If The Seas Catch Fire(31)

Just as well.

Keep your head down, sweetheart. The less you see around here, the better.

The room was on the second floor with an interior entrance. Good—places like this didn’t have cameras, and interior hallways meant fewer witnesses. Not that he and Domenico were doing anything illegal, but for those dancing the dangerous dance of contract work for the Mafia, there was something to be said for not being seen slipping into a motel room with a made man at two thirty in the morning.

He keyed himself into the room. Immediately, he was aware of Domenico, but as he closed the door behind him, he paused to do a quick sweep, taking in every detail of his surroundings.

One bed. A small dresser with an old TV that still had rabbit ear antennas. A table and chairs on the other side of the bed. Domenico sat in one of the chairs. His jacket was draped over the back of the other, and a paperback novel was facedown on the table next to a half empty bottle of some prissy-ass brand of water. Beneath the jacket was a shoulder holster, the edge of a wood grain pistol butt sticking out. Probably a .357—every f*cking Maisano loved his .357 revolver for some reason.

Beside the paperback was an unopened bottle of lube and a new pack of condoms. Magnum. Good.

And from beside that table, Domenico watched him. He sat in the crappy little armchair, legs crossed and tie loosened. He sipped his water like he was drinking top of the line brandy from a highball, watching Sergei over the rim with unreadable eyes.

He didn’t move, aside from tipping the glass against his lips. Sergei didn’t move either.

An odd silence settled between them. Sergei was used to being onstage in front of gawking men, but this was unnerving. Like he was being displayed and was expected to perform a dance he didn’t know. “Are we just going to stare at each other all night?”

“Of course not.” Domenico set the glass down with a quiet click that echoed up Sergei’s spine. “I just…” He slowly gave Sergei a down-up that was weirdly appreciative. Not a leer, nothing creepy. The way he might’ve looked over a painting or a new car—scrutinizing, and yet somehow admiring.

His eyes met Sergei’s, and almost sent him back a step. Sergei barely heard him whisper, “You’re f*cking beautiful.”

“I…” Sergei swallowed. “Thanks?”

“Would you do something for me?”

Sergei held his gaze. “I hope you don’t think I’m here as a whore.”

“A—no! No. God, no.” He put up his hands and shook his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. But I… look, you can say no, and no hard feelings. Consider it a favor.” His voice was smooth even when he was stumbling over words. Sergei noticed now that Domenico didn’t have that affected New York Italian accent a lot of the Mafiosi had in this town. His voice carried a hint of the Old Country, but not a trace of New York, and Sergei liked it more than he probably should have.

“A favor?” Sergei resisted the urge to shift his weight. “What kind of favor?”

“I want to see you strip.”

Sergei narrowed his eyes. “If you wanted another dance, we—”

“No, not like that.” Domenico fidgeted in the chair, and his prominent erection pressed against the front of his expensive trousers. “Not a dance. It… to be honest, I rarely have the chance to be with a man. I barely had a chance to really see you at the club, so before we get to…” His eyes darted toward the bed, then back at Sergei, as if this Mafioso who’d worn his semen out of a club was suddenly too shy to say he wanted to have sex. “First, I just want to look at you.”

Sergei swallowed. “So you…”

“No dancing. Nothing like that.” He gestured at Sergei. “I just want to see what you really look like.”

Sergei didn’t move yet. This still felt weird. Like they’d met up to have some casual sex as two horny guys, and now they were back to a horny guy and a stripper.

“I know it sounds weird.” Domenico’s voice was gentle and not in the least bit patronizing. “I know. Believe me. But I…” He swallowed, shifting in his chair. “If you’d rather not, I’ll understand.”

Sergei hesitated. He moistened his lips. Domenico might’ve been about to say something else, but Sergei peeled off his T-shirt, and Domenico was suddenly mesmerized. The Italian’s breath caught. He sat back, and neither of them said a word as Sergei started unbuckling his belt. The room was so quiet, the sound of his zipper seemed to echo off the walls. He wasn’t adding any flourish this time—no circling or thrusting with his hips, no undulating his abs—just methodically taking everything off.

The last to go were his black briefs. When Sergei dropped them on top of his other clothes, Domenico jumped like a bomb had gone off. He stared up at Sergei, eyes wide and lips apart, looking equal parts hypnotized and scared out of his mind.

“Well?” Sergei grinned despite the weirdness of this situation. He gestured at himself. “What do you think?”

“I think…” Domenico just stared. After a moment, he drained his glass and set it aside. Then he stood.

Sergei fought the urge to gulp nervously. He wasn’t going to show any uncertainty. Not to this guy. But he was nervous. This was a position he’d never been in before—completely naked, hard, vulnerable, in front of a fully-dressed and well-armed Mafioso.