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Would it be inappropriate to propose to a man while he’s in the middle of threatening someone’s life? It would be a hell of a story to tell at our wedding, if nothing else.
What lesson were you teaching me, Sparrow?”
I don’t want to criticize my new favorite murderer, but I wish his first victim had been slightly smaller.
Who are you, Little Sparrow? Will you let me close if I promise to be everything you need? We could be so beautifully dangerous together. Until then, I’ll keep watching.
I could throw him off me if I wanted to. I could break his hand with one swift motion. I could leave him dead with only two. But why the hell would I want to do that when my little bird looks so damn stunning when he’s murderous like this?
“Did you come over to kill me or to play?”
The big, bad Mafia enforcer, turned to a pile of quivering flesh by three simple words.
He says thoughts of his own death don’t get his heart racing, but apparently being called a good boy does.
I’ve been spiraling for so long with nothing to grab on to, and for some reason, Xaviaro’s eager submission is the anchor I didn’t know I was looking for but that suddenly feels as vital as breathing.
Letting go was easy, it’s putting myself back together again that’s proving to be difficult.
Is that what my Sparrow wants, to possess me?
“So determined to hold your cards close to the vest, aren’t you, Little Sparrow? Even after I’ve shown you my hand over and over.”
“Don’t get it twisted though. If anyone is going to be tied up and gagged by the end of this date, it’s going to be you.”
If I ask very nicely, will Sparrow tie me to his bed and keep me?
But watching the same man who whimpered on his knees for me a few nights ago go all heartless hitman is a fetish I didn’t know I had until this moment.
“You trust me to put my hands around your throat, to tie you up and fuck your mouth, even to touch your gun when we had barely spoken two words to each other. But you don’t trust me with your car?”
“You kill men without blinking, but you would crawl over glass if I asked you to, wouldn’t you?”
“I want to wear a collar of your bruises, Little Sparrow. I want marks on my wrists and tenderness all over my skin to remind me of the places you’ve touched me. I want to be owned and used. I want to be a vessel for someone’s pleasure instead of everyone’s pain, just for a little while.”
“I want you to see all the ugly parts of me and accept me for them. But mostly, I just want to let go and trust that everything will be okay.”
“You’re a sweet little murder marshmallow, aren’t you?”
I’ll behave and dispose of the body this time. Maybe that’ll earn me some extra points with my murder marshmallow.
I’m not sure how my legs are holding me up at this point, except that Sparrow needs them to and that seems to be enough.
“Don’t worry, I’m here now. You can retire the unsatisfying, half-restrained jerk sessions and let your Little Sparrow take care of that itch you can’t scratch on your own.”
There’s no death or destruction that wouldn’t be worth it in Sparrow’s name.
I want to live under his skin. I want to handcuff myself to him so I can make sure there isn’t a second in his day when this stone cold, needy, perfect man is going unworshipped.
“Anything… Sir. My body and my heart are all yours.”
Waking up as the big spoon to a big, tough mobster who’s purring softly in his sleep is a kind of fucking heaven I probably don’t deserve.
Repress your trauma or use it to fuel a deadly vendetta, that’s what I always say. Let’s be real, deadly vendettas are so much more fun than therapy.
If I die, who will give my murder marshmallow the escape he desperately needs?
“I think this is my calling.” “Watching your Mafia boyfriend cook dinner wearing a rope harness?”
“Shhh, your Little Sparrow has you,”
“I love you, you terrifying murder marshmallow.”
