Just a Bit Heartless (Straight Guys 13)

Jordan was acutely aware that he was rapidly developing some kind of… unhealthy attachment, a dependency that he should have nipped in the bud, but there was nothing he could do about it. There was nothing else in this cellar but them. No phones, no Internet, no entertainment. Just them, entangled in each other 24/7. His days started and ended with Damiano. He was the first thing on his mind when he woke up and the last thing when he fell asleep. Lack of privacy and constant physical contact erased any boundaries between them, to an alarming degree.

Everything about this man was now comforting: his low voice, his wry humor, even his scent, which was fucked-up, because after days in this cellar, neither of them objectively smelled great. Apparently, the scent of a man’s sweat could seem nice and comforting in the right—or wrong—circumstances. To his embarrassment, Jordan found himself seeking out the scent of Damiano’s sweat. When Damiano was asleep, Jordan buried his face into Damiano’s underarm, feeling drunk on the spicy raw smell of him, the undiluted scent on his tongue.

Jordan didn’t know what Damiano thought about his clinginess—if he even shared it. Damiano wasn’t claustrophobic like him. He didn’t need Jordan to be his anchor. But he seemed content enough to be all over Jordan’s personal space, treating him like his personal pillow and allowing Jordan to play with his hair.

Jordan had no idea if Damiano remembered all the nonsense he’d told him while he had a fever—he hoped not—but it was undeniable that Damiano was significantly… mellower and handsier with him than he had been before the whipping. His reservations about cuddling certainly seemed nowhere to be seen, and he said nothing about Jordan’s new propensity for stroking his hair.

Whatever. Jordan decided to just roll with it.

During those long hours in the semi-darkness, they talked. Damiano told him a little about his childhood, mostly amusing anecdotes that weren’t too personal but hinted at the lonely childhood he’d had, because there were never any friends in them.

Jordan avoided talking about his childhood. Damiano still thought he was Nate, Raffaele’s boyfriend, and Jordan didn’t really feel like making up stories about Nate’s childhood. His own childhood stories wouldn’t really fit, because he grew up in a different environment from Nate.

He kind of wanted to tell Damiano his real name, but he was a man of his word—he had promised Raffaele to play the role, so he would. It wasn’t just about him, after all; it was a matter of Nate’s safety.

Not that he didn’t trust Damiano. The problem was, he currently trusted him too much, his hindbrain incapable of grasping that this man was anything but nice, wonderful, and safe.

He had to remind himself on an hourly basis that Damiano wasn’t actually this nice. In the real world that existed outside this tiny room, he was a cold-hearted, ruthless son-of-a-bitch.

So they mostly ended up talking about nonsense.

“You really don’t have a nickname?” Jordan said, threading his fingers through the hair on Damiano’s nape.

“Really.”

“Everyone has a nickname.”

“I don’t.”

“I can give you one,” Jordan said, smiling. “What about Dami?”

“If you want me to kill you, sure.”

“Hmm… Anno, Danno?”

“No.”

“Dino?”

Damiano snorted into his neck. “Like dinosaur?”

“All right, that wasn’t one of my brighter ideas. What about Dom?”

“How is Dom a nickname for Damiano? You English are so weird with your nicknames.”

“I’m American.”

“There’s a difference?”

“There was a war over it and everything. Look it up sometime.”

Damiano hummed.

After a moment’s silence, he said, “What do you call Raffaele?”

Jordan’s mind went blank. The urge to tell him the truth was so strong this time that he had to literally bite his tongue.

“Rafe,” he said after a moment, his stomach clenching with guilt. The fact that he felt guilt at all was ridiculous and spoke of how disturbingly strong this attachment had become. He’d met the guy a week ago, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t feel like he was betraying his bosom friend by not telling him the truth.

“Sounds stupid,” Damiano said, his teeth worrying Jordan’s neck.

Jordan squirmed, shivering. “What are you doing?”

“I’m hungry.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re a cannibal on top of being a sociopath.”

“All right. I won’t.” Damiano bit him on the neck.

Jordan laughed, because obviously it was a joke. Right?

“Stop that,” Jordan said. There! He was setting some boundaries!

Damiano only bit harder, making hot pain shoot through Jordan’s neck.

“I feel like your chew toy,” he complained, raking his fingers through Damiano’s hair, but he didn’t push him away. “But yeah, I’m hungry, too.”

He’d never felt hunger like this in his life. The first few days the meager food they were given didn’t bother him all that much, but with each passing day, the gnawing pit in his stomach only increased. His stomach was cramping with hunger pains and his mouth now watered at the thought of food. He was a pretty tall, physically fit guy. His body normally needed a lot of food. Damiano was bigger than him. Coupled with the fact that he was still recovering from brutal physical torture and a subsequent fever, his body probably needed more fuel than normal.