“I want it,” I say, because I know as well as he does that jerking off is not going to be anywhere near as effective as havinghimdo it for me.
I don’t know why that is. But it’s true.
It’s only when we’re in the elevator going down instead of up that it occurs to me he’s taking me to the basement. Damiano is standing behind me, staring straight ahead but sightlessly atthe reflective walls. Maybe he’s thinking about the last time we were down there, when he woke me with his tongue in my ass. I can’t suppress the surge of desire that floods me at that thought, clouding my mind even more.
I still hate the basement, but that fear is inextricably linked with sexual pleasure.
And he likes that reaction in me.
The elevator hits the bottom and the doors open. “Move,” he says.
I take a few hesitant steps into the dark, groping around for the lights, finding them with relief. But when I turn around, he’s still standing there in the elevator, looking at me. The dim lighting of the elevator means his eyes are shadowed.
He takes a step forward. And another. The elevator doors close behind him.
“I thought you didn’t have time to waste on me,” I say, mostly to provoke him.
It works. He reaches out and grabs me, slamming me up against the wall so all the breath leaves my lungs. His fingers dig into my biceps until I wince. “You’re hurting me.”
“But you like that.”
I wish I could deny it. But even as I squirm around in his grip, I’m just getting harder.
I still haven’t figured out what’s wrong with me, what makes melikeit when he does these things. Maybe Nonno Lou saw this in me as well, these craven needs I despise in myself. Despise, but can’t stop indulging.
There’s something strange in Dami’s slow smile as he eases up on my arms and finally drops his hands from me. “You pretend to like ordering people around, little prince. But secretly, you just want someone to throw you down on the ground and fuck the arrogance out of you. Right?”
Is this one of his games? “Are we doing this or not?” I ask, rubbing at my upper arms to take away the sting.
He keeps smiling that smile as he waves a hand toward the mockery of my heritage, the alternate-reality townhouse. “Where would you like it to happen?” he asks. “Your choice.”
I don’t care. All I care about is getting this over and done with, because somewhere along the way this leash became a two-way noose, and Damiano Orsini and I are only getting more tangled up as time goes on.
Warily, I look around the basement. “The bed.Mybed,” I amend. “Over there.” I point to the simulacrum of my townhouse bedroom. The last place I want is that cover-and-pillow-free bed where Damiano kept me when I was a prisoner. The collar and chain are still lying on the mattress from when I tested him.
He grabs me by my arm again and half-drags me across the room to throw me onto the bed. And he’s on me almost before I can turn over, one hand closing in my hair and the other around my throat. “Shouldn’t I take off my clothes?” I croak out.
His hand tightens around my throat. He must be able to feel my pulse smacking into his palm. He must know how nervous I am.
Nervous, but excited.
He still has that unnerving smile. “Sure,” he says, after a long pause. “Take off your clothes.”
He sits up to watch. It takes me longer than it should to undress, because my hands are shaking. Not from fear. From need. He watches each piece fall away, and I hate that I’m searching his face for approval like it matters.
Itdoesmatter. That’s what I hate the most.
He stays fully clothed. “Get on the bed,” he says. “Face down.”
I do it. I lie down on Nonna Mellie’s quilt with my face in a pillow that smells like Dami, and I feel him climb onto the bed behind me, the fabric of his dinner pants brushing my thighs as he spreads my legs apart with his.
“Lucky for you I put this down here,” he says, and reaches for the nightstand. I hear the soft snick of a cap opening, and the squelch of lube as he squeezes it out.
He’s efficient rather than erotic, those thick fingers slicked up and pushing in without ceremony. But I’m just as impatient. I bury my face in the pillow and my hips push back before I stop them.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “Every time. You just open right up.”
I want to tell him to shut up. But all that comes out is a sound that proves his point.