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Christ. Ma would kill me for taking the lord’s name in vain as many times as I have today, but I don’t give a fuck. I haven’t cared about her religion since… Since the day I first let Silvano Cresci fuck me into oblivion ten long, long years ago.
“What do you want?” I ask him, my head lolling back against the couch as I stare up at him. “You,” Silvano answers easily. “At my side, at my feet. Bound and obedient, hanging on my every word.”
Swoon
“Why,” I grate out after a moment, in between tears that hurt so much, “is it always you?” Silvano’s hand slows. His voice is rough when he answers, “I don’t know, Kyran. But I’m glad it is.”
💔
I love his reactions. I love that this big, strong man gets off on being beaten and subdued. I love how he struggles. I love how ashamed he is to want this. And above all else, I love knowing that I’m the only person he would ever submit to.
I’d had a taste of Kyran, and no matter how many other lovers I took, the only one I ever truly wanted was him.
String him up naked and stuffed full, hard and leaking, so that everybody who walked by would know that he’s mine. Another fantasy that is better left as just a fantasy.
Because I’d trusted him. For some strange, stupid reason, I’d trusted him, and I’d been wrong to. It hurts.
“I want to wake up in bed with you, Kyran. I want to kiss you good morning, and I want you to smile at me. And we’ll get up at a leisurely pace, and we’ll have breakfast together on the veranda. Maybe your skin is covered in bruises, maybe it’s not. It wouldn’t matter. We’d simply discuss what we were going to do for the day, and I’d notice that you somehow got a crumb on your jaw, so I’d reach out to rub it off, and then you’d blush. And when breakfast was over, you’d kiss me again, and we’d prepare for our day together.”
I smile at Cristiano and Fox. “So. Do you two want to help me win back my empire—and my boy?”
You’re fucking mine, Kyran—” A pang hits me, a longing so intense that it renders me breathless, and I nearly choke on my own desire to be his in ways that will never, ever happen.
I can’t do this. I can’t listen to him talk about the things he really wants, the things that I have only just begun to realize that I want too. Things that will never, ever happen.
“Are you jealous? Do you want me more full-time than just a few fucks every few months? Because we could. Nothing says this can’t be permanent, Kyran.” Kyran flinches, and for a second, I think he’s going to stand up and pull his usual disappearing act. Instead, he settles even as he mutters, “Everything says it can’t be, Silvano.” It’s so rare that he uses my name that I can’t help but cherish the sound of it on his lips.
He wants it. We both know he wants it. We both want it, period, and I need to see this through. I need him to give in completely to me, to take everything I have to offer while he gives to me in turn.
“I’m never going to be done with you, Kyran. When I say that you’re mine? I mean it. Forget the games, forget the BDSM. Forget what our families have done. You are mine, and I refuse to believe there’s no way for us to be together. Not anymore. My father is already gone. There’s no fucking reason why we can’t be together anymore.”
He presses our foreheads together, and he whispers raggedly, “I really, really wish we could be together, Silvano. I do. But stories like ours? They don’t have happy endings.” I refuse to believe that. I’ve spent years working to get where I am today. I sacrificed my own father—a man I’d loved and hated in equal measure—in order to ensure I would get what I wanted. I’m not about to give up now. “You’re mine,” I repeat. “Whether you want it or not, Kyran. I’m going to make sure you’re bound to me. You’re not the one who chooses in this relationship.”
It’s a hell of a time to realize I’m in love.
“Kiss me, Kyran,” he says. It might be the first time it hasn’t sounded like an order. I take a shuddering breath, aware of the blood all over my hands, but fuck it, he’s covered in blood too. So I lean in and kiss him because what the fuck else am I supposed to do? It’s only fair that this baptism of blood, this terrible stage of my life, begin with a kiss to the enemy.
“Hey, I think I’m in a little bit of pain. Also, I could really use a cigarette.” Now that I’ve said it, I really do crave the nicotine. It would calm some of my nerves and maybe dull the pain. “Too fucking bad,” Kyran says. “I’m not kissing an ashtray.”
“Also,” I add, my eyes sliding closed. “Stop with the ‘Cresci’ crap. If you aren’t calling me Silvano, you can call me Sir.” Kyran snorts, and I’m not sure if he’s actually going to react to my goading. But after a pause, he says, “Fuck off, Sir.” My lips curl into a smile. “That’s better, boy.”
Silvano lifts his good arm and drops it back to the bed. “Come cuddle with me, Kyran. That’s an order.” I almost give him the usual flippant, you’re not the boss of me, but, well, I guess he sort of is, now, as long as I let him be. Who am I kidding? He’s always been the boss of me.
Silvano’s expression softens. “Anybody who can’t figure out how to keep their trap shut in front of the boss, his boyfriend, the bisexual underboss, the gay twink assassin, or my probably-gay bodyguard, is too stupid for my organization anyway.”
