Chapter 112: He was Hard
Milo walked out of the dark room, glancing back three times before he reached the door. Part of him hoped Salvatore would call him back, or order him to stay in the room a little longer, but the Don just stood there in the center of the room, watching him go without a word.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence of the corridor rushed back in.
Milo let out a long, shaky breath and made his way down the hallway toward his room. As the adrenaline from the paddle started to fade, something else took its place. A sudden, tight heat low in his stomach.
He glanced down and felt his face go warm.
He was hard.
Painfully so, the fabric of his pajama pants doing nothing to hide it.
He hadn’t even noticed, not while he was blindfolded and bound and breathing through everything Salvatore was giving him.
But now, alone, every step sent fabric dragging against skin that felt far too sensitive, and it was almost too much.
He nearly ran the rest of the way to his room.
In the bathroom, Milo turned the shower to hot and stepped under the spray before it had fully warmed, letting the water rinse the oil from his shoulders and chest.
He braced one hand against the cold tile, forehead pressed to it, and let the other slide down.
Ahh...
His breath caught the moment he touched himself. His mind betrayed him instantly. Salvatore’s forearm pinning him down, the rough vibration of his voice murmuring "good boy," the cold brass wand and the warmth that always followed it.
He moved quickly, hips rocking forward, and it didn’t take long. He came with a strangled gasp, forehead against the tile, water running down his back as his whole body shook.
He stayed there a while afterward, just breathing.
Upstairs, Salvatore was dealing with the same problem.
He stormed into his bathroom and let the door slam behind him, ripping his robe open with more force than necessary.
He gripped the edge of the sink with one hand and himself with the other, jaw locked tight, and worked himself fast and rough, a low curse slipping out between his teeth.
He had wanted Milo. Badly. Not the careful, controlled desire he usually allowed himself. Something rawer, more insistent, and it had taken everything he had to pull back from those bare, oiled thighs without finishing what he’d started.
He’d told himself, going in, that it would be small. Just a game. Just enough to test the young man’s limits and draw a line.
He hadn’t accounted for how hard that line would be to hold once he was actually there. Milo trembling under his hands, gasping into the pillow, every sound honest and unguarded.
It had stirred something deep and possessive within him, something he didn’t yet fully trust.
He finished with a heavy, guttural sound, breathing hard, palms flat on the marble. In the mirror, his own reflection stared back, tattoos across his body, gray eyes hard even now.
Something tightened in his chest. Unfamiliar and unwelcome.
He wasn’t sure what he’d just done. He had never felt anything like this. He was a man of certainty. He didn’t second-guess himself.
But Milo had thrown the whole board off balance, and Salvatore didn’t know which way to move. Forward, and claim him completely. Or back, before this became something he couldn’t manage.
For the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt something close to fear: that once Milo saw the full shape of what Salvatore was, he’d run. And the house would be empty again, he might lose his heart entirely.
Salvatore turned the tap to cold and splashed his face, as if that might wash the thought away.
It didn’t. Milo’s voice was still in his head.
Breathless, high, beautiful in a way he hadn’t expected.
"That little chicken," he muttered at his own reflection, gripping the towel hard enough to make his knuckles white. "What the hell am I supposed to do with you?"
Milo barely slept.
He lay on his side on the bed, eyes open in the dark, replaying the night over and over in his head.
He’d only meant to try his luck, walking into Salvatore’s room with that ridiculous shopping bag, looking for any reason to stay close to him a little longer.
What had happened afterward had gone so far beyond anything he’d ever dared to imagine that he still wasn’t sure it had been real.
But it was real!
He could still feel it if he closed his eyes. The weight of Salvatore’s chest over his bound wrists. The blanket pulled over them both, warm and dark. The way Salvatore’s thumb had wiped the tears from beneath the blindfold.
His hug. His kisses. His warm breath. His voice.
Milo gulped, his heart pounding hard.
After a long struggle, he finally drifted off for maybe an hour before his alarm cut through the room.
He sat up fast.
6:00 AM.
The moment his weight shifted, a sharp sting shot through his lower body. Milo froze, his breath catching. His thighs and buttocks throbbed, a deep, burning ache, far worse than the night before.
He hadn’t noticed it then, too lost in everything Salvatore was giving him. But now, in the cold morning light, the soreness had set in, stiff and impossible to ignore.
He reached back cautiously, rubbing through his pajamas, trying to ease the pain.
He wasn’t a stranger to pain. Nero’s hands had left him with worse, real wounds, the kind that bled and took weeks to heal.
But this was different. He couldn’t just shut it off and push through. It followed him as he got dressed, every movement a small reminder.
Even his arms were stiff.
By the time he made it to the kitchen ten minutes later, it was obvious. He walked slowly, his knees stiff, and let out a soft grimace as he settled into the chair by the breakfast counter.
The guards were still out on the field exercising. He could hear their shouts through the windows, drills were in full swing.
He wanted to exercise with them. But soon Liam would come to pick him up.
Stella, wiping down the counter, noticed it immediately.
"What happened to your butt, Milo?" she asked, completely innocent. "You’re walking like an old man today."
Milo froze.
Michelle and two of the other kitchen girls glanced over, clearly not having noticed until Stella pointed it out, and very much noticing now.
"Ah... nothing!" His face went hot, color climbing up his neck. He straightened too fast and winced, fussing with his shirt. "I’m fine. Totally fine."
Michelle leaned against the counter, a slow grin spreading as she watched exactly how red he was getting.
The other girls burst into giggles behind their hands, exchanging glances across the counter. The whole kitchen suddenly felt warm and teasing, impossible to escape.
Before they could tease him further, Salvatore walked in, dressed in his black vest and a crisp white shirt, looking sharp and well-rested despite the night he’d clearly had.
His eyes swept the room and landed on Milo immediately, cutting clean through the noise.
"There you are," he said. "Come eat with me. Dining room."
The kitchen let out a collective, delighted "ohhh," grins widening as they watched the man personally summon him.
Milo’s mouth went dry. He was thrilled to see Salvatore, genuinely, but the embarrassment made him want to disappear under the counter.
He stood carefully, the sting flaring against his trousers.
"It’s not, it’s not what you think!" he blurted at Stella and Michelle, his face on fire, before hurrying after Salvatore down the corridor.
He could hear them laughing behind him.
Salvatore was already seated at the head of the long table when Milo walked in, a full spread of eggs, bread, and fruit laid out between them.
He said nothing at first, just watched with that unreadable expression as Milo approached the chair beside him, hand checking the seat before lowering himself down with careful, deliberate slowness.
Milo let out a tiny, involuntary breath the second his weight settled.
Salvatore leaned back in his chair and smiled. "I wasn’t even using my full strength."
His words flat, matter-of-fact.
Across the table, Roderick, sipping his coffee elegantly, stopped mid-sentence. His eyes darted from Milo’s cautious posture to Salvatore’s perfectly calm face, then back again, and the pieces fell into place with embarrassing ease.
He knew exactly what Salvatore liked. He’d seen Milo naked many times before. It didn’t take much to fill in the rest.
Milo gave a sheepish, slightly pained grin, his fingers fidgeting with his fork. "It’s still really sore, Sir. I didn’t feel it at all last night, but it’s definitely catching up with me now."
"You’ll get used to it," Salvatore said, reaching for his coffee. "Eat. Liam will come soon."
Roderick cleared his throat, loud and deliberate, the cups rattling slightly on their saucers. He looked around the dining room, suddenly very interested in his eggs, clearly regretting, that he hadn’t just taken his breakfast to his office like usual.
