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Lazaro grins as he kisses my chin. "Let’s run you a bath."
Marcello grabs a handful of my ass. "We’ve got to scrub this saltwater from your Little body."
ChapterTwenty
SANTINO
"Look at you go, baby boy."
Jericho zooms the yellow submarine around the tub. He passes clusters of bubbles that he pretends are rocks, duckies that he imagines are well, big duckies, and plastic jet ski toys that I picked up with Marcello earlier today.
He’s lost in Little space. Nothing’s more adorable. The way his brow stitches and furrows as he plays make believe is so dang precious.
Jericho ticks his head up. "Shhh, Daddy. I’m playing."
Marcello tousles his damp hair. "Yes, you are, boy. Never stop playing—even to speak to your Daddies. Own your joy. Let it consume you. Wipe your scaries away."
I hit Marcello with a look. "You sound so dramatic."
Marcello ignores me as he pecks Jericho’s cheek. "I’m speaking to my boy. Hush, killer of dreams."
Lazaro leans back in the bubbles. His ripped, muscular body is on full display. He spreads his legs, then zooms a ducky beside Jericho’s submarine toy.
"Ducky attack."
Jericho growls as he moves the submarine away from the ducky. "Not under my watch."
The two men have an all-out war with their toys. It should annoy me to see Lazaro like this—after all, he drove me crazy earlier this morning before we’d realized Jericho was gone when he was waxing poetic about the merits of giant potties.
At this moment, it doesn’t matter. The fact that Jericho has a Daddy whoalsoenters Little headspace—and knows exactly what it takes to make him happy—comforts me.
Marcello places his meaty palm on my shoulder. "Don't be jealous."
I push out a snort as I glance at Marcello. "Not jealous. Merely observing."
Marcello nods sagely as he watches Lazaro and Jericho have fun. I do the same. After what Jericho went through this afternoon, he deserves to enjoy a bubblebath free from stress.
A pent-up sigh escapes me as I lean back, then rub a washcloth under my arms. What happened today was inexcusable. I’m grateful that Jericho, Faro, and Giosuè don't seem too traumatized, but the fact that the Riccardis arestillout there—not dead—frightens me.
Those bastards really are like bedbugs, no different from the viruses they installed on Ryder, Cyan, and Enzo’s phones.
When will we ever take them out?
Next time we meet them, they’re dead meat. This dance stops once and for all.
Jericho rests his head on my chest. "Feel so safe with you three."
Marcello rubs his arm. "Let’s bring you to the bedroom, boy. We can take care of your stress in another way."
Jericho blushes as he gazes into Marcello’s eyes. "Oh, yeah?"
"Yes." Marcello kisses his cheek. "I believe you know what I mean."
Jericho glances between his legs. "I do."
We all watch as his dick rises against his abs. It’s the most precious sight—our erect boy, hard and tingly for us.
Lazaro massages Jericho’s shoulder. "Stand up."
