Chapter 12

XAVIARO

Rage pulses in my chest like someone cranked up the bass. Even after tossing the body into the ravine and spending the past half hour glancing at Sparrow out of the corner of my eye every thirty seconds to reassure myself that he really is okay, I can't calm down. I can't shake the images playing through my mind of that piece of shit with his hands around my little bird's throat.

Sparrow was understandably tense and pale on the drive out of the city, but with Riff Raff nothing more than fish food—sorry, fish—the color is slowly returning to his face. By the time I pull into my parking garage, he seems as relaxed as he always does, with the exception of the way he keeps twisting the hem of his shirt in absent, repetitive movements.

You don't end up with a body count without being a goddamn pro at compartmentalizing… or a certified psychopath. But Sparrow isn't that. Not that I'm qualified to make that diagnosis, but I just don't see it.

I swing my car into my regular spot and kill the engine. His movements as he unbuckles and gets out are fluid and easy, almost too much so, like some part of him thinks that the more casual he acts about his near-death experience, the less real it will be. Who am I to argue with his coping mechanisms though? If the fake-it-till-you-make-it method works for him, I'm happy to go along with it. It's better than crawling into a bottle or any of the other self-destructive, fucked-up ways I've seen people deal. I suppose my numbness is the same as what he's doing, I'm just a hell of a lot better at it than he is.

We meet at the back of the car, and I put an arm around his shoulders, tucking his small body close to mine. He leans into me with a sigh that seems to work its way through his chest and straight down to the fractures in his soul.

"I need a shower," he murmurs as I lead him through the lobby and towards the elevator.

I spare a quick nod for Parker, the doorman on our way in. His eyes flicker to Sparrow with curiosity. I've never brought anyone around before other than The Family, and even that's rare. The little twitch at the corner of his lips makes me wonder if he's winning a bet he made with himself about my sexuality. Or maybe he's just relieved to realize I'm actually human and not some lifelike Mafia cyborg.

"Lucky for you, my apartment does include a shower," I say as I usher him into the elevator and press the button for the top floor.

"With hot water?" he asks in a reverent whisper.

I glance down at him, cocking an eyebrow at the question. "Sure. Hot, cold, my pipes can do it all."

He lets out a groan that's so charged it wakes my cock up with a dizzying twitch. I lean in and press my nose against the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar bergamot and leather scent that's imprinted itself onto every part of me. He whimpers and tilts his head, giving me more access to the fluttering pulse point on the side of his throat and the slender stretch of his neck. I press soft, greedy kisses along his warm skin, paying special attention to the spots where bruises in the shape of Riff Raff's fingers are already blooming. Every quiet sound he makes vibrates through my bones, until we reach my floor and the doors slide open.

I lead him inside, stopping just inside the door to stoop at his feet. He wobbles and braces his hands on my shoulders as I work the knots loose on the tattered laces of his dirty sneakers and slip them off. They're completely at odds with the row of expensive shoes I line them up next to, but they manage to look right at home there anyway. Or maybe that's just because I like the thought of my fiery little bird right here in my apartment, his things mixed up with mine.

I get to my feet and nudge my shoes off as well. They're likely past saving at this point now that the blood has had hours to soak in, but I set them in line with the rest anyway to deal with later.

"You know, you don't have to be so nice to me just because I got strangled by a tweaker," Sparrow says, reaching up and ghosting his fingertips over his tender throat.

"I've been nice to you since the night we met. You're the one who broke my nose," I point out.

"Huh." The sound is half amused, half surprised as he seems to turn my words over in his head for a few seconds. "You really have been nice to me this whole time. Even when I've been a pain in the ass. Why?"

I step closer, sliding my hands under his jacket and easing it off his shoulders. He lets me take it from him, waiting through my silence with curious eyes fixed on my face.

"You really want to know why?" I ask seriously, draping his jacket over my arm. He nods and I lean in to brush my lips against the shell of his ear. "It's because I like you, Little Sparrow," I whisper.

He chuckles. The sound is warm, rattling through me and settling into my bones the same way his moan in the elevator did. He sways closer to me, undoing the button on my jacket and then reaching under it to slide it off my shoulders the same way I did with his.

"I kind of like you too," he confesses, and a grin tugs at my lips.

"Thank fuck for that. Otherwise the stalking and kidnapping would've been way out of line."

He nods, biting back his own smile as I shrug out of my jacket.

"Speaking of stalking… how did you know where I was tonight?"

"Oh, come on now." I tut. "A little mystery keeps the romance alive. Everyone knows that."

Sparrow narrows his eyes at me. "Tell me," he says, his tone tipping over into ball-tingling Dom territory.

I bring my face close to his, the tips of our noses bumping. His eyelids droop but stay open, a victorious smile already starting to spread over his lips.

"No," I whisper, pressing a quick kiss to his lips and then ducking out of the way with restrained laughter.

He grumbles, and I'm pretty sure I catch the word ‘spanking'mumbled under his breath as I hang our coats side by side in my hallway closet. My cock swells again at the thought. He can threaten me with a good time as much as he likes, it doesn't mean I'll tell him about the tracker.

"Come on." I spin him around and point him toward my bedroom and the attached bath where I keep the meager first aid kit that doesn't hold a candle to the one Enzo keeps on hand.

With all the excitement of the night, I completely forgot about the baby Moretti passed out drunk on my couch. His quiet snores reach my ears as we pass the living room, making Sparrow's steps slow as he cranes his neck to get a look at who's in there.

"Forgot to send your other boyfriend home before coming to my rescue?" he teases.

I snort. "That would be Elio Moretti, younger brother and second in command to Lorenzo."

Sparrow's eyes flicker to the trashcan I left next to the couch and the water on the table. "Drinking problem?"

I make a noise in the back of my throat. "I wouldn't go that far. It all just weighs on him a little too much and he goes off the deep end for a minute every once in a while. Sometimes it's just a one-night bender, other times it lasts a week or so. He always sorts himself out though."

He nods in understanding and keeps walking, down my dim hallway with my hand on his lower back. The warmth of his skin calls to me, even with his t-shirt still in the way, absorbing too much of his heat before it can reach me.

I open the bedroom door and he sweeps his gaze over the space without comment, taking in the floor-to-ceiling windows and my massive bed in the center of the room, adorned with black silk sheets and a custom-made frame with restraint attachments. He might be the first man I've ever actually submitted to, but that doesn't mean I haven't fantasized about the idea for longer than I'd like to admit.

I flip on the bathroom light as we step inside. Unlike the bedroom, this room does get a reaction from Sparrow, but not because I paid extra for heated marble floors and the extra large soaking tub taking up the far wall. He lets out a laugh, sweeping his eyes over the grooming products scattered haphazardly over the sink and the damp towel draped over the half-wall ledge next to the toilet. He approaches the tube of toothpaste that's oozing its contents onto the white countertop.

"You're secretly a slob." He picks up the toothpaste tube and waves it at me accusingly.

I scoff. "I am not a slob. I was in a hurry this morning." It's a lie, my bathroom always looks like this, but how dare he accuse me of being a slob. I shudder at the thought.

"Pig," he taunts, tossing the toothpaste back onto the counter carelessly and smirking at me.

I growl playfully, descending on him and wrapping my arms around him again to playfully nibble on his neck while he laughs and squirms. I release him after a minute, ignoring the throb in my cock tempting me to get on my knees and beg him to help us both compartmentalize what happened tonight the best way we both know how. The heat in his eyes when I let him go tells me his thoughts are on the same page as mine, but he doesn't order me to strip or command me to kneel, so he must know that a shower and first aid are the priority before we let ourselves get lost in the haze of one another.

I turn towards the shower, opening the door and cranking the water on. I turn the knob as hot as I can typically stand it. Given his enthusiastic response to learning that I have hot water, I'm assuming he'll appreciate the near boiling temperature as much as I do.

When I turn back around, he's already undressed, his clothes in a pile on the floor at his feet. My breath catches in my chest. He's taken me apart twice now, turning my world on its fucking axis and making me come so hard it almost made me believe in some kind of god. But this is the first time I've seen him completely undressed. Standing under the harsh bathroom lights, he's all lean lines and stark ink standing out against his pale skin.

He drags his fingers through the tangle of his hair, pushing it off of his forehead, but only for a few seconds before it flops forward stubbornly again. I devour him greedily with my eyes, from the dusting of light hair on his chest to the tantalizing peaks of his dusty pink nipples, and down to his cock, half hard between his slender thighs. My mouth waters and my insides pulse with eager heat.

"Take your clothes off, Killer," Sparrow says with a twist of his lips and a tremor of authority in his voice.

It's on the tip of my tongue to ask if he's sure he wouldn't rather shower alone, but there's something about the restrained glint in his eyes that makes me think what he needs right now is to take back control.

If there's one thing I know how to do, it's kill a man before he has a chance to see it coming and say his prayers. If there are two things I know how to do, giving Sparrow exactly what he asks for is definitely the second.

SPARROW

Xaviaro loosens his tie and pulls the cufflinks out of each one of his sleeves. I lean against the sink, the coolness of the countertop against my ass chasing away some of the heat in my skin and grounding me in the moment as I watch with rapt attention. His expression is stoic, but the playful glint in his eyes draws me in as he undoes his buttons one at a time, his shirt slowly gaping open to expose the thick blanket of dark hair on his chest and the swell of his pecs, tempting me to bury my face there. A few more buttons loosened have the cut of his toned abs on display, begging for my tongue to trace each one while he's tied down and whimpering for me. He tugs his shirt free from his pants and a little shiver runs through me.

He shrugs this shirt off and sets it aside, not bothering to fold it this time. Apparently all the rules of neatness and perfection are left outside his bathroom door. I don't know why, but there's something so endearingly human about Xaviaro needing one space in his life where he doesn't feel the need for everything to be pristine.

The metallic rattle of his belt buckle as he works it open sends goose bumps skittering over my skin and makes my cock twitch. I wrap my hand around my swelling erection and give myself a few slow strokes while he undoes his pants and steps out of them. His eyes follow the motion of my hand, the barely contained bulge straining in his silky red boxer briefs jerking and visibly thickening.

I groan and my hole flutters, the emptiness in my core making me needy.

I saw the way Xaviaro kept glancing over at me in the car. He's worried that I'm rattled, that I'm about to fall to pieces over something as silly as facing the specter of my mortality tonight. He was right a few weeks ago when he said my heart still beat faster thinking of my own death. As cavalier as I've been since Benny's death, some part of me still clung to the comforting belief that it wasn't my time yet. Riff Raff's hands around my throat tonight reminded me firsthand of Phantom's number one lesson. Everyone dies.

There is no time. It's as inevitable as breathing and it can happen just as easily before the next sunrise as it can on my hundredth birthday. That realization might bring some men to their knees. It might send them spiraling, scrambling to make a deal with any devil they can find for just a little more time. But for me, it's freeing. All I have is each moment, one at a time with no promise of the next. All I have is a clawing hunger for the man standing in front of me and a blessedly hot shower that will wash away the memory of the biker's touch.

I push off the sink and close the space between us in two steps, hooking my fingers into the waist of his underwear and tugging them down as I tilt my face up to wordlessly ask for his mouth on mine. He gives me exactly what I'm looking for, ducking his head and parting his lips. I sweep my tongue into his mouth, catching his and coaxing it to stroke and tangle with mine.

He feeds me a muffled moan and I swallow it greedily. I push myself up onto the tips of my toes, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my body against his. The heavy weight of his cock drags against mine as I rock my hips, finding the same rhythm in our kiss as steam starts to fill the bathroom and wrap around us like a comforting blanket.

Xaviaro groans again, his hands finding their way to my ass to grab and knead my cheeks. As much fun as it is to have him bound and at my mercy, I can't deny the benefits of his wandering hands, dipping into my crease to ghost over my hole as he walks us backward towards the shower. I stumble after him, nipping at his bottom lip and deepening the kiss until our height difference frustrates me enough to growl around his tongue.

He chuckles, stooping just enough to wrap his hands around my thighs and haul me into his arms. I gasp and hook my legs around him, breaking the kiss to throw my head back and pant as I brace my hands on his shoulders and grind my aching cock against the ridges of his abs.

I'm not sure how he manages it—magic, perhaps—but he gets the shower door open without letting go of me. I make another pornographic sound as soon as the blazing hot water touches my skin, scalding away the echo of Riff Raff's touch, and a dozen other ugly memories I didn't know were still clinging to my skin until they're washed down the drain.

Xaviaro brushes his lips to the hollow of my throat, holding me under the water without complaint, waiting for my next instructions. Another hot tremble of electricity skitters along my spine.

"I wish you had two extra hands so you could wash me without putting me down," I say, tilting my head back just a little farther to let the stream run over my face for a few seconds.

"I can't do anything about the hands, but we might be able to make it work." He nods towards a bottle of soap on the nearby ledge. "Grab that." I meet his demand with a flat look and he gives me an adorably sheepish smile that has no business being on such a deadly man's face. Except for the fact that the contrast is literally everything. The world can have him cold, controlled, and dangerous. I want to be the only one who gets sheepish smiles and soft touches. "Grab that, please, Sir," he amends, and I pick up the bottle.

Xaviaro turns to press me up against the shower wall. I gasp at the momentary shock of the cool tile against my heated, slippery back. He loosens his grip on my thighs and I tighten my legs around him, keeping my balance between the wall and his body. When he's confident that I'm not going to slip, he plucks the bodywash from my hands and pours a generous amount into his palms, lathering them together and filling the space with the same woodsy scent that always clings to his skin.

I sigh, letting my eyelids flutter closed as his strong hands start to work the rich suds into my skin, replacing the phantom of every touch that came before until I can't remember anyone but Xaviaro. He massages tense knots out of my shoulders and takes his time soaping every nick and cut that still needs to be properly cleaned. His lathered palms glide over my sensitive nipples and down the length of my belly until he reaches my cock.

He wraps a hand around me and I arch my back, letting a groan slip past my lips. But he doesn't linger like I expect. He washes my shaft with a few efficient strokes before moving on. My eyes pop open and I pin him with a disapproving look.

"Did you want something… Sir?" he teases. Or maybe it's less of a tease and more his way of letting me know that he needs to give up control as much as I need to be the one to take it.

I squeeze my legs tighter around his hips again, thrusting my cock against his stomach, the friction nowhere near enough to satisfy, just enough to make me desperate for more.

"Be a good boy and get me ready to take that monster cock of yours," I command, my voice dipping deeper with the lust that's weaving its way through my body.

He parts his lips on a soft moan, his pupils expanding to obscure the chocolate-brown of his irises, a flush rising on his olive skin.

"Yes, Sir," he murmurs, slipping one soapy hand around to find my hole.

He circles two fingers along my rim, petting and teasing my entrance until I'm panting, the deep, empty ache pulsing heavily until it's the only thing I can feel.

"Two fingers. Inside me now," I demand, tipping my head back against the wall and letting my eyelids slip halfway closed again.

Xaviaro does as he's told, easing two fingers into my hole up to the second knuckle. I moan and buck my hips, my eyes clenching and my cock jerking to spill a dribble of precum.

"Deeper," I moan, and my perfect, submissive savior gives me that too, filling me as deep as his fingers can go with a restrained grunt. His cock brushes against the back of my thigh, slippery and wet, and just as desperately hard as mine is.

He fucks his fingers in and out of my hole, crooking them to find my prostate and growling when I let out a breathless gasp as he hits his target. It's been so fucking long since I've given myself over to the heady stretch and the deeply satisfying fullness of anyone's fingers, let alone anything else. If I wasn't afraid of the water running cold, I'd make him hold me here all night, fucking me slow and deep with his fingers, edging me for hours until I give in to the body quaking orgasm that he'd tease from my prostate.

Xaviaro sways forward, pressing his face into my throat again, his back rising and falling with barely controlled breaths as he laps at the water running over my skin. I drag my fingers through his wet hair, giving voice to every gasp and moan that rises in my chest, stroked to life by his fingers expertly taking me apart one thrust at a time.

"Xaviaro," I grit out his name, tightening my grip on his hair like I can rein myself in by taking control of him.

He shudders and stills, leaving his fingers buried halfway inside of me.

"Yes, Little Sparrow?" I don't correct the slip of the honorific this time, maybe because I'm too fucking charmed by the way his lips wrap around the name he gave me when I was nothing but a nameless ghost.

"Take me to your bed."