Page 73 of He Should Be Mine

“Hey, Duckling.”

I blink. Molly is looking over his shoulder at me. A knowing smirk on his face. He is still on his tiptoes, hands in the cupboard.

“Did you get cream?”

My eyes narrow. I don’t like being teased. “Yeah,” I say gruffly.

“Thank you, Duckling. You’re the best!”

He gives me a wink and goes back to rearranging the cupboard.

Duckling. I still love it. Possibly a little more every time he says it. But why does he call me that? Does it mean ugly duckling? Does he think I’m ugly?

I scowl and shove the empty bags into the trash can. Plenty of people think I’m a good-looking man.

I stomp over to the sofa and flop down. Molly is just going to arrange the groceries to his liking anyway, so I might as well leave him to it.

I pull out a cigarette and light it up. It doesn’t matter if Molly thinks I’m ugly. He likes me, I know he does. And I’m sure he has had ugly clients before. He already said he wouldn’t mind belonging to someone else, as long as they paid as much as Riccardo does.

So it’s all fine. Molly is going to be mine. I’m going to get to worship that ass. Touch it. Lick it. Caress it. I’m going to be able to kiss him and make him scream my name. He is going to look magnificent, shuddering and writhing on my cock. I’m going to wreck him in all the best possible ways.

I take a deep drag of my cigarette. The thing is, I don’t know a thing about gay sex. So how can I rock his world when I’m totally clueless? I understand the anatomy of it, of course. But how do I make it good for him?

I’m sure he would be willing to teach me, and I’m sure he is a kind and gentle teacher, for all he loves to mock in other situations. But that’s not the point. I don’t want him to have to guide me. I don’t want to fumble. I want him flushed and sweaty and completely undone.

Should I watch some porn? I grimace at the thought. I don’t want to watch other people. Molly is the only person I want to see. Besides, porn is the very opposite of realistic.

Jesus Christ, am I going to have to buy some teen magazines or something like Cosmopolitan? They have articles on how to give blow jobs and how to please your man. Don’t they?

Actually, there are probably gay versions of those magazines. The mafia are very homophobic and still in the dark ages, but modern-day London is nothing like that. Gay marriage is legal. Pride is allowed. Gay couples are depicted on TV. So gay magazines are probably on sale in shops.

Next time I go out, I should look. Start my education. The pictures will probably be enlightening. Possibly inspirational. Though, my imagination doesn’t seem to be struggling on that front.

I cross my legs, even though it’s perfectly clear that Molly knows exactly what he has done to me. The little minx. He has probably done it on purpose. Just because he loves to tease. To shock and exasperate. It is the only power he has, and boy does he love to wield it.

I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all. He can bestow his charm and his sex appeal on me all he likes. I can soak it up and tell myself it is a sign he likes me. It is a torment of the best kind. Exquisite and profound.

I lean back. I watch Molly busying himself in the kitchen out of the corner of my eye.

His movements are sure and easy. He has definitely fully recovered. Even all his bruises are gone.

It’s such a relief. I never, ever want to see him small and sick again. It was the most terrifying experience of my life. The thought of losing him was the worst pain I have ever known.

The one silver lining is that it blasted any lingering doubts from my soul. It made it perfectly clear what I feel about Molly and everything that he means to me.

He is not my obsession. I’m not craving him because I am bored or curious about fucking a man. I don’t want him because Riccardo has him.

Molly is my everything. My universe. He is my heart and my soul.

And I’m going to burn the world to make him mine.

The buzz of my phone against my thigh makes me jump. I uncross my legs and lift my hips so I can pull it from my pocket.

I unlock the screen and swear. In Italian. A big long string of expletives.

Molly comes over, concern clear on his beautiful face. My heart constricts painfully and my stomach rolls. Dread floods my veins.

“What’s wrong?” Molly asks, with a slight frown.