Page 16 of He Should Be Mine
“He wants to go out,” I say, switching to English. I hope it’s not too obvious that I have done so in an attempt to butter him up. “Says he wants to try on some lingerie. He claims the best places aren’t online.”
The mention of Molly and lingerie has Riccardo’s eyes lighting up. I bite back my glower of disgust.
“Molly would get into all kinds of trouble,” he says, almost proudly. As if he likes infuriating high-maintenance brats that can’t breathe without making it difficult for everyone else.
I nod and finish my wine. Riccardo doesn’t want to hear my opinion on his taste in men. Giving it to him wouldn’t encourage him to give me what I want. And I really want this.
I can already picture the look on Molly’s face when I tell him we are going on a shopping trip. He is an annoying brat, but his exuberance is endearing.
I put my wineglass down a little too forcefully. A day out of here would be good for my sanity. I’m not doing it for Molly. I’m doing it for myself.
“If you accompanied him, someone might recognize you,” says Riccardo.
I nod again. He is right, there is a risk. London is a big place, but the fancy shops attract a certain type of clientele. Unlike the shitty nightclub I carried Molly out of.
“Then I will say he is mine,” I say calmly.
Riccardo’s eyebrow rises. “You’d do that for me?”
“Of course, capo,” I promise solemnly, as something sharp tingles down my spine.
It burns and itches. It makes me feel too hot and too cold. The sensation spreads out to every atom of my body. It consumes me.
All at the thought of telling people Molly is mine.
Riccardo blinks, but before he can reply, Molly appears. He sashays out of the shadowy hallway and steps into the light.
His blond hair is gleaming. The pink tips are artfully arranged. He is wearing a black lace thing that is completely see through. I can see his nipple piercings. I can see his belly button piercing. I can see his red silk panties.
Riccardo leaps off the sofa. The abrupt movement brings me to my senses and I pull my gaze away from Molly before my boss catches me staring at what is his.
Riccardo goes to Molly as if drawn by a magnet. Helplessly pulled into Molly’s gravity. I honestly can’t blame him. The boy knows his trade. He all but oozes allure. And I’m not even gay.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch them go to Molly’s bedroom. I hear the door shut. My fists clench with the sudden urge to hit something. Anything.
My gaze drops down to Molly’s half finished glass of wine and his discarded book. I shuffle along the sofa until I can reach it. I pick the book up carefully. I might be able to find his place. The book is brand new, and he has a shocking habit of folding the book back as he reads.
Diligently, I leaf through the pages. I find the first one that looks virginal and untouched. I slide his book mark into place and put the book back down on the glass table. Next to his empty glasses case.
I shuffle over some more and shove my hand down the sofa. It takes a few moments to find the glasses. They are cold against my fingertips. Gently, I pull them out and return them to their case.
I shake my head. I can understand Molly not wanting Riccardo to see him in glasses, but he acted as if he didn’t want Riccardo to even know hehadglasses. As if such a fact would suddenly make him ugly and undesirable.
As if it could.
It would take far more than mere glasses to dim Molly’s beauty. I’m not sure anything could. He was born to burn brightly.
Suddenly, a loud thump sounds out. Followed by another and another. The sound of a headboard slamming against a wall.
I grimace and hurry to my room. I hate that I have to walk closer to the noise, but it can’t be helped. I’ve learned from bitter experience that there is nowhere in the apartment to hide from the sound of Riccardo fucking Molly.
As soon as I’m in my room, I snatch up my headphones and put them on. Molly loves to tease me for my over-the-ear high quality headphones that he deems ‘old-fashioned’. I don’t care what he thinks. The sound quality of these is far superior to his stupid little AirPods.
I fumble with my phone and put on the first opera playlist that comes up. I turn up the volume until a warning flashes about damaging my eardrums.
It sounds as if Nessun Dorma is being played directly to my brain. But part of me can still hear Riccardo fucking Molly. Parts of me will always hear it. Even when it is over.
All of me is acutely aware of what is happening on the other side of the flimsy wall. My stupid mind keeps wanting to picture it. Flashes of images are igniting to life quicker than I can squash them.
