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“You’re going to sweep this mess up.”
“You going to make me?” His words are a little breathless, and I swallow, my movements faltering. With great pain, I move my gaze from him and focus on the bacon and eggs again. At this point, one or the other will burn. To be honest, I’m not the best cook, but I know Diablo likes what I make. He won’t ever admit it, but he does.
I concentrate intently and force my lips to not twitch when I smell the toast burning a minute later.
“Oh, fuck me,” Diablo mutters, waving his hand over the toaster, a plume of smoke wafting out of it. “It burned.”
I hold in the laugh that threatens to escape me. I won’t fucking blink. I refuse.
“Don’t fucking even,” Diablo grumbles as he tries to stick a fork into the toaster to pull the black toast out. Grabbing on to his wrist, I yank his arm back.
“You’re going to die if you do that.”
“Why?”
“You never stick a fork in an electrical appliance.”
He rolls his eyes at me, and I grab his wrist tighter, wrenching the fork from his hand.
“I’m serious. Don’t do it.”
I have a feeling Diablo now wants to do it just because I told him not to.
I can see him in the middle of the night, sneaking over to the toaster to try it. Just to see if I’m right. I can’t wait to hear his yelp as he’s blasted backward.
“If I find you trying it, I will spank your ass red.”
His cheeks flush, and I can envision that color bleeding down beyond his waist. Part of me wants to see it, to see him bent over my lap, that ass exposed, my hand slapping down onto it.
I’d make him fucking cry. Beg.
I adjust my stance, my cock hardening in my pants. I’ve got to get my shit under control. If I do give him a spanking, it won’t be sexual. It will be a professional one. Totally one hundred percent professional. My dick won’t even twitch while doing it.
“You forgot the new rules. You won’t touch me again,” he says, while taking a step closer to me, our bodies nearly brushing. My fingers clench around his wrist, and I rub my thumb against his pulse. It beats unsteadily, rapidly, like he’s run a mile.
I swear I haven’t seen Diablo run so much as a yard. He usually slogs along, munching on food when he can. Like a crafty raccoon in a garbage can. A little trash panda.
I think his friend referred to him as this once. Made me crack a smile.
My arm yanks him a little closer until his body is forced against mine. My foot crunches on granola and my jaw ticks at the sensation. But then another sensation creeps up and overwhelms me. The feeling of his body pressed against mine, the way he’s slightly rubbing up against me. I don’t even know if he realizes he’s doing it, but he is. Like a cat in heat.
For a second, my mind wonders if he’s ever been fucked.
Has that little hole been spread wide open?
Has he been skewered, unable to move, to breathe?
I can imagine it, my big dick sliding inside, him whining and gasping as I do it.
I blink a few times, and I’m transported back to the present, to Diablo humping against me, his wrist still in my hand, his mouth slightly parted. Part of me, the horny part, wants to slide my fingers through his lips and fuck his mouth until he gags. Teach him to shut his fucking mouth…to obey. But the rational part of me lets him go and takes a step back, his body following mine as I do it.
It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to be parted from me, as if our bodies are opposite sides of a magnet, unable to help being pulled together.
But I’m the hired professional, the one who needs to be fucking cool. I’m here to make sure Diablo makes it out of this alive. Not shot dead or tortured by Elio. If that happens, I sure as fuck won’t make it out with my head on my shoulders either. I’m sure his father has very creative ways to dispose of a body. Probably has a junkyard at his disposal and everything.
I’d be nothing more than fertilizer at that point.
I’d grow a nice garden I’m sure. Perhaps a nice vegetable patch.
