I Sent the Mafia Heir to Prison, and He Came Out Wanting Me novel · Chapter 2 of 24
Chapter 2: Hands Behind You
Ben locks the shop, ties the heir's hands with apron strings, and takes his mouth on the back-kitchen table, until a black sedan idles outside.
The phone rang a third time, and then a voice told Ben to leave a message.
Russ Odom had answered every call Ben ever made, on the first ring, for four years.
Ben hung up.
He looked at the photograph under his wrist, at the candle and the red wine and the white-haired man buttering his roll.
Then he looked at Dario, who had not moved an inch.
"Take your coat off," Ben said.
Dario unbuttoned it and laid it over the counter.
Ben walked to the front door, threw the deadbolt, and pulled the shade down over the glass.
His hands were steady now, which scared him more than the shaking had.
"Back kitchen," he said. "Walk."
Dario went through the swinging door ahead of him, past the proofing racks and the deck oven.
He stopped beside the long steel table where Ben shaped the dough every morning.
The kitchen was warm and smelled of yeast and burnt sugar, and one bare bulb hung over the table.
Ben took Greta's green apron off its hook and pulled the strings out of the loops with a sharp tug.
"Turn around."
"Why?"
"Because I said."
Dario looked at him for a long moment, and then he turned and put his back to the room.
His shoulders were wider than the coat had let on, and the muscle in them flexed as he crossed his wrists behind him.
Ben wound the apron string around them twice and knotted it hard.
His knuckles brushed the tattoo on Dario's left wrist, a faded black rosary, and the skin there was hot.
"Your hands stay where I put them," Ben said. "You don't touch me until I say. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Say it."
"My hands stay where you put them."
The low steady voice went through Ben.
He walked around to the front and stood close enough to feel the heat coming off Dario's chest.
"You come in here with a photograph," Ben said. "You say my name like you own it. You think I'm going to thank you?"
"No."
"What do you think I'm going to do?"
Dario's gaze dropped to Ben's mouth and came back up.
"Whatever you want," he said.
Ben fisted the grey tie again and kissed him.
It was nothing like a kiss.
It was teeth and a hard push of mouths, five years of rage pressed into one place.
Dario made a rough sound low in his chest and kissed him back with everything he had.
His hands strained at the apron string and went still again at once.
Ben pulled back to breathe and bit his bottom lip.
"You don't touch me," he said against it.
"I'm not touching you."
"You're kissing me."
"You're kissing me," Dario said. "I'm holding still."
Ben shoved him back against the steel table so hard the pans rattled on the rack above.
He tore the tie loose and dropped it on the floor.
He undid the buttons of Dario's shirt one at a time, each with a hard little pull.
He spread the cloth wide over a chest that was scarred and pale and rising fast.
There was a long ridge of pink skin under the left ribs and a tattooed line of Latin across the collarbone.
Ben put his palm flat over the center of the chest and felt the heart hammering under it.
"You're scared," he said.
"No."
"Your heart is going like a rabbit's."
"That's not fear."
Ben's own breath caught.
He slid his hand down over the stomach, down the hard line of muscle, to the buckle of the belt.
Dario's whole body drew tight under his fingers.
"Tell me to stop," Ben said, almost a dare.
"No."
He opened the belt.
He opened the zipper.
Dario's cock was already thick and heavy against the cotton.
When Ben pulled the fabric down and took it in his fist, it jumped in his grip.
"Five years," Dario said roughly. "I thought about this in my sleep."
"About me hating you?"
"About your hands."
Ben stroked him, once, slowly, from the root to the wet head.
Dario's head dropped back and hit the cupboard behind him with a thud.
"Look at me," Ben said.
Dario looked.
His eyes were black and unguarded, and his mouth had fallen open.
Ben lowered himself to his knees on the cold tile.
He should have felt humiliated.
He felt dizzy, as though standing at the edge of a roof.
"Don't move your hands," he said, and took Dario's cock into his mouth.
The groan that tore out of Dario was the most honest sound Ben had ever heard.
It was heavy and salty on his tongue.
He took it as deep as he could, slow, with his lips tight and his tongue flat underneath.
Dario's hips jerked once and froze.
Above him the muscles of his thighs shook, and his breath came out in short ragged pulls.
"God," he said. "Joel."
Ben pulled off with a wet sound and looked up the length of him.
"Not that name."
"Ben," Dario said at once. "Ben, please."
"Please what?"
"Don't stop."
Ben took him again, harder.
He bobbed his head and worked the base with one hand.
His other hand gripped the hard jut of Dario's hip to keep him pinned to the table.
Spit ran down his chin.
Dario's cock hit the back of his throat and Ben swallowed around it, and Dario cried out and thudded against the cupboard again.
"Ben, I'm going to..."
Ben didn't pull away.
He wanted every drop of what this man had been holding in for five years.
He wanted to see his face come apart while he took it.
Dario came with a shout that cracked in the middle, long pulses hot on Ben's tongue.
His hands wrenched at the apron string so hard the knot creaked.
Ben swallowed and kept him in his mouth until the shaking stopped.
Then he sat back on his heels and wiped his lip with his thumb.
Dario was breathing.
His shirt hung open, his head was tipped against the cupboard, and his eyes were wet and wild and fixed on Ben without blinking.
Ben stood on shaking legs.
He wasn't done.
He knew it the way he knew a loaf was ready, by the weight in his hands.
He was rock hard in his jeans, and he wanted this man's mouth, and he wanted to hear him say his name again.
"Why now?" he said instead. "You could have found me a year ago."
"I was inside a year ago."
"You know what I mean. Why my shop? Why tonight?"
Dario's gaze slid past him to the dark window over the sink.
His whole body changed.
The softness drained out of his face, and when he spoke his voice was flat and quiet and all business.
"Turn off the light."
"What?"
"Ben. Turn off the light."
Ben slapped the switch.
The kitchen went black except for the thin glow of the streetlamp in the alley.
Through the grimy window he saw a long dark car sitting at the far end of the lane.
Its headlights were off.
Its engine was running, a soft rumble he could feel in the floor.
A cigarette tip glowed behind the windshield.
"Friend of yours?" Ben whispered.
Dario was already working his wrists loose from the apron string, so easily that Ben realized he could have done it at any time.
"No," he said. "That's not mine."
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