Page 26 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)
CHAPTER 23
NERO
It’s what I’ve wanted. What I’ve waited for. So why does the sight of Gabriel Carstairs, on his knees for me willingly and without any coercion, fill me with tenderness instead of triumph?
Those green eyes of his are locked on mine until I reach out to stroke his face. They shut as he nuzzles into my touch. The roughness of his cheek at the end of the day contrasts with the softness of his full lips as I run a thumb across them, testing his resolve.
The mouth opens eagerly, lets me invade, sucks invitingly on my thumb.
I don’t want to break this spell, whatever it is, whoever has cast it. Because I don’t believe it was me. Gabriel has me in his thrall, though he doesn’t seem to know it. I thread my other hand through his wavy hair—as soft as I ever imagined—and pull him closer. He snuggles into me, rubbing his face into the soft fabric of my pants, and surely he can feel me hard and aching for him under my clothes.
Yes, he does, because after a moment, he reaches blindly up to my belt. I take my thumb from his mouth, let him concentrate on the belt, the button, the zipper… Within moments, he has me free from my constraints, my hard length in his hand, and he rubs his face against my bare flesh now. The sensation of that soft prickling from his unshaven jaw in combination with his long-fingered, clever hand, has me leaping under his touch.
He looks up at me, eyes heavy-lidded so that only a flash of emerald reaches me, and he runs the head of my cock over his lips. My salt is already spilling, and I see the wet trail across his mouth just before his tongue darts out to sample it.
I can’t look at him too long. It’s like staring at the sun. So I raise my eyes and look out the window instead as he takes me eagerly into his mouth, staring at the trees on the rise as he plays his tongue over me.
He’s a gifted cocksucker, and I tell him that as he works me, running my hands through his hair as I murmur, “What a talent you have for this,” and I keep my eyes lifted, beyond, thinking about the city past those trees, about the rest of the world waiting for me back in Europe, away from this place.
Away from him .
That thought sinks too deep, makes me angry—with him , irrational though it is. This mess churning around inside me is his fault, and I want to punish him for it. But I can’t. My fingers run loosely through his hair rather than tighten on a handful, caress instead of tug. I look away from the trees, look down at him, only to find him looking up at me, his eyes wide and wondering.
I don’t want to punish him. I want to make him mine , and that is the most terrifying thing of all.
I pull out of his mouth as a strange and unnamable fear comes over me, even though I still ache for him. He tries to protest, reaches for me, but I grab his wrists.
I’m stronger than him. And he knows it, likes it, even, his eyes going heavy-lidded and unfocused. I’m throbbing and dripping for him, desperate to slide back into that sweet mouth. My hard dick is bobbing around just in front of his mouth, the warmth of his breath another torture.
But why torture myself?
I let go of his wrists, and he sets his hands cautiously on my inner thighs, inching higher when I don’t move to stop him, then boldly stroking up to my balls, fingers teasing and testing the weight of them as though they’re precious to him. No one has ever touched me with such reverence.
I give in. “Suck me.”
His smile is brilliant, eager. It might break me.
He takes my cock in one hand and holds it steady, a tiny crease appearing between his brows as he focuses his full attention on me. His lips move over the head, sucking soft and then firm, tongue darting into my slit to taste me. And then he pushes down, slow and sure, until his nose is buried in my bush and his throat is flexing on my sensitive flesh. I let out a moan and he gives an answering, victorious grunt, as though he’s won some battle between us. I grab the back of his head and push deeper in, just to remind him who’s in charge, and this time he moans, the muscles of his throat relax, give way, let me in.
I could face-fuck him fast, make him choke and gag and drool all over himself—and he would love it, judging by the way his hips are moving in little jerks, humping the air. I could come in sixty seconds, and so could he. I’ve done it before with any number of beautiful young men, a quick release in some stinking Roman alley...
But I want to take my time with Gabriel. Because this will only happen once. He’ll never come near me again after today; I’ll make sure of it. So I begin to fuck him deep and slow, keeping the thrill buzzing just under the surface of my skin, building in my balls. I reach down to his chin, feel the spit I’m forcing out of him with each thrust, and I hold his head in place, shoving in as far as I can, wanting to bruise his lips, mark him, so that he never forgets that it was me here, taking him like this.
I’m not sure how much time passes. All I know is that he’s hot and slick and soft, giving way to me so beautifully, and when I finally start to fuck him faster, all he does is moan and push forward, begging wordlessly for more.
There’s no artifice in him at all, so I know he really means it. Really wants it. I grab his head and hold him in place so I can give him what he wants, staring down into his red, tear-stained face, my fingers pressing so hard into the back of his head I’m sure I’ll leave bruises. I hold him there as I fuck his throat, my balls slapping his chin so hard that they sting, and still he doesn’t struggle or try to break free.
The tenderness rises up again in me. What a good boy , I want to croon to him. What a wonder you are. I want to tell him that his surrender means more to me than all the power I’ve ever wielded.
But they are a lie, these feelings he rouses in me, these soft desires. And he doesn’t want me to lie to him. Keeps demanding honesty. So when I’m about to come, I force him close, viciousness overtaking me at the last moment, the need to make sure he understands that I am not made up of the same things he is. I let my cock spear deep into his throat, ignoring his chokes, and flood into him. When I let him pull back, he’s gasping and coughing, green eyes shining with tears.
“You wanted to be bad,” I pant. He just nods. I see the telltale outline in his pants, and I point at it. “Take out your cock. Show yourself to me.”
His fingers are far less delicate as he fumbles with his own zipper, and his cock is such a pretty looking thing that I almost abandon my plans and kneel myself to play with it. I get caught up for a few moments watching him jack himself, his hand moving rapidly up and down the shaft. His head falls back, his lips part, and it makes me want to lean down to kiss him, which is an unexpected and dangerous development.
Because Gabriel Carstairs needs to be taught a lesson. He thinks he understands bad men. He does not.
“Does it feel good?” I ask softly, pressing his face back into my sticky, softening dick. “Do you enjoy being on your knees for me?”
He pants against my wet flesh, and I know he must be close. So I take a handful of his hair and pull him back. “I want to watch you come. On my shoes,” I tell him, pointing at them. “Only my shoes. None of that mess on my pants, little gardener, or you will regret it.”
The green eyes show confusion, but he’s too close to argue. He sucks in a breath and aims, spurting all over my shoes, just as directed. And he’s even smiling as he looks back up at me, expecting praise perhaps, but I still have my hand twisted up in his hair.
“Now clean it off,” I hiss.
The eyes widen. He might pretend to be a man of the world, he might believe that his Family’s fate somehow makes him experienced, but he has never really known what it means to be under control of outside forces.
Until now.
“What are you waiting for?” I grant him a smile, since he seems to need it. “Clean off that mess you made. Every drop.”
It’s a thrilling war of wills, but there’s no real doubt in my mind who will win. And after a moment, Gabriel shuffles back a little and bends double, pressing his lips to my shoes. I watch him carefully, my cock giving a painful shudder as I see that pink tongue sliding over the leather, seeking out every last atom.
When he’s done, he’s mutinous, flushed, but still expecting praise. Even in this degradation, there’s a dignity to him that I can’t touch. It infuriates me, this ability he has to remain himself regardless of circumstance.
“You see?” I tell him. “You couldn’t be bad if you tried. You’re a good boy, Gabriel. You do as you’re told. Here—” I extend a hand, help him to his feet. He rises easily enough; all that time tending to plants and soil has made him agile. “And now you really must go.”
He’s taken aback at last, pausing as he tucks himself away. “That’s it?” he asks after a moment. “I just—go?”
“That’s it. I came. You came. You got to feel naughty about it. I’m not sure what else you expected from me—though I must thank you for making those cursed trees more interesting to look at. I will remember a warm and willing mouth every time I glance out the window.”
The voice I’m using should chill him to the bone. So why does he get such a knowing look, a tiny quirk of his lips that suggests a cynical interior smile?
“Okay,” he says easily. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I doubt it. I will be?—”
“You’ll be coming to see the community garden,” he says firmly, and then heads to the door, saying as he does, “You said you wanted to check the security of it, and now more than ever, surely? You want to make sure Yvonne and I aren’t secretly in league with some enemy of yours. I’ll meet you in front of the big house at seven a.m. sharp.” He pauses in the doorway. “Goodnight, Nero. Seven o’clock. Don’t forget, or I’ll have to come and wake you.”
Then he’s gone into the warm night air.
And I am left alone with the realization that, somehow, I have been outplayed.