Page 53 of The Beast Who Bought Me
I should put that collar back around his neck, but there’s something dangerous in his eyes that gives me pause. And the smell of him is all over me, soap and sweat and sex, making my head swim. I need to get out of here.
I turn and walk toward the elevator, but each step feels like I’m moving through molasses. My reflection in the polished metal doors looks unfamiliar—disheveled, wild-eyed, my cock an all-too-visible hard line in my pants.
The elevator button is right there. All I have to do is push it. But my hand hovers over the controls.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Iwantedto punish him. Bring him back into line, remind him of his place. And I did. But watching him fall apart, hearing him moan under my hands, feeling him spill in my lap?—
He’s a virgin. Every experience he’s had so far has been a first for him. Maybe he doesn’t know that pain can turn into pleasure. Maybe he doesn’t know that what happened to him was perfectly?—
No. I won’t be manipulated by his inexperience any more than I was by his attempts at seduction.
I punch the button, step into the elevator, and leave him alone.
Anything else would be an unacceptable loss of control.
CHAPTER 21
DAMIANO
The completedtux is delivered the next afternoon, and I send it down to the basement in the dumbwaiter along with shoes, shirt, cufflinks, and everything else required to transform my prisoner back into a prince.
I’m tempted to watch him getting ready, but I don’t. I’ve left him alone again since his punishment, unwilling to let him become even more of a distraction. But when I finally go down to collect the Clemenza for the evening, I wish I’d given myself a preview, because I freeze. Just for a second. Because…damn.
He’s sitting in his grandfather’s study, the first time he’s been able to reach the reconstructed rooms since he’s been down here, settled on the leather couch like he never left it. He looks bored and irritated, as if he’s been kept waiting for a car. He stands only when I start walking toward him, shrugging the satin-lapelled jacket into place with a movement so unconscious that it has to be muscle memory.
Gone is the desperate fugitive. Gone is the arrogant, gold-covered statue who raised his own auction price by insulting bidders. Gone, too, is the hostage I spanked into spilling yesterday.
In his place stands an attractive young man who might catch my eye in any other circumstances. He’s in his element, standing there in the memory of his Family’s empire. The tuxedo skims his body, Benedetti’s craftsmanship evident in every line. The bronze-gold hair is tamed, combed back from his angular face. And those Clemenza eyes gleam yellow as a jungle cat’s.
“You’re staring,” he says flatly.
“You look…expensive,” I reply, because every other word that went through my head was the wrong one.
“Iamexpensive. You established that yourself at the auction.” The words might be spiteful, but there’s dignity in his voice again. Pride. Heknowshow good he looks, and he’s not going to apologize for it. “So, am I being auctioned off again tonight, or hung off your arm like a designer accessory?”
I cross to him quickly, but he doesn’t back away this time. I catch his chin between my fingers and tip his face up. “Since you ask, I’ll be showing you off. Tonight,everyonewill see what belongs to me.”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.
And I’m not sure which one of us has the upper hand right now. Time to fix that. “Open your pants.”
His hand drifts down slowly, but he does it, opens them up and stands there motionless as I pull out his junk. Only it’s not junk, is it? Not on Caligula Clemenza. Not the word to use for a pricey little fuck like him.
I take the cage off and tuck him back in. “Tonight you need to act like a free man,” I tell him. “That’s my order. Make sure you follow it.”
“Where are we going?” is all he asks.
The Metropolitan Opera House is not my favorite place to be in this city. I’m not an opera fan. Neither is Big Gee, but I’m following his orders, proving to New York that Caligula Clemenza is alive and well, proving that I’m still a loyal Giuliano.
Proving that everything’s real fucking rosy.
Vito drives us over in the dark-windowed town car, the Clemenza sitting next to me in the back and staring resolutely at the view the whole time. When we pull up, Vito lets me out first, and then I turn and offer my hand to Caligula Clemenza, pulling him out into the flash of cameras and the sharp eyes of the city. And the moment he steps out of the car, I see the shift again. His shoulders square, his hand is firm in mine, and his smile is effortless. Charming.
He’s at home here.
It's opening night for the season's run ofThe Magic Flute. Important people are going to be here: the Boss of every major Family, plus their entourages. And aside from them, a bunch of worthless socialites are here too. When we enter the foyer, heads turn. Whispers follow.
“Is that Caligula Clemenza?”
