Page 104 of The Beast Who Bought Me
“Harder,” the Russian insists. “Make him take it all.”
“I don’t need a fucking director,” I growl at him.
He raises an eyebrow, a clear message. He’ll walk if I don’t.
I’m about to tell him where he can shove his demands when Caligula moves first. He pulls back just enough to adjust his angle, then pushes forward—hard—taking me deeper, just as Andropov ordered. He gags, chokes, moans in fear.
But his hands on my thighs are steady. Relaxed, even.
He’s faking.
He’s putting on a show, giving this bastard exactly what he wants to see. My hand is still on the back of his head, so it looks like Imadehim do it. Tears leak from his eyes as he chokes again—and fuck, are those real, or?—
No. He squeezes his eyes hard, leaks out a few more. The tears are part of the performance.
“You know,” Andropov says, pouring himself another vodka, “I had a son once. Louis Clemenza had him killed over a shipment dispute. Forty thousand dollars’ worth of goods. That was the price of my son’s life.” He drains the glass. “So you see, Orsini, we are not so different, you and I. Seeking justice against these snakes, the Clemenzas.”
I want to bark outBullshit, but there’s nothing untrue in what he said.
I just don’t like hearing it.
As for Caligula, he gives another theatrical choke, pulling up to gasp raggedly before diving back down, making it look like I’m forcing him once more. But he’s barely taken half my length, though his hand, wrapped around my shaft, hides the true depth from the Russian.
“That’s it,” Andropov hisses, leaning forward. “Break him. Make him regret the day he was born a Clemenza.”
I spread out my fingers through that soft hair, not guiding, just…anchoring. Letting him set the pace while I play the brutal master for our audience of one. My grip looks punishing, but my fingers are gentle against his scalp, practically a fucking massage.
Caligula Clemenza is completely in control. I just have to let him work.
“Surely you can be rougher than that,” the Russian complains, but there’s a flush creeping up his neck. He’s buying it.
Caligula pulls off with a wet, wrecked sound, gasping for air, spit trailing from his swollen lips to my cock. He looks utterly destroyed.
Then his eyes flick up to mine for just a second—sharp, alert, amused—before he drops back into character.
Christ.
He’s magnificent.
And this Russian bastard doesn’t deserve to witness a single second of it.
“That’s enough.” I pull Caligula up and off me, hear him gasp—genuinely this time, I think.
“Don’t stop now,” the Russian complains. “I want to watch him drown in your?—”
“No,” I snap. I’m already tucking myself away.
Caligula pinches me on the thigh, hard enough that I squirm. I avoid his eyes, but I don’t have to look at him to know that he’s fucking furious; he thinks we’re not going to get what we came for.
But I will be goddamned if I let some sadistic Bratva motherfucker watch me spill my first load in Caligula’s mouth.
“I don’t wanna pop yet,” I tell Andropov. “This was just a taste. I’ve had so much fun with him since I bought him, I figured I’dgive the whole place a show later. What do you think?” I shove Caligula back down to the floor without even looking at him.
Ican’tlook at him. If I look at him, I’m going to fucking lose it.
“A public display?” Andropov taps his lips. He looks at Caligula. I want to tell him to keep looking at me. I want to grab his face andforcehim to see only me. But it would be too late.
He’s already seen too much.
