But I’m looking at him, standing there in his expensive suit, flush with the thrill of making a grown man shake. And I think about how good he’d look on his knees right now, that poisonous mouth wrapped around my cock, those golden eyes looking up at me while I fucked his throat raw in this fancy bathroom.
I think about how he’d take it, too. How he’d open up and swallow me down and moan around my dick like the greedy little thing he is.
My cock is already half-hard at the thought.
“Get on your knees,” I tell him.
His eyes go wide, that pretty blush starting up in his cheeks. “Dami, someone will come in.”
“I said get on your knees.”
He does it. Drops right down on that polished tile floor without another word of protest, looking up at me with his lips already parted, and the sight of it hits me so hard I have to grab the edge of the sink.
Caligula Clemenza, on his knees in a public bathroom, waiting for me. For whatever I want to give him.
I could do it. Hewantsme to. I can see it in his face, in the way his eyes are warm gold as he waits for me to command him.
But something stops me. Maybe it’s the crème caramel, still sweet on my tongue. Maybe it’s the way he saidI have you, Dami. Maybe it’s the memory of my hand on the back of his head last night, cradling him.
Whatever it is, I find myself hesitating.
I walk around him to the exit. “Stay there,” I tell him. “Wait until the next person comes through that door and sees you like this, on your knees on the bathroom floor. Then you can come back to the table.”
His mouth falls open. “You can’t be serious.”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
“What if an assassin?—”
“You trust me to keep you safe or not?” I stare at him until he drops his eyes. And then I walk out.
Back in the dining room, Stuccio and his date are gone. I pay the bill and have another spoonful of the crème caramel, and think about what I just did. Wonder why I didn’t take what was on offer.
And I don’t take my eyes off the corridor to that bathroom.
Five minutes later I see some ninety-year-old totter down it, and a few seconds later, the Clemenza reappears, composed as always. There’s a tight look around his eyes, though. Fury, maybe.
“Enjoy yourself?” I ask.
“Immensely,” he says, ice on every syllable.
I grin. He glares. And when he moves to sit, I see he’s hard in his pants.
I still haven’t let him come.
“Finish up,” I say, pushing the dessert over to him. He does, chasing the silky custard around the plate. And I watch him suck on the spoon with each mouthful.
That could have been me he was sucking on.
I text Vito to bring the car around, and in turning on my phone, I discover I’ve also got a missed call and a voice message from Seb Conti. As soon as we get into the car, the Clemenza starts babbling about strategy, contingencies about how we mighttrack this cousin of his down if Stuccio doesn’t deliver—but I’m not listening. I’ve put in an earbud and I’m listening instead to Seb’s message.
He’s done some digging.
“The Morellis never threatened your people,” he says. “I sat down with Nick Fontana over a beer tonight, and…”
I let the message play and then I play it again, just to make sure I’m hearing it right.
I did. I heard it perfectly clear.