Page 41 of Burn this City

“It wasn’t a question.” Rausa chuckled and that slight vibration went right into Jack’s chest. His hand traveled lower, and Jack’s muscles tensed. He had to stop this, needed to stop it, but Rausa knew, damn him.

Rausa moved to straddle Jack’s knees without removing his hand. He was momentarily unbalanced, and Jack might have been able to kick him away since his legs were free, but he couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. His tied wrists were almost tucked under his chin, an awkward compromise between avoiding touching Sal’s hand and making himself more vulnerable by placing them above his head.

“Do you … do you this to everyone after tying them up?”

Rausa laughed. “My God, so coy. If I thought you did that on purpose …” He put the other hand on Jack’s hip. “I’d say you were doing it to turn me on.”

“Coy? Fuck you. You tortured me.”

“Yep, I did. And this is different.” Rausa’s hand moved to his groin, but his touch became lighter, using just a couple of fingers to trace the outline of Jack’s cock. Jack squirmed, torn between outraged andnot nearly enough. He’d briefly entertained doing this as leverage, but the truth was that Rausa had the upper hand in this game too. He could do whatever he wanted, fuck him, rape him, ask his two friends to join, hell, call a few more friends while he was at it, and Jack had nothing.

“This isn’t a fear erection, Jack. I’m not going to flatter myself and think this is specifically for me, but right now I’m the only guy who can do something about it.”

“What are you … what’s your game? Humiliate me before you put a bullet in my head?”

Rausa’s features darkened. “Is that all you’re feeling? Humiliated?”

Exhilarated, scared, turned on, embarrassed. To start. “You’re going to kill me. I’ve accepted that. So it’s really fucking hard to get into this, if that’s what you want. You’re just torturing me again.” Jack realized he was nearly panting.

22

Humiliation. Sal was happy to give it to people who craved it. He sometimes did it to others to make a point, but he didn’t sleep with those people.

But Jack Barsanti had moved onto a kind of twilight edge, somehow. This wasn’t purely business anymore, but also not personal. Barsanti wasn’t one of those tech millionaires in their thirties or forties that Port Francis was good at producing and which, whether married or not, formed part of Sal’s sexual diet.

Fuck, drowning somebody wasn’t keeping their dignity intact, either, yet Barsanti somehow clung to at least erotic self-determination. Hands tied, physically restrained and controlled, and this was the hill he chose to die on? Yes. In a matter of speaking.

Sal was so tempted to brush that resistance aside, because while Barsanti’s head battled him, his body didn’t. He wouldn’t put up a real fight, and maybe Barsanti would play ball better if teased and turned on enough. Sal was patient like a rock when it mattered, and if the reward was big enough—he could tease and edge Barsanti all night and only fuck him when the man was begging him for it. And how much fun that would be, if only it were possible.

There was something very compelling about making a guy like Barsanti come apart like that, and it would undoubtedly be hotter than hearing him beg to protect somebody else.

If Sal had been younger, brasher, he’d have continued. Before Catia taught him that self-control was even more important than controlling the other. And Barsanti was in the twilight space where some of those rules should apply. If Sal wanted to look at himself in the mirror later, anyway.

Meeting Barsanti’s eyes, he kept his hands where they were. If Barsanti told Sal what he needed to know, Andrea would either have him executed the moment it was discovered, or there would be such a large price put on his head that Barsanti would have to run to the ends of the earth. Even if nobody caught up with him, he’d be a hunted man for the rest of his life. Killing him here, after extracting the information, could be considered a kindness. He’d never killed anyone he’d fucked before. He wondered if he could.

“To answer your question, Jack, and because I’m in a nice mood, yes, I sometimes tie up my lovers. What about you? Any fuzzy handcuffs in your life?”

Barsanti looked more bewildered than ashamed. “No.”

How a man who looked like Barsanti seemingly had such a narrow range of experience mystified Sal. How could every single past lover have failed to dress that defined physique in chains or restraints? With that skin tone and the light eyes, he’d look stunning in electric blue or maybe bottle green ropes. Wine red was out—that was Catia’s color.

“Sal?”

Sal turned his head and saw Enzo standing in the door. Not admonishing, not scandalized or in the least disturbed. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in.”

Yeah, as much fun as this had been, he needed to focus. After his nap, Barsanti seemed to have recovered some of his sass, but Sal was no closer to getting the answers he needed. “I’ll join you guys in a few minutes.”

He waited for Enzo to withdraw, then ran his hand back up to Barsanti’s sternum. “Let’s say I’m going to forget that Beth exists, what’s it worth to you?”

Barsanti’s eyes closed, and tension returned to his body. “How can I trust you?”

“Is trust a luxury you can afford right now? Besides, as I said, I talked to her. She’s nice and her death could lead to complications. Not enough reason to take her off the table as leverage, but I’m not going out of my way to machinegun puppies.”

“Six eight … two three.” Barsanti opened his eyes. “That’s the phone.”

“And the laptop?”

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