Page 28 of The Beast Who Broke Me
This desk went for a song at auction. It was one of the few pieces at the Clemenza estate auction that wasn’t worth all that much in itself. Sturdy and thick, too big to be practical in the smaller rooms of most New York apartments these days, it’s from the Old Country. Well crafted, but not the work of a master. Practical rather than beautiful. And it was the base of Lou Clemenza’s power, the place where he made decisions over life and death every day. He must have felt like God sitting here at this desk.
I’ll enjoy wrecking his grandson over it.
I seize the tails of his shirt and rip it open, bottom to top, buttons bouncing across the wooden surface of the desk. “Dami—” he gasps out, and I put my hand over his mouth and nose and squeeze hard. I can’t stand to hear him mocking me with that nickname another second.
His eyes flutter shut like suffocating him is some kind of foreplay. And for a moment I think about never letting him take another breath, letting the life leave him here over his grandfather’s desk. He moans under my palm, and those golden eyes open again, pupils blown so wide they’ve nearly swallowed the amber. His hips shift on the desk.
Toward me, not away.
There are better ways to shut him up.
I take my hand away and he heaves in air, face flushed. I open his pants and yank them down, sneering at the evidence of his excitement. I’m not stupid enough to think his hard-on is for me. I know what it really is.
He gets off on manipulating people. Just like his grandfather.
His cheeks have returned to a healthier pink, but I can’t look at his face anymore; it’s too easy to get charmed by it. Take that pretty, lying face away from him and he’s just a body, like any other.
I walk around the desk and pull him backward over it so his head is hanging down, his neck elongated and elegant. That’s better. I don’t have to look at his face like this. Don’t have to see those eyes looking back at me with fear-edged excitement.
I shove down my jeans, line up with his lips, and feed my cock into his mouth. He swallows me down with the same unpracticed eagerness he always does. Not enough skill, but too much want. I wrap a hand around his throat, not squeezing, just feeling those muscles shifting and moving as he adjusts around my dick. The length of his body flows out before me: the lean muscles, the golden skin, the bronze hairs that curl around his hard cock, which curves up toward his stomach.
Idostill own him. He signed that fucking contract. He still needs my protection. And even though I know that ten million is in the wind now—the Bratva will probably use some of it to buy the weapons they hope to kill me with—Ididpay out, fair and square.
I start to move. Slow, deliberate. Not deep enough to choke him. I want him to think he can handle this, want him comfortable and careless before I take that away. His jaw is stretched wide and I feel the strain of it through his throat, the way the tendons shift under my palm each time I push in.
His nipples are tight, and his dick is starting to bead up at the end of it. I reach out for one of those tempting little nubs on hischest and give it a hard tweak, just to feel his throat contract around my cock. He moans again, the reverberation humming down my shaft, buzzing through my balls.
I do it again. Harder. His whole body jolts and he reaches for his cock.
I grab his wrist and slam it back against the desk, hard. My fingers easily wrap all the way around, his bones narrow under my grip. Something about that—how breakable he actually is, how easily I could—makes me ease up a little.
He’s scrabbling around with his free hand, trying to find purchase. Then he reaches up for me, grabbing onto my hip. For a second I think he’s going to try to push me away, but he justholds on, hard and desperate, like I’m an anchor for him.
I push deeper. His throat opens for me, and the sound he makes isn’t a moan—it’s closer to a sob, wet and gurgling around my cock. His body is shaking. Not fighting me. Just shaking.
I pull right back out to let him breathe for a second, a string of saliva joining my dick to his swollen lips. He gasps for air. His face is a mess: cheeks flushed pink, eyelashes wet and clumped together.
I shove back in, deeper this time, and his whole body convulses as I hit the back of his throat. That’s it. That’s what I want. I set a ruthless pace, using his mouth, watching his throat strain with every thrust. His hand on my hip is clinging so tight it’s almost painful, but I don’t make him let go. I want the mark there tomorrow. I want to see it when I’m showering and remember this.
Remember I fucked him over this desk. The son of the man who murdered my father. The last Clemenza.
“Look at you,” I grit out, my hips snapping forward. “Last of a great fucking dynasty, and you’re choking on my dick in your dead grandfather’s office.” He whines around my cock, a pained, desperate sound, and that’s what does it. I come hard and stupid, spilling down his throat with a groan I can’t swallow back. My hand goes slack on his neck, my thumb stroking over his pulse point before I register what I’m doing.
I pull out of his mouth and he coughs, rolling over and up into himself like a seashell, delicate and pink. His cock is still hard, flushed and leaking against his stomach. When he gets his breath back, he looks over at me.
I’m pulling my shirt back down over already-buttoned jeans.
There’s confusion in the scrunch of his eyebrows. “You’re…done?”
“You were the one choking on it. You tell me.”
“No, I know, but I meant?—”
“I know what you meant.”
He meant I didn’t finishhimoff. And why should I? A golfer doesn’t worry about his clubs. I don’t wonder if my gun’s feelings get hurt when I use it.
Why should I care any more about the Clemenza?
