Just a Bit Heartless (Straight Guys 13)

Nice. What an inadequate word for the strange feeling that curled in his chest every time the other man played with his hair. Damiano didn’t like the sensation. The warmth it caused. It was overwhelming. Disconcerting. It was disconcerting how quickly he’d grown used to it over the course of his illness, how much better it made him feel, distracting him from the agonizing pain.

But it was one thing to put up with such touch when his mind had been muddled with pain and fever; it was another to keep tolerating it once he recovered. To keep anticipating the touch. To start wanting it. It irritated Damiano to no end, the craving he’d developed for something so pathetic, but it wasn’t as though he could put some distance between them when they were in a tiny basement little bigger than a bathroom.

That’s bullshit, and you know it, a voice said at the back of his mind. If you really wanted to get rid of him, you could have killed him. Choked him in his sleep. Slit his throat with a fork. Stuck the fork in his femoral artery and watched him bleed out. Or dozens of other options. Instead, you’re cuddling him and letting him pet you like a cat.

Damiano scowled, rubbing his face against the other man’s throat. He felt his pulse against his mouth. He wanted to bite, sink his teeth there until he reached blood, until he could taste him and find out what he was made of.

There was a peculiarity to his thoughts and desires, a base quality that would be unsettling had Damiano already not been unsettled by the situation.

“What are you thinking about?” Nate said, carding his fingers through his hair.

“I was thinking about how easy it would be to kill you.”

The impossible man chuckled, as if Damiano had said something funny.

He had no idea. He had no idea who he was cuddling with.

“It’s a good thing I know that you aren’t going to kill me.”

How did he know that? Damiano knew no such thing. The more he grew accustomed to all this touchy-feely shit, the more twitchy he got. This was a potential weakness someone could exploit. If their kidnappers got any inkling about this, they might try to use it. Every moment he spent all over this man increased the likelihood of someone seeing them like this—and getting the wrong impression that he cared about him. The smart thing to do would have been to nip this shit in the bud, but after more than a week of this, he was loath to give it up.

That in itself was alarming. Obviously he knew the science behind pleasure derived from physical touch: it was all about dopamine, oxytocin and serotonin produced by the brain and giving the person a high. It was no different from drug addiction, and he despised addicts.

Maybe he should just kill the guy. It would be so easy to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze, watch the life go out from those blue eyes as he writhed under Damiano, gasping and begging him to stop.

“How is your back?” Strong but gentle hands raked his nape and stroked the tops of his shoulders, careful not to touch his back.

“Fine,” Damiano said shortly, his eyes closing from how good the touch felt.

A long-suffering sigh. “I know you’re fine. But do you feel better today than you did yesterday? Come on, give me something to work with.”

“Why do you care?” Damiano said, finally asking the question that had been on his mind for the past week since his whipping—and had become only more persistent since their conversation last night.

I don’t want you dead. I don’t want to be saved if that means you’re dead.

The words still kept ringing in his ears, infuriatingly distracting.

The hands stopped stroking him.

Damiano frowned in displeasure.

“I know this is weird,” the other man said, clearing his throat a little. “I know it probably isn’t real—just the circumstances, forced proximity, my phobia, and the stress—but… I care for you. I feel safe with you. I don’t want you to die or get hurt—ow, stop that!”

Damiano bit him on the neck again, just to shut him up.

Apparently words could cause a dopamine high, too. What an unpleasant discovery.

“Ahh, you’re hurting me.”

Good, Damiano thought, giving him another vicious bruise. He deserved to be hurt for saying inane shit like that. He wished the room weren’t so dark and he could see the bruises all over that pale neck.

“Damiano,” was a breathless whisper as fingers buried in his hair again. Not pushing him away. Pulling him closer.

And Damiano went, sucking new bruises into his skin.

Fuck, he couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

Chapter 14

The sounds of gunshots woke Jordan up.

His heart pounding, he sat up. “Damiano?”

“I’m here,” Damiano said from behind him.