, circling the tip of my tongue around it and feeling his skin pebble beneath my wet mouth. His hands snatched the lapels of my tux. At first I thought he was throwing me off him and was about to pull back, but then realized he was tearing my clothes to shreds on his quest to get me naked. The sound of fabric ripping filled the air. He whirled to try to push my pants down, and I fisted his ass cheeks, walking him backward, toward the hallway. We were a torrent of destruction, a Tasmanian devil cycloning in his living room, knocking things down—a remote control, a game controller, a small sculpture—on our way to what I assumed was the bedroom.

I didn’t lift my mouth from his nipple, though. His skin tasted good, and my tongue started wandering skillfully down his sculpted torso.

“Hmmph…Tomcat…”

“What?”

Jesus fucking Christ. Did I actually answer to that stupid nickname?

“This is… I—” He broke off, heaving. “Shit, I can’t believe I’m really doing this.”

My shoulder slammed into a wall. I finally looked up and realized we’d ended up in his open-plan kitchen.

I didn’t want to wait another second, let alone five of them, to make the way to the bedroom and taste him.

And I didn’t want him to stop what was happening because he was too self-conscious about it.

“Turn around and put your palms on the counter.”

He did as he was told, a fucking miracle if I ever saw one.

I cupped him through his tented sweatpants from behind, relishing the wet spot of precum, then patted my way down just to mess with him. Even if he had a weapon, I could take him.

“He’s frisking me now,” Enzo muttered, making my chest quake with laughter. “My life is officially a bad porno. Tutto questo è ridicolo.”

Something about the way he spoke Italian dismantled the part of my brain that was responsible for proper functioning. The way it rolled off his tongue…it undid me. I pushed his sweatpants down, and his ass was so round, muscular, and perfect that I had to swallow down a grunt of appreciation.

Who was I kidding about being here for his well-being?