Page 17 of Deadly Little Sparrow

“Did you come over to kill me or to play?” I ask.

His kiss-bruised lips twist into another brief smile and a rumble of laughter works its way through his throat. “What do you think, Little Sparrow?”

I grin and give his tie a sharp tug. I drag my tongue along the bridge of his nose, feeling the flattened spot where it didn’t heal quite right.

“I think that I like to play rough, and I’m not sure you’re up for it,” I warn.

He meets my eyes without flinching, fresh heat dancing in his gaze. “Try me.”

My balls tighten and a shiver runs down my spine. “On your knees.” I add the weight of authority to the words, letting the heady feeling of taking control course through my veins.

His eyelids droop and his lips part on a moan. Xaviaro doesn’t hesitate, dropping to his knees without bracing for impact or slowing himself down, and without wincing when he hits the wood floor. Then he tilts his head up to meet my gaze again. His dark eyes soften, flickering with a vulnerability I’m not sure he wants me to see.

The big, bad Mafia enforcer, turned to a pile of quivering flesh by three simple words. Three simple words spoken by me. It’s a thrill I didn’t know I was craving until this moment, and one I’m not sure anyone else will ever be able to match.

“Good boy,” I purr, gauging his reaction as I yank his tie again. His pulse flutters in his throat, speeding up immediately. He says thoughts of his own death don’t get his heart racing, but apparently being called a good boy does. “Safeword?”

“Unicorn,” he answers, and I let out a single laugh.

“Unicorn it is.” I untangle my fingers from his hair to drag them over the visible bulge between my legs. “You want to choke on my cock, don’t you?”

Xaviaro’s eyes track the motion, his lips parting on a quiet moan. He nods absently, and I wind my hand one more time around his tie, yanking him closer and getting his attention back on my eyes.

“Words, please,” I command.

His eyes cloud with needy pleasure. “Yes…” He pauses to lick his lips and I can practically see him weighing the next word on his tongue. Savoring it. “Sir.”

My cock jerks and a hot flush works its way over my skin.

“Good boy,” I murmur a second time, just as enthralled by his reaction as I was the first time. I stare down at him for a few seconds, putting together all of the pieces that lead up to this exact moment, doing my best to prove to myself that this isn’t just a wet dream. If I wake up in five minutes humping my pillow, I’m going to be seriously pissed.

Then again, I haven’t dreamed of much except murder lately. Even if this is a dream, it’s a much-needed one.

I unwrap his tie from around my hand. The expensive silk is already wrinkled from the rough handling, just like the man it’s attached to. Why is there always something so satisfying about messing up things that look perfect otherwise? Maybe that’s why there was such an odd thrill about blowing up my life after Benny died.

I shake off the thought and run my index finger over Xaviaro’s lips, tracing the shape of them and feeling every warm puff of breath he exhales. I work his tie free with my other hand, tugging carefully until it hangs loose around his neck. I slide it off him and devour the sight of him again, his hair standing up wildly, his olive cheeks darkened with arousal, his pants straining to contain his erection. Seeing him so undone grounds me. It gives me purpose and keeps my mind clear, in spite of the way I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything, from the feeling of my clothes against my overheated skin to the white noise of the traffic outside.

I hang his tie around my own neck, then slip both my hands under his suit jacket, dragging them over his firm chest and up to his shoulders, feeling the way his muscles tremble invisibly under his clothes. The button came loose during our initial kiss, so the jacket slides off easily, exposing the leather holster strapped just under his left pec. Xaviaro doesn’t move a muscle aside from the almost imperceptible quiver that he can’t seem to control.

How many men has he gotten on his knees for like this? How many men has he submitted himself to? I have no right to wonder, but the question burns itself into my brain like it’s made of acid.

I push his jacket farther down his arms, moving to stand behind him so I can arrange him exactly the way I want. Even the back of his shirt is perfectly crisp, clearly ironed just before he put it on this morning. The only spot that’s disturbed is where his holster rests, bunching the shirt unnaturally.

“Hands together,” I instruct, and he clasps them behind his back obediently, seeming relieved to be given an easy task so he can show just how well he can follow directions.

I run one hand between his shoulder blades while I twist up his suit jacket with the other to keep his hands in place. I check his fingers and test my improvised binding to make sure it’s not too tight but that he can’t get loose easily without my help. Then, I stand up behind him again and wrap both of my hands loosely around his throat from behind.

I bend over to bring my lips to his ear, the scent of sandalwood and sweat tickling my nose and making my cock throb again. “Do you trust me?”

His pulse is fast but even under my palms. I can feel the bob of every breath and swallow that works its way through his throat.

“Yes, Sir,” he answers, and his words rock something deep inside of me, making my bones and organs twang with reverberations.

“Why?” The authority in my voice slips for just a second.

“I don’t know,” he answers, sounding just as confused as I am.

I clear my throat and tighten my grip for a moment, barely enough to interrupt his breathing as I brush a kiss against the sandpapery stubble on his jaw before letting go and coming back around to his front again. I’m not sure how I’ve held myself together this long when all I want to do is unzip and force feed him my cock. I want to fuck his face until I spill down his throat. I want him to think of me for days after I send him home with marks around his wrists and his throat sore from the rough treatment.

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