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Complicated was one way of describing Giancarlo. “He was a sociopath. But he was still my father, and he got me out of Stanmore. What happened there, I’d have died… if he hadn’t.” After a creak in his voice, he took a few moments to steady his heart. “Listen, I… There’s something… I want to tell you, want to… explain…”
Francis propped himself up on an elbow, all messy and innocent, a look he wore so well.
Vitari huffed through his nose. “I’ve started now, so I… have to say it.”
“Tell me in Italian, if it hurts?”
“No, you need to understand this.” He wet his lips and filled his lungs again. “You and me, we can do whatever the fuck you want, but… I mean, earlier, you… What we did… I can’t… Fuck, this is stupid. I’m being stupid.”
“Hey.” Francis’s goofiness faded, and now he was the severe, no-nonsense Francis, who took no shit from anyone and held up ex-cocaine drug runners in the Colombian jungle to save his male lover.
“I can’t do anal, okay?” Vitari admitted. “I can’t. I just.. It’s…” He shrugged and avoided Francis’s eyes. “I can’t. Ever.”
“I know, it’s all right. I knew from before.”
“You knew?” He swallowed and lifted his gaze. He’d been worried Francis would want that, eventually. And he’d been thinking about it, wondering if he could, but every time he’d considered it, fear had lanced his heart. Too many strangers had touched him that way. Francis wasn’t like them, he knew that, but his body remembered, even when his head had begun to forget.
Francis gave a lazy smile. “I don’t want that. I like the way we are.”
“What the fuck did I do to get someone as good as you?”
He batted his light lashes, all innocent. “Technically, you kidnapped me?—”
Vitari growled, and before Francis could tense up to defend himself, Vitari flipped him onto his back and kissed the rest of his words away.
Francis chuckled into his mouth, and when Vitari gripped his wrists, he surrendered, pinned down.
“Hm, I like you under me, Padre,” Vitari mumbled against his lips.
“Do you still have that lubricant you used earlier?”
“Lubricant?” Vitari mocked in haughty English. “Father Francis Scott, you’re a wicked tease.”
Francis’s laugh did wonderful things to Vitari’s soul, like repair all the holes, but as Francis gazed up at him, the weight of what was to come weighed on the delight in his eyes. They couldn’t stay here like this forever.
“I owe you an apology,” Francis said.
“Oh?” Vitari sat up, straddling his hips. Francis’s hard cock nudged against his ass, apparently oblivious to whatever had turned Francis serious again. “What did you do? Was it wicked? Tell me it was. Tell me it’s dirty. Confess your filthy thoughts, Padre?—”
“Vitari,” he scolded, trying not to smile. “Back in Panama, I was trying to turn you into someone you’re not, asking you to get a job. That was wrong of me.”
“Ah, that. When you tried to tell me gangsta isn’t a real job?”
“Yes. I don’t ever want to change you. You are who you are, and I love you for who you are. I wasn’t trying to force you to be someone else, I was… Well, I was scared, I suppose.”
“Me too. Still am.”
Francis nodded. “Yeah.”
“You were right though.”
“About?”
“A little farm somewhere, grow some grapes, make wine. I can do that. With you, I mean. I wasn’t ready to hear it, but now I am. If you’ll have me?”
“A farm?” Francis whispered, eyes lighting up as though it were Christmas morning. “Like the one you took me to when we saved those people?
“With less Spanish cops and fewer trafficked kids. But, yeah. Unless it’s weird? Is it weird? I’m not real good at the relationship shit.”
