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Francis pulled off enough to demand, “Look at me,” then sealed his lips around Vitari’s cock again, like the bad priest he was.
So Vitari did look at him, couldn’t look away. This man on his knees had sacrificed his heart, life, and soul for Vitari. He’d killed for him, fallen for him, surrendered for him, and Vitari knew he’d never be worth it, despite what Francis believed.
Everything that had happened—the torture of his past, the wrongness of his upbringing—he’d endure every sickening second of it all again to have Francis standing beside him.
He wasn’t scared, not anymore.
They’d faced death and defied it.
Vitari didn’t know if God was real, but love was, and he’d worship at its altar for the rest of its days. Worship Francis.
Francis withdrew, leaving Vitari gasping. He stood, whipped off his shirt, then deftly removed his belt and dropped his pants. Long gone was the shy, terrified priest, imprisoned by religious restraints. He stood in front of the fireplace in all his pale glory, unashamedly naked, his cock erect, his body gleaming.
Vitari had no words, and Francis knew it.
“Tell me what you want,” Vitari said, finding his voice. “Or I’m going to show you what I need, and I will not be gentle.”
Francis’s cock twitched. “Stay right there.”
He’d die if he had to stay. It was killing him not to lunge, grab him, and devour his every inch until he cried Vitari’s name. Francis sashayed back to the chair, placed a knee either side of Vitari’s hips, his chest all up in Vitari’s face, then his fingers fumbled Vitari’s dick.
“If you’re about to ride my dick, we need something to slick us up,” Vitari growled.
“Oh, I…” He straightened. “I forgot.”
Vitari grabbed his naked back, crushing him close, and heaved them both from the chair. Francis hooked his legs around Vitari’s waist and clung on. His chuckles tickled Vitari’s neck as he carried him to the kitchen. Vitari popped him on the kitchen countertop, grabbed some olive oil, and almost laughed at Francis’s uncertain glance.
“It’s extra virgin,” Vitari said.
Francis erupted in laughter, and Vitari lost it. He had to have him. Now. Had to own him, ruin him, bury himself inside his soul forever. They collided, chest to chest. He kissed him, but it wasn’t enough. After upending the oil and smothering his hand, he stroked Francis’s hard and eager dick, needing him to moan and pant and beg. Francis wasn’t rabid with need yet, but he would be.
Francis slung his arms around Vitari’s shoulders, locking them together, eye to eye. Lust sparkled in his eyes, color touched his face and chest. “I want to make you come, but never want this to end,” Vitari said.
“And I want your cock in my arse, so?—”
“Why the fuck didn’t you say?
“I thought I was making it obvious?”
He was so fucking precious. Vitari dragged him off the counter, kicked his own pants off, and lathered his dick. But he wasn’t about to give Francis what he wanted without torturing him first, even if he was bent over the counter, ass up, so eager to be fucked. Vitari pressed in, pinching his dick between Francis’s ass cheeks, sliding upward, teasing him, and at the same time, he reached around and clasped his oiled dick again and gave him long, hard, leisurely strokes.
Francis trembled. Straightening, he leaned back against Vitari’s chest. Vitari slowed, pumping Francis’s cock while working his own, pinched between them. It was as close to fucking as they could get without penetration, and from Francis’s sawing breaths, he was all in.
“Vitari, I want you in me,” he whispered.
“You want me to fuck you, Francis?”
He bit his lip and nodded.
“Say it, I need to hear your sweet lips say it.”
“Fuck me,” he whined.
Vitari loosed Francis’s cock, spread his ass, coating oil under his hands, and guided his dick into Francis’s forgiving hole. The oil made his tight entry exquisite, and Vitari hissed through his teeth as he slid deeper, widening Francis more with every inch.
“Oh… God,” he choked.
“You’d better pray to me, amore, because you’re all mine.”
