“Yeah.”
“I should be upstairs right now, calling Finch D’Amato and begging the Morellis to come get me.”
“Yeah, you probably should.”
“But here I am in your creepy fucking basement at two in the morning because I can’t stop thinking about your hands on me.”
“Caligula, this ain’t a good?—”
He puts a hand on my chest. Flat, fingers spread, like he’s testing a wall to see if it’s still standing. “You don’t need to tell me this isn’t a good idea. I already know.”
His hand is over my heart, and I know he can feel it going. That’s the thing about Caligula. He reads me like a fucking book, and then he uses what he finds.
He curls his fingers into my shirt and pulls me down.
I go. Because I always go. Wherever Caligula Clemenza leads, I follow. I don’t know when it started, but that’s just how it is now.
He kisses me. His mouth is warm and I kiss him back until he pulls away. His eyes are dark amber in this light, and he’s trembling, and he’s the bravest person I’ve ever met.
“Are you going to stand there or are you going to undress me?” he asks.
I yank the robe off him and he makes a noise, startled but relieved. Then I put my hands on his waist and lift him up. His legs wrap around me and his arms wind around my neck.
I carry him to the bed.Hisbed.
I lay him down and he pulls me over him. He’s already hard, but something in me goes quiet. I’ve been nothing but noise inside since this ice wall shot up between us, and I didn’t even notice until now, when everything gets quiet again, and I’m focused on him.
“What the hell do you want from me?” I sigh, amused and bitter at the same time.
“You know what I want. You always know. That’s the worst fucking thing about this, Dami. You always know what I want even when I don’t.”
He wants my hands on his throat, my weight pinning him down, the growl in my voice when I tell him what to do. He wants the beast.
But he wants the beast with a leash. And he wants to be the one holding it.
I fist my hand in his hair and pull his head back. His breath catches and his back arches and his cock twitches against my stomach.
“Look at me,” I tell him.
He does. The pupils blown wide, the lower lip damp from kissing. Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous. Andmine. Even though I have no right to call him that and no future to offer him.
I kiss his throat. I put my mouth on the spot where his pulse hammers, tasting salt and heat. He groans. His hips push up against me and I push them back down with one hand, pinning him flat.
“Stay still,” I say against his skin.
“Make me.”
I pin both his wrists over his head with one hand. He tests the grip, pulling once, twice, and then goes slack.
Not broken. Surrendered.
There’s a difference, and I’m starting to learn what it is.
I put my mouth to his neck, but I don’t kiss him. Ibitehim. Not hard enough to break the skin. Just hard enough for him to feel it, a claiming. His whole body shudders, and a gasp escapes him.
“I told you to stay still.” I want to leave my marks all over him. My teeth on his collarbones, my fingerprints on his hips, my dick imprinted in his ass.
I release his wrists and he keeps them there, though his chest is heaving as he breathes faster and faster. I grab the lube from the nightstand and slick my fingers, get a hand between his legs. His knees fall apart, a wanton, shameless invitation, and I trace the tight knot of his asshole. He whines, high and desperate, and I reward him by pushing one finger inside, then two. The slick channel opens up easy as it always does.