Page 29 of Covert Desires

I will never admit that I’ve gotten attached over these past few weeks, that it’s been nice to have a distraction from myself, my memories.

And I will definitely never admit that it’s the thought of Nico’s skin pressed against mine that I’ve been masturbating to—every day.

My sex drive has been virtually non-existent these past few years…since that night at the docks, since they took my baby.

Since that dark day, nothing has excited me.

Nothing but that young, chiseled demon in my bed.

Even with his cock all sad and locked up in its cage, he sparks uncontrollable lust between my thighs, drawing the wetness from my insides…without him even being awake for it.

The more I paint, the more aroused I get—a frustrating realization.

Jesus, Kiah, pull yourself together.

He’s in the fucking mafia. No good can come from this.

Reasonably, logically, I know that.

But there is no logic involved in my desires, only primal, urgent need. How fucked up is that?

As I paint the sleeping man, I can’t help but drop a hand into my shorts, seeking out my sensitive clit.

It’s already sticky down there when I roll the hard tip between my fingers, almost pressing my head into the wet paint on the easel for support as my knees grow weak with the building pleasure.

I stop painting; it’s impossible to concentrate as my orgasm quickly takes over my system’s entire CPU, like a computer overheating.

It’s broad daylight; I’m right here in the middle of the open room, but does any of that stop me from working myself into a climax? Oh no.

With my eyes glued on the sweaty body on the bed, I pinch and twist and rub until a little moan catches in my throat, threatening to turn into a roar of pleasure if I don’t bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood.

All I can think about is my recurring fantasy of unlocking that cock and burying it inside me without him waking up; of riding him, impaling myself on his hardness—again and again—as he lies motionless but warm, tied up and hard, beneath me like a flesh dildo made just for me.

For the millionth time, I wonder what those piercings would feel likeinside. Would I be able to actually feel them scraping me?

The thought instantly sends me over the edge, toppling over into ecstasy as the orgasm vibrates through my body from the center out.

Relief washes over me, and I clamp my legs shut to ride out the feeling as I try in vain to turn my thoughts away from the future Don Ricci.

This is a recipe for disaster.

But I would order it from the menu again and again. Just to feel something, anything—it’s been so fucking long.

With a sigh, I regard the half-painted figure on my canvas.

What the fuck am I going to do with you, boy?

Chapter nine

Waking

(Nico)

Ihavenoideahow long I’ve been here, how many ruined orgasms have dripped from my sad dick in silence as the innkeeper went about her day, painting and stretching, and whatever other shit she does.

She doesn’t even know I’ve been watching her, studying her routine.

My eyes look closed, but just a faint slither is enough for me to see everything—especially the way she looks at my naked body like she wants to do more than just feed me soup.

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