His pink-tipped cock, the same color as his nipples, is straining upward in the water. I wriggle my fingers inside him, feeling around, trying to find the right spot, and I know I’ve found it when he cries out.
“You like that?” I ask again, abandoning his nipple for the moment.
“I like you,” he says, giving me that familiar Finch smirk, but I wipe it off his face with another pass of my fingers over his most sensitive spot.
“That’s good,” I say, “since you’re tied to me for life.”
“Is that what’s bugging you?” he asks, and I see now that he’s not quite as sunk into his hedonistic spiral as I thought. Interesting.
“Nothing’s bugging me.”
“Then why did you act like such as asshole this morning after we had such a nice night?”
“You still don’t get it, do you?” I ask, twisting my fingers. “Our marriage is a tool for Tino to keep control, and all it’s done for us is make us targets. You saw that yourself today.”
He stilled when I started talking, but now he moves again, fucking himself on my fingers, little movements like he’s asking permission. “I never thought you of all people would miss the possibilities. This doesn’t—fuck—” I’m stroking that spot again. “This doesn’t have to be a bad thing, you know. Life gave you me, baby. Why not make lemonade outta me?”
I’m not sure what he means, but I’m intrigued.
He pulls himself back up, hands around my neck, his body glistening under the cascade of water, and then he runs his hand over the old scar on my arm, the jagged edges where he sewed me up himself, over the bird tattoo. “I could be so good for you, baby. Won’t you give me a chance to show you?” he asks.
Only he doesn’t ask me. He begs me. Oh, he has my number, alright.
“What exactly can you do for me?”
“Well,” he says, pulling away from me. “First of all, I can make sure you don’t regret marrying me and giving up all other men, like Tino commanded.” And with that, he stands up in the tub, water sluicing down his body. He wades away from me, turns, and bends from the waist to balance on the black marble side of the tub. He looks back at me over his shoulder. “You like?”
His ass is a masterpiece, and he knows it. But I don’t plan on feeding his ego, at least not yet. “I mean, I’ve seen it before…” I shrug.
“Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet, baby,” he says, winking at me, and then he slides a hand over one cheek, and spanks it.
I can’t deny my cock is interested. And then as Finch slides his other hand down and pulls apart his cheeks for my viewing pleasure, my cock begins throbbing, demanding. My mind is fogging up with desire for him. Finch’s cheeks are wide open now, his asshole clearly visible. It’s the same pretty pink color as his lips, as his nipples, as the tip of his cock. It’s slightly puffy from my ministrations, and so, so inviting.
I sigh and relax back against the tub. If he wants to give me a show, I won’t dissuade him. He’s keeping his cheeks spread with one hand now, and with the other hand, he’s playing with his hole. His chest is pressed against the marble as he probes at his ring with two fingers, just like I had inside him a few minutes ago. His balls are delicate, elegant. No big swinging sack for Howard Fincher Donovan the Third; no, his junk is as refined as the rest of him, even if he tries his best to act like trash. I watch him fucking himself on his fingers, hear his moaning—even if it’s put on, it’s still hot—and I stroke myself while I watch.
He works his way up to three fingers, then four, and I think he’d go further, dislocate his own wrist if he had to, but I say: “Stop. Pull your cheeks apart again.”
He does, and I get to see the pretty pouting of his hole, clenching itself on nothing.
“Put your cock in me,” he begs. “I’ll milk it so good.”
It takes all my self-control not to launch myself dick-first into his ass. “Turn around,” I say instead. He obeys, leaning against the marble tub, his legs spread wide. “Jack it,” I say. I want to see how pink that lovely cock gets. “So this is what you can do for me?” I ask after a while, raising a challenging eyebrow. “Show me your ass, and then jerk off?”
“Can’t show you my talents if you won’t put your cock in me,” he says, pouting.
I stand up. I have a few inches on him, but he seems to shrink in on himself as I wade the few steps over to him. “What did I tell you this morning?”
He casts his eyes down: submissive, or playing it. “I take what I’m given and I say, ‘Thank you, Luca.’” He looks up, lashes spiky little stars from the water clinging to them. “I just thought you might like to watch me play with my ass,” he murmurs. “I can suck you if you prefer.”
I want in his butt so bad I think my knees are going to start shaking. Imagine that, the big bad mobster reduced to a quivering wreck at the idea of getting my dick in someone.
I can’t do it right now, though. Not after the day we’ve had. So I decide to teach him a different lesson. “Get on your knees,”
