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“Your face when you come…” Vitari smirked, but there was more to that smile now, more to his gaze. “Hold it, Francis, not yet. Yeah, you feel that, feel how tight my fist is, how close you are.”
Francis’s breaths stuttered. He was falling, falling fast, he wouldn’t be able to stop it.
Vitari stopped pumping but kept his grip tight, then pumped once, twice, and stopped. Francis moaned. More, he needed more, needed to chase the edge until it was right there, until he fell over it.
Vitari’s finger shifted inside him, stroking, milking. A tremor spilled through Francis, his dick so hard, and so sensitive, he had to bite his lip to keep from coming.
“Will you take my confession, Father?”
Francis held his stare. “Now?” he croaked.
Vitari swept the tip of his tongue across his lips. “I wanted to fuck you since we met, bend you over a pew, lift your cassock and pound your tight ass.”
Vitari continued to stroke inside him, each tease another step closer to coming, and with his words now adding to the cacophony of lust and madness, there was no holding back.
“You like that idea?”
He forgot how to speak and moaned, but Vitari already knew the answer.
“I see you do.” Vitari’s expression turned all kinds of mischievous, and he let go of Francis’s dick, letting it drop against his navel, leaking pre-cum. “I’d hold you there, spread your cheeks, bury my dick deep inside you?—”
He couldn’t take any more. He was going to come without his cock being touched, brought to climax by Vitari’s finger unleashing wave after wave of electric lust until the waves blurred into one long stream of pleasure, and he came, cock twitching, spattering cum over his hip.
“I don’t know what’s better,” Vitari purred, “watching your face or dick when you come.”
Francis thrust his head back, gasping, blushing, his heart a hammer against his ribs. He just needed a few seconds to come back down.
“That’s a lie, it’s always your face, amore mio.” Vitari kissed him on the corner of the mouth and settled on the bed, tucked alongside him. Francis reached for the bulge in his trousers but Vitari caught his hand. “I’m good just basking in your afterglow.”
“You don’t… want to?”
“Always, but right now, I prefer this. It doesn’t always have to be about shooting your load, yah know?”
He wasn’t sure he had known, until this very moment. Francis touched Vitari’s face, skimmed his whiskered chin and that crooked smile. He was too beautiful, too perfect, and so precious. He’d made himself into a man of violence so he had control, but that wasn’t all Vitari was. Vitari Angelini was so much more than the small, jagged piece of himself. He was fierce, full of love, brave, and righteous—in his own way. He fought for the innocent and for those who could not fight for themselves.
“You should rest,” Vitari said. “Heal up. I’m here. I won’t leave you, Francis.”
Francis’s eyelids drooped, the afterglow trying to drag him into a warm, cathartic sleep. The fear of losing Vitari hadn’t gone, but it had been pushed into the corners of his mind. “Promise?”
“For so long,” Vitari whispered, as though beginning a fairy tale, “I belonged nowhere, had nothing. My father saved me, made me Family, but more than that, the Mafia became my life, my religion, my purpose, the reason I breathed. I should have told you, so I’m telling you now. Francis…” He intertwined their hands. “You are my family. You are my religion. I will never leave you, unless you want me to. I give you my word, my heart, amore mio.”
Vitari’s whispers followed him into his dreams, where they wrapped around him, keeping him safe from all the hurt in the world. His angel would never leave him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Vitari
Father Francis Scott was not supposed to love him, and as Vitari watched him doze, mouth open, snoring lightly, he didn’t know what to do with that love. He still expected Francis would wake up, come to his senses, and walk away. Like he had in Rome.
Love.
Actual fucking love.
Not some messed up, twisted version of it. Love like you get in fairy tales, like that stupid ancient movie Francis had watched with Michael Douglas and his crocodile boots.
Vitari chuckled and rolled out from under Francis’s arm. Francis wasn’t going anywhere, and Vitari wasn’t sleeping, not with his head full of everything.
He showered, made coffee, and settled at the table with his phone to search for more news from Europe.
