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A white grand piano took up one corner, a large TV and couches another. There was also a small bar area, and large glass doors opening onto the essential pool, lit up at night. Giancarlo must have felt safe, to be so exposed to the outside world. Francis, however, did not. He found the controls for the long swath of blinds and closed them, shrinking the room, making it cozier.
Had Vitari ever found the man who had taken pictures of them through the glass doors of the Spanish villa? Probably. He’d been quite annoyed at Francis at the time, since Francis had been the one to let the would-be assassin go. How far they’d come, from Francis not knowing how to hold a rifle, to attending a Mafia meeting as the Battaglia’s priest.
“What are you smiling at, Padre?”
“I was just thinking…” He trailed off as he turned to see Vitari striding across the room, his fingers working at his cuffs, rapidly unbuttoning them, with a fire in his eyes that could only be described as savage lust. “How I once threatened you with that assassin’s rifle.” He swallowed, trying to moisten his suddenly dry throat. “In Spain,” he croaked.
“I remember.” Vitari’s smile almost resembled a snarl.
Francis heart skipped over its own beats. Vitari had the same determination now as when he threatened people, as though he had his target in his sights and nothing would stop him.
His own sharp little jagged spikes of lust stole half his breath as he retreated a step. Vitari had threatened earlier to make him pay, and it was clearly about to happen. He might even be a little afraid—not of Vitari, but of how much he wanted this. How he needed it.
“You’re so fucking hot in black.”
Vitari swooped in and captured Francis in a kiss so brutal it rocked him backward, almost knocking him over, but Vitari’s hands were there, his arms wrapped around him, crushing him close, holding him up.
Not so long ago, it might have been too much, but right here and now, the kiss didn’t touch the rising, desperate desire to have Vitari in all the right—and wrong—ways. In the next few minutes, Francis was getting fucked, and he’d never craved it more.
Breathless, Vitari pulled from the kiss. “It’s killed me all night knowing you’re naked under this.” Vitari clutched at the robe, scrunching it in his fists. “I was hard the whole ride back.”
Oh God. Francis tilted his head back, and Vitari’s hot, sometimes filthy mouth branded his neck. He clutched at him too, desperate to hold on. So much had tried to tear them apart, the whole world it seemed, but he had him now, and he wasn’t ever going to let him go.
“Forgive me now, for what I’m about to do,” Vitari whispered.
Francis caught his face in his hands and held him firm. His dark eyes were wild and all the more beautiful for their honesty. “You’re forgiven.”
Vitari’s eyes softened, and his face crumpled. Francis’s heart plummeted. He hadn’t meant to make him sad?—
Vitari dropped his hands, growled something deep and raw in Italian, clutched Francis by the hips, and spun him. He slammed a hand between Francis’s shoulders, bending him over the back of the white leather couch. Francis gripped the cushions, grunting as his own hard dick got trapped under the cassock. Cooler air touched his thighs, then Vitari’s hot, digging fingers clutched his bare ass.
Anticipation made him breathless, had him panting. His body blazed, his skin alive, his heart galloping. Vitari was in his head, in his veins, in his every breath, every heartbeat, and as he spread him, his lube-slickened dick touching Francis’s hole—lube he’d excused himself moments ago to find—Francis moaned for more.
Vitari was talking, growling, speaking so fast in Italian that Francis had no hope of understanding, but he heard the passion behind the tone and knew Vitari craved this too. Then Vitari thrust in, and a blinding surge of pain, topped off with a flash of pleasure, surged through Francis. He gasped and arched upright. Vitari caught him, one hand thrusting up under his cassock, sweeping across his bare chest, while the other spread his ass cheeks, opening him to take Vitari’s hard length inside.
He forgot how to breathe, how to think, then Vitari’s mouth was at his ear, filling him with sweet Italian. It was an assault on his senses, pleasure and pain entwined, and he was wonderfully, hopelessly lost to the storm of Vitari’s lust. And his own.
Shoved forward again, he reveled in every rocking thrust Vitari gave. The brutal sounds of skin slapping skin burned his desire hotter, scorching the pain away. Now there was nothing but sweet, delicious waves of pleasure rolling over him, pushed on by Vitari’s masculine grunts. “Take it, Francis,” Vitari growled in English. “Fuckin’ take it.”
His own dick ached, pinched between the couch and his hip. Each thrust in the ass rubbed his cock too, and it wouldn’t take much, he was already halfway to coming, his lower back and balls tingling.
“Seeing my dick inside you. God, Francis… I can’t…” Vitari gulped whatever words he’d been about to add. His thrusts stuttered, his grip on Francis’s hips dug deeper, and as he pumped ruthlessly, Francis felt the tension pull through Vitari’s body as though it pulled through him too, as though they were connected deep inside.
“Fuck!” Vitari sputtered. He gave three last, desperate jerks, then rammed home and stayed there, trembling, tight against Francis’s backside, buried so deep he was surely a part of Francis’s soul now.
Francis breathed. Was it normal to feel lightheaded after such a brutal railing?
“Francis, turn around, amore mio.”
Vitari’s dick slid free, and with cum running down his thighs, Francis turned, dizzy and wrecked, but in a good way. Vitari hitched up the cassock in his left hand and went down to his knees, and suddenly—almost too quickly—had Francis’s dick between his lips.
Oh Lord God… Francis wasn’t going to last, not even a minute. He rocked, grunted, panted, and tried not to look down because if he saw Vitari’s mischief-ridden face, saw his own cock sliding in and out from between Vitari’s lips, he’d lose it. But then he did look, and Vitari’s brilliant eyes fixed on Francis’s with no intention of letting him go.
Vitari pulled off long enough to demand, “Fuck my throat, Padre. Fuck it hard.” And then he was back on, sucking and pumping.
Madness must have gripped Francis because he didn’t think, just grabbed the back of Vitari’s head and did exactly as Vitari ordered. He fucked his mouth like an animal. And came like one too, with a shout that filled the villa.
When he came back into himself after the high, he freed Vitari’s hair from his white-knuckled fist. “Oh! Did I hurt you?”
