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“I love you with all my heart,” Vitari said, holding his gaze. “More than life itself. And it scares me like nothing else, you scare me, losing you…”
Oh. Fear, doubt, relief too—it all rushed over Francis, stealing his voice. He swallowed and tried to find the words but none would come. Then Vitari’s mouth was on his, his hands on his face, and the dam broke, filling the chasm that had opened between them, bringing them back together.
Vitari laughed free and yanked at Francis’s shirt, sending a button flying. “I need to feel you.” He tore at the remaining buttons, freeing them, and plunged his hands inside, then swept them up Francis’s back. Yes. He arched under his hands. Francis needed this too, needed to feel him close, needed to lose himself in Vitari.
He leaned back, and Vitari’s hot mouth scorched his neck, sucking, teeth nipping. Francis moaned, and Vitari’s left hand dropped, scooping around to clutch Francis’s ass and squeeze. “How do you want it?” Vitari growled. “Fast or slow?”
He wanted it all ways, and almost whimpered with need.
“You have to tell me, or I’m going to bend you over that couch and fuck you so hard, Francis, neither of us will be the same again.”
He breathed fast through his nose, wanting that—wanting Vitari’s cock punishing him—but his damn leg had already begun to ache, and he wasn’t sure his thigh would take the pounding Vitari’s hungry eyes promised he’d give. “Yes, but… not yet, my leg…”
Vitari dropped and in one swift movement swept Francis off his feet. Francis yelped, held on, and laughed. “Wait! I can walk!”
“I’ve got this.” Vitari carried him through the kitchen. “Although,” he grunted, “you’re heavier than you look.” His grip shifted,
Francis clutched on. “Don’t drop me!”
“I might,” he huffed, staggering down the corridor. They reached the door, and Vitari kicked it open, then toppled against the wall, still cradling Francis. “This went a lot smoother in my head.”
Francis snorted. “Put me down.”
“Almost there.” Vitari staggered in, tripped, and dumped Francis on the bed, tumbling with him. Vitari snorted, and Francis laughed.
“Panama food agrees with you,” Vitari said, straddling his hips, and kneeling over him.
“Wow.”
“Padre.” Vitari smirked in that deliciously wicked way of his, then fell forward, pinning Francis to the bed. “I’d still love you if you were the size of a cow.”
“Oh my God.” Francis laughed.
“Or skinny as a rake too, or ugly. It just so happens you’re not any of that, but if you were, I’d fuckin’ love it all. Love you, amore mio.” He nuzzled Francis’s neck and stroked his chest, then cupped his head and sucked on his ear. Francis’s laughter fell away as lust made his veins blaze. Love. It didn’t seem real, that Vitari would say it and mean it. There had been that one time, a drunken confession over the phone, but this was different.
“You’re overthinking, Padre,” Vitari crooned, then shifted upright on his knees again and whipped off his shirt.
By the Lord God, every time Francis witnessed Vitari shirtless it stopped all his thoughts, emptying them right out of his head, so there was nothing—no noise, no guilt, no shame, just a beautiful man, currently pinning Francis down with wicked promises in his eyes.
“Do not worry, vita mia, stay right there.” Vitari stroked Francis’s chest and came to rest at his hips. Francis held his gaze, and Vitari skimmed his knuckles across the bulge in Francis’s trousers, spilling a riot of tiny shivers through him. “I’m about to fuck you up in the best possible way.” Vitari leaned down and swept his tongue along the hollow of his ribs.
Francis scrunched his fists in the sheets. The sweet, wet probing of Vitari’s wicked tongue promised so much more, and it was that anticipation that had him near moaning. “I missed you.”
“I know,” Vitari said sadly, then shifted up and flicked his tongue over Francis’s left nipple.
Francis let out a startled bark of laughter and Vitari slammed his mouth over the sound, drinking him down. Francis grabbed him and clung on, holding him down, never wanting to let him go again as he kissed with his whole body, rocking into him, his mouth and tongue a teasing dance Francis matched in his own desperation. He needed to breathe but needed to feel him more, needed him to know that without Vitari, there was no Francis. “If you make me get on that plane without you”—he gasped between kisses, mouth messy, teeth nipping—“I will never forgive you.”
Vitari’s dark, lust-drunk eyes widened. “Won’t you let me save you?”
Francis thrust his hand into Vitari’s hair and twisted his fingers, holding him still. “I don’t need saving.”
A glimmer of fear sharpened Vitari’s eyes, there and gone again, wiped away by his cocky smile. “You’re so fucking hot when you’re mad.”
He was scared. Francis had seen it. This wasn’t about saving him; it was Vitari thinking he didn’t deserve him, as though he’d put Francis on an impossible pedestal, forever out of his reach, when the truth was nothing like that.
Vitari eased lower, and Francis freed his grip on his hair, letting him kiss all the way down his chest. His fingers worked at his fly, and almost too quickly, his tight, wet mouth sealed over Francis’s cock, taking him deep with fierce strokes. The rush of savage lust swept all thought away. Old fears tried to muscle in, feelings of shame for enjoying thrusting his dick down a man’s throat, but not just any man, the man of many sins, the man he loved, L’ Angelo della Morte.
Vitari pulled off and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “No shame, Padre,” Vitari growled. He grasped Francis’s glistening, hard dick and pumped, but it was when his finger slid behind his balls and pushed inside that Francis dropped his head back and surrendered. It was too good, but so bad, everything he needed but was forbidden to have, and the conflict spiraled, tightening inside him, like an elastic about to snap. The hate was there too, probably always would be, and that made Vitari’s touch exquisite.
