I should’ve called my brother as soon as I saw that Clemenza asshole in the club, but I had to take the chance that they were just testing me out. I’ve been hanging around that crew for a while, begging for a shot to run with them. All I got for my trouble tonight was beat up.
Stupido, I tell myself, but there’s no point in berating myself. I know where I want to be, and I need to take chances along the way. This was just one bad business decision. That’s how I’ll look at it, anyway, to keep my mind off my ribs. One seems to be cracked, and there’s a throbbing in my shoulder from where this pink-haired angel sewed me up.
I’d be dead if not for him. I was lying there in the trash, almost blacking out, when I heard a voice, half-surfer and half-silver-spoon, that just wouldn’t shut up. Wouldn’t keep quiet so I could knit my bones back together enough to get out of there before they came back. Because they were coming back, there was no doubt about that. They only ran because they heard the sirens, and those sirens definitely hadn’t come for me.
A face. That’s the next thing I saw.
That chatty voice coming out of the face of an angel, like I’d prayed hard enough for intercession that Mother Mary sent an emissary to watch over me. Protect me.
Help me out of the trash and take me to a fancy hotel room.
A wave comes over me, and for a second I think I might pass out, but I don’t let on. I don’t want to show weakness. I concentrate on the man in front of me, and the white around the edge of my vision recedes enough so I can really take in this pink-haired angel who saved my life.
He’s beautiful.
He’s naked.
I stand up from the side of the tub and lead him back out into the hotel suite, through the lounge and into the bedroom, and I try not to look intimidated by how lavish everything is. In the bedroom doorway I pull him close and kiss him, working my way down his neck so I can take in the room over his shoulder.
It’s luxe as hell, all gold and walnut woods. The bed has four posts and the sheets are silk. On one wall is a TV set in a brass picture frame, and I have to really look at it for a while before I confirm, yeah, that’s a TV, not a black-toned portrait of a beat-up street rat and his twink making out.
And if not for this pink-haired little twink, I’d actually be dead.
“Come on, then,” I tell him now. “I’ll give you the fuck of your life, so you can have one fond memory for the rest of your privileged days.”
His grin just gets wider. “Aw, you’re so gangsta,” he says. “Okay. Show me what you got.”
I slam my mouth down on his again to shut him up. Talkers. I hate them usually, but this guy is different. There’s more behind his talk than just bragging. There’s a great big empty soulless hole inside him that he uses words to try and fill up—and drugs, judging by the size of his pupils. God knows what he’s on tonight. But I know that hole is there because I have the same thing inside me, only I don’t use talk or drugs or booze or fucking to fill it.
I use ambition.
Under my lips and teeth he’s kissing back, biting at me gently, teasing, like he’s trying to provoke me. I get my teeth around his bottom lip and tug it, just a reminder that I’m the one in charge. I let his lip pop out from between my teeth and move back, just to see what he’ll do. Like I thought, he moves with me, leaning forward like we’re dancing.
“Kiss me,” he demands, laughter in his eyes.
“I don’t like bossy bottoms,” I growl at him.
“Oh, baby, then you’re gonna hate me.” He reaches out to embrace me again, but I grab his wrists.
“No. You’ll take what I give you,” I tell him. If this kid thinks his will can overcome mine, he’s gonna be sorely disappointed.
He gives an experimental tug against my grip, just to see how tight I’m holding him. “Mm, I’ll take it and like it,” he promises, fluttering those lashes and letting his lips part in invitation. “Come on, then, baby. Teach me a lesson.”
He pulls me over to the bed and sits down on the edge, looking up at me.
Look, under normal circumstances, I totally would teach this guy a lesson. I like my fucks rough, fast and with enough discomfort that they remember my name, sometimes enough to make them curse it. But I’ve got a cracked rib, maybe two, and a slice in my arm with a shitty stitch job. There’s no way I can fuck this kid like I want to fuck him; like he needs me to fuck him. So I settle on another strategy.
“Move,” I tell him, and he moves, lets me arrange him lying in the middle of the three hundred pillows this place has piled onto the bed. I pause to take him in.
He really is an angel, with his messy pink hair spreading over the creamy pillow case, the color of the sheets setting off his bronze tan. He has a face that’s impossible to forget, and I can’t resist reaching out to touch him, this beautiful kid, just to reassure myself that he’s real.
I’m the one who got bashed and left for dead, but there’s something so vulnerable about him; I’ve never felt like this before. He might have been my guardian angel tonight, but there’s a new feeling stirring inside me.
I’ve never wanted to protect anyone.
I’ve only ever thought about how I can use them.
I reach out and smooth one lock of hair off his forehead. “You’re a goddamn fairytale princess, aren’t you? Lying there all pink and gold.”
“Just waiting for your kiss, Prince Charming.”
“Oh, I’m no prince, angel. But I don’t think you want a prince, do you?” I pull off the rest of my clothes and his breath catches as he gets an eyeful of my cock. I crawl onto the bed, over his body. “No, I think you prefer trash like me, don’t you?” I make my way up, knees on either side of his arms, dick wagging around in his face. “I think you like getting dirty with the rats and then washing yourself clean when you’re done. Isn’t that right?”
“When you’re right, you’re right,” he says.
I narrow my eyes as I look down at him. “Open your mouth.”
He takes it like a champ, I’ll give him that. I push in fast, already aching hard for him. I hit the back of his throat and wait for him to stop spluttering and gagging, because I’m a gentleman, or at least, that’s what I tell him, smiling down at him.
He gives me a roll of his eyes in return.
I like that this guy doesn’t give up his swagger just because he’s choking on dick. He’s not going to make it easy on me, not going to give in to his own pleasure without a fight. So I pull out again, and smack my wet cock on each side of his face. “Too much for you, princess?” I ask sweetly.
His only reply is to mash my dick back into his mouth like he’s a starving man and I’m rare roast beef. He’s a drooler, and unashamed. I like that. I like a guy who’s confident enough to dribble and cough and go red in the face and still know he’s the hottest thing in the city.
And this guy definitely is—the hottest thing in the city, that is. The hottest thing I’ve ever seen. And here I am, feeding him my cock and fucking his throat.
He’s stirring something in me I never knew was there, something unfamiliar. It’s not just about the sex, although that’s also blowing my mind. He’s working my dick like he’s never had one so good, but he’s so practiced at it, I know he’s had more meat in his mouth than I’ve had hot dinners. He’s jacking himself while he sucks me, and I risk twisting, ignore the pain in my side, just so I can see his pink-tipped dick shining and jerking in his hand.
It’s that pain in my side that makes me lose it; I like my fucks perverted and I like to see the pain change to pleasure in others, but I never knew I was wired that way too. His deep-throating and his beautiful gold-green eyes looking up at me, streaming tears, the sight of my thick cock going in and out of those bubblegum-pink lips…it all combines and I take three more thrusts, deep in his throat, hoping he’s had the sense to close off his airway because otherwise he’ll drown in spunk.
It bursts out of me like I’m a bottle of soda shaken up, pouring into his warm wet throat. He swallows
, thank fuck, so I came down the right hole at least. I had a guy choke on my cum once. It was way less fun than it sounds.
I pull out so I can squeeze out the dregs onto his puffy lips, shining with spit and snot, and then he comes too, staring up at me. It’s like he’s surprised, calling out in shock, and I feel a hot spray on my ass and lower back. He shot hard.
It makes my three-minute performance not quite as embarrassing. Some lesson; this guy schooled me. That doesn’t happen much.
I never lose control.
“Holy fuck,” he coughs. “Okay, you’re gangsta.”
“You’re not bad yourself,” I say, and climb off him. I can’t suppress the hiss of pain as my body contorts, and I feel dizzy again. Now that my balls are empty I can think straight, but it also means I’m feeling the other stuff. The bad stuff.
Finch leans up on his elbow. He’s looking paler as well. “You okay?” he asks. “You were pretty adamant about not going to a doctor.”
“Adamant,” I repeat.
“Yeah. It means—”
“I know what it means.” I know what it means, I just never heard anyone in real life use that word. I’ve been working on my vocabulary, reading whatever I can get my hands on. Practicing. I know where I want to be, and I need the right words to get there.
The guy’s staring at me, his eyes still glowing, even though he looks like he’s starting to feel the effects of the night, too. I give a shrug, although it hurts me even to do that. “I’m okay. I mean, shit’s gonna scar, but it was better to sew me up than not.”
He nods his head. “You probably wanna get it checked when you can.”
I don’t snort at him. What’s the point? He lives in a world where getting medical attention is no big deal. Even if I had the money for it, I can’t afford the questions.
But it won’t always be like that for me. One day, I’ll live in a place just like this, and on that day, I won’t have broken ribs and stab wounds. I’ll have an angel in my bed, though, just like him. Yes, that’s it: I’ll keep my lover in a place like this, and visit him whenever I want. I’ll have a place of my own, of course, where my lover never comes, because I won’t ever mix business and pleasure. But he’ll always be here, waiting, when I want him.
I’ll make my lover dye his hair pink and use words like adamant.
“I need a cigarette before round two,” I say.
Chapter Five
FINCH
This guy.
This motherfucking guy.
I’m no tender virgin. I’ve been face-fucked before, and I’ve been treated like a cumhole before, and I like it fine, more than fine sometimes, but this guy. The ego rolling off him is fucking heady, and then he has the cock to back it up: long and curved, thicker at the base, just the way I like it.
God, I like everything about him.
I like the way he pretends not to hurt. I do that too. Easier to hide the hurts than put up with people making a fuss. I have three older sisters and I’m the baby of the family, a late addition. You better believe I know what it’s like to be made a fucking fuss of.
This guy.
When he shot his load down my throat I found myself thinking, This is a guy I could really fall for.
“I need a cigarette before round two,” he says.
“On the desk.”
He doesn’t look back at me even once he finds and lights his cigarette. He wanders over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looks out over the lights of the city, the dark space of Central Park at night, the moon shining bright in the sky.
I roll off the bed and come over to him. He’s got my cum dripping down his back, but it doesn’t seem to bother him, and I like the thought of it just drying there, marking him until his next shower. I gesture out the window. “Look at this city,” I say. “What do you see?”
“Nothing. It’s dark out.”
I chuckle. He frowns, danger in his eyes. I want to see this guy in action. I can see what he has in him, deep down.
If only he could see it too.
“Baby,” I say gently, “you’re looking at your kingdom. Don’t you know you could rule this city, rule the fucking world?”
“You’re high.”
“Yep. But I’m also right.”
He frowns again, but this time it’s not anger. He’s thinking.
Then he moves like a whip, grabbing me by the throat and throwing me up against the window, hard. It shudders under the blow, and I give a strangled laugh. “You call me Lucifer,” he says, pressing his forehead into mine. “But I think you’re the devil, aren’t you? Taking me up to the top of the mountain and telling me I can have the whole world.”
“You can,” I croak. My cock’s getting hard again, even though I still feel like shit from the drugs, and I just emptied my balls all over this guy a few minutes ago. What the fuck is he doing to me?
He holds the lit cigarette up near my face, almost a threat, but not quite. He just takes another slow drag while he stares at me, then blows the smoke deliberately into my face.
I want to goad him. I want to make him throw me through this fucking window just so I can fly for a few seconds before I die; I’ll be thinking about his pretty eyes on the way down.
He doesn’t even know how dark he could go, this one. When I was a kid still running around the house in Boston I saw Mob bosses sitting with my father in his study, and every single one of them got me hard; even those old decrepit ones whose glory days were sometime around when Al Capone was still shitting his diapers.
I’d go down on any one of them in a split second if they asked, because power like that is the ultimate aphrodisiac for me.
Pops doesn’t have power like that anymore. He went straight a long time back. We’re old Irish stock out of Boston, and Pops was close with the Irish Mob when he was young. But when Pops went legit he shored up against his ruin by making a few billion dollars instead. So he has a rep, and the Italians mostly leave his New York businesses alone, as long as he pays up.
Anyway, none of those old Italian fuckers, or the younger ones for that matter, were as powerful as Lucifer could be. Will be, I amend in my own mind. This guy’s a fucking juggernaut; he just needs to start rolling.
“Damn, you’re beautiful,” I wheeze. His hand is still tight on my throat, and I can feel his cock getting hard again too, butting into my stomach.
He eases up his grip, looking me over with curiosity. “You, too,” he says, almost puzzled. “But you’re fucking crazy, angel. You know that?”
It makes me cackle, but it still comes out slightly choked. “Yeah, I know.”
He lets me go abruptly and takes a few steps back. I peel myself off the window and glance back. There’s a sweaty imprint of my ass and back still on the glass.
He’s giving me a strange look, frowning like he’s working on a problem. “I want to fuck you.” But the way he says it, it’s like he means something else.
“Then come and fuck me,” I say, opening up my arms.
The way he stares at me is almost despairing. But all he says is, “Get back on the bed. Now.”
I wake hours later, the sun hot across my face. But it’s not the light that wakes me, it’s a low voice talking from across the room. I crack my eyes open and try to focus.
“I got jumped,” Lucifer is saying, and a tirade worms its way out of the cell phone he has in his hand. “Yeah, yeah. Forget that shit for now, Frankie. Just come get me. We can take care of them later.” Another pause, another question from the other end. “I’m at the Grand on Fifth. Yes, as in Fifth Avenue.” He makes a little movement of his head, as though checking to see if I’m listening.
Of course I’m fucking listening.
“I had some help,” he says in reply to another question, an ironic little twist to his tone. When he hangs up, he turns to look at me. “Good morning, angel.”
“Who was that?” I ask, sitting up at once.
“My brother. He’s coming to pick me up. Can you let the desk know
to send him up?” He goes back over to the windows and looks out again over Central Park. “I’ve never seen New York from this high up,” he says meditatively.
He wants to bring his brother up here. Why, I wonder? To see the view?
To tidy up a loose end?
Nah, I decide. If Lucifer was planning to off me, he could’ve done it there in the alleyway. I call down to the desk and give them the instructions. If nothing else, I’m curious to meet this brother.
“I want to see you again.” It’s out of my mouth before I can even think about filtering, almost before I’ve hung up the phone. Lucifer looks at me like he’s almost considering it, and then shakes his head.
“You don’t wanna know me. I’m bad news.”
“Yeah, you sure will be,” I agree. “That’s what’s so fucking hot about you.”
“I knew it,” he murmurs to himself.
I get up and walk over to him, watch him watching my cock, my thighs, my pecs. I know what I look like. I’m fucking beautiful, but so is he. He’s taller than me and hairy all over, on the chest, arms, junk…I fucking love it; I want to bury my face in all that fuzz and sniff him out, get high off his pheromones.
I’m right in front of him now, and I kneel down, looking up past his fat cock and his big velvety balls, right in the eye. “What do you know?” I ask.
“You’re crazy like I’m crazy,” he says.
I show him my teeth in a grin. “Hell, yeah. There’s not many of us around. When you’re ready to be King of New York City, come find me. Deal?” I nuzzle into his junk, sucking at his balls. The bruising on his side is really coming up now, and I figure he’s gotta hurt all over. Another suck job can only help take his mind off it.
I feel his hand on the back of my head, fingers twisting in my hair, and he presses me closer. I take the tip of his cock in my mouth gently, rolling it with my tongue. I can’t get enough of his dick, I don’t know what it is about him. He makes me want to pledge allegiance to his goddamn ballsack.
I’m in the middle of blowing him when there’s a banging at the door. I jump, but the guy just gives this sigh, rolling his eyes upwards.
Married to the Mobster Page 3
