Page 26 of The Beast Who Bought Me
The plug in my ass is almost unbearable now, and the idea of sitting through a meal soundsreallybad, but I’m not going to say a word about it. Damiano guides me to the one room we haven’t seen yet on the third floor: the dining room.
There’s a side buffet set up with an array of silver domes over dishes, and the mouthwatering smells coming from them remind me I haven’t eaten today. Maybe yesterday, either. The only thing in my stomach right now is the bourbon this moron made me drink in the car.
“We’re gonna have dinner,” he tells me. “And we’re gonna get to know each other, Caligula.”
Caligula. No one calls me that, because it’s a ridiculous name that I’ve always hated. But I just nod. “Sounds…”
I trail off as a wave of dizziness hits me. And for the second time, I’m saved from faceplanting by Damiano Orsini. He catches me easily, hoisting me into his arms.
If I weren’t so busy passing out, I’d probably be embarrassed about it.
CHAPTER 11
CALIGULA
When I openmy eyes again, I’m in a bathroom. A bathroom that’s bigger than the hotel rooms I’ve been staying in lately, and I’m lying on my side on a divan softer and more comforting than any bed I’ve slept in since my crib.
My father raised me. My mother had less than zero interest in me, and went back to Italy soon after my birth. My first word was “Da,” not “Ma.” My earliest memories are of my father throwing me up and catching me, always catching me. I always felt safe with him. Nothing could touch me.
Then he died.
I sit up straight, leaning immediately to favor one buttcheek as the plug inside me pokes hard, and put a hand to my head as things start spinning again. When the world is finally still, I take a deep breath and look up. Damiano is standing well back, watching me closely like I’m a wild animal that might bite him.
“Sorry,” I mutter, and then immediately want to punch myself. Why the hell am I apologizing tothisasshole? Heboughtme. So fuck manners; I’m not going to apologize to him for any damn thing.
“Are you—” He breaks off, starts again. “The Obelisk told me you were in good health.”
“I’m fine.”
“I didn’t pay ten million just to watch you faint after walking up a few flights of stairs.” His voice has gone ice cold. “If you’re sick, I’ll have someone examine you. If you’re just weak, I’ll have to adjust my plans.”
“Look, I just haven’t eaten for a while,” I snap. And then: “What plans?”
He regards me with those empty eyes. “Get up,” he says at last.
I stand, keeping my eyes down. Not from submission, but because there are mirrors everywhere and I don’t want to have to see my own humiliation reflected back at me.
Damiano takes me by the arm—again—and pulls me over to the sink set under a mirror. He tilts my chin up, but I resolutely keep my gaze fixed down. “Hey,” he says, a world of warning in one syllable.
I look up. Look at him in the mirror. His pants and his shirt are expensive, but it’s basically cosplay. Something to make himappearcivilized, seem like any other man. But he’s not a man. He’s a monster.
He’s taken off his jacket, and the white shirt stretches across his broad shoulders that span significantly wider than mine. In front of him, a head shorter, I’m completely naked except for the gold cage around my cock. He’s built from solid muscle and tattoos and scars. I’m leaner, smoother, ink-free and equally unmarked by life’s cruelties—at least the physical ones. Hishand on my jaw looks huge, capable of snapping my neck with minimal effort.
But I meet his eyes with every ounce of Clemenza disdain I can muster.
“That thing in your ass,” he says. “Is it the first thing that’s been in there?”
In the mirror, I can see the flush starting in my chest and creeping up to my neck. “Not the first thing, no.”
“You played with your hole?”
My cheeks burn now. Even my ears are going red. I hate that I can’t hide when I’m embarrassed, not with my coloring. Hate that I’m getting embarrassed at all. “Yes.”
“With what? Fingers, dildo?”
“Yes.”
His hand slides down to my throat, gripping high under my chin so my head tips back. If I want to meet his eyes in the mirror, I have to look down my nose at him, which would be more satisfying if he weren’t the one controlling the angle. His fingers tighten just enough to remind me how easy this would be for him. “Which?”
