I don’t kill with my own hands very often these days, but when I do, I like to clean off after.
I set my Sig Sauer and an extra mag in easy reach on the side of the tub just in case we’re rudely interrupted. Finch looks at the gun, but he says nothing. It might be my imagination, but I think his dick gave a twitch at the sight of it. I can’t blame him; it’s a beautiful weapon.
I help him in and then slide in at the other side, but he swims over to sit on top of me before I realize what he’s doing, nestling his ass into my crotch and arching his back to relax on my chest. He stretches out in the massive tub, toes poking through the water where they float. I slide an arm around his waist and pull him down firmer into my lap, his butt brushing against my bush and my half-thick cock.
He slings a hand behind his head, around my neck, arching his back so that those bubblegum pink nipples float temptingly just above the waterline. “I guess I could’ve behaved better today,” he murmurs. “But this time I think you deserve a reward.”
I say nothing, unsure what he means, until he starts brushing that ass back and forth in my lap. The buoyancy only helps; it’s a gentle tease, and I find myself responding despite myself.
“Stop,” I say at last, and I try to use my serious voice, the one I use when I’m ordering Fuscone’s nephew around, the one even that little shit can’t help responding to. Only Finch, crazy death-wish Finch, doesn’t listen. He keeps grinding on me, the water splashing and rocking in the tub.
“You’re gonna have to make me stop,” he says, and twists to press a kiss to my cheek, another to the side of my mouth. I grab his waist and push him, turn him, mount him on my lap so he’s facing me. It takes him by surprise but he likes it, and lets out that laugh of his. “That’s not making me stop,” he says, splaying his thighs so he can rub his cock against mine.
I’m so hard for him. And he wants it. He’s desperate for it.
I reach down between us and curl my fingers around his cock, just lightly, and he stops breathing. I jack him slowly; moving in the water makes it slower than I’d like—than he’d like, judging by his frustrated moan.
I’m coming to understand him, I think. It’s not so much that he’s an addict—to drugs, booze, sex, attention. It’s more that Finch is a hedonist in the purest sense of the word, and he seeks pleasure wherever he can find it. He needs it to fill that hole inside of him.
Only right now there’s another hole I think needs some attention. I let go of his dick and slide my hands around his firm asscheeks, spreading them even wider.
“You’re so hot,” he whispers, when my fingertip traces over his ring, probing delicately, seeing how fast he’ll open up for me. His head drops forward to my shoulder.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” I say. For so many reasons. His disobedience about the drugs; his potential concussion; his lingering high…and he’s a hostage.
But I still want to do it.
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” he says, speaking the words against my throat. That gentleness, his vulnerability, makes me harder.
There’s something strange happening to me. I want to hurt him—see his eyes go wide with a brief shot of pain—but only because I want to comfort him afterwards. I want to be the one who gives him relief. I want to tease orgasm after orgasm out of him along with the pain, to watch him fall apart a million times, to make him open up his heart and soul.
It sounds very close to what all the songs on the radio say love is like, but I know it can’t be. Not now. Not until it’s safe.
I wriggle the very tip of my finger into his tight bud, and feel the hitch of his breathing as I do. He pushes down, tries to swallow up my finger, but I’m ready for it, and move my hand away. “No,” I tell him. “You take as much as I’m willing to give you at any one time.”
He nuzzles into me again. “Whatever you say, husband.” And then he waits patiently, trustingly. It makes me want to tear him apart, but it also makes me gentle.
I stroke his hole again, again, again, until I feel it quiver, and then I push my fingertip back inside. I wish it was my cock driving into him; but at the same time, I love seeing how he reacts to this, just this, just one finger. It’s heady. It’s sexy.
I press in further, up to the knuckle. He’s tight and hot around my finger, and his breathing picks up. It’s not an act. My other arm is curled around him, keeping him close, and I can feel his heart beating under my hand. I start finger-fucking him, little movements, just to tease all those lovely nerve endings, and he moans into my neck.
“You like that?” I ask. I want to hear him say it.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers. “I need your cock.”
I’ve heard that before, from any number of men, but it’s different with him. For one thing, I believe him. He really does need my cock. When I look into his eyes, they’re desperate. And it’s intoxicating, his complete desire for me.
When we’re like this, he trusts me.
His ass is clenching on my finger, showing me exactly what he could do to my dick if it were in there. I pull out and press two fingers back in. He can
