"No one else here" he'd said "Has ever made you come before, have they"?
'I'm not going to answer that'. Finas had thought immediately. 'It will only encourage him'. He needn't reply anyway, Casimiro already knew.
Finas glared back at him sharply, immediately considering throwing the entirety of his weight backwards and sending the smug weasel careening from the burrow he had made between the mountainous slopes of his shoulders and off the bed, which happened to smell like cinnamon.
It was certainly tempting to wonder how far a naked Italian could fly, half way across the room or all the way to the window? Perhaps if he tried hard enough he could send him back to the pit from whence he'd come.
No, of course he would do no such thing. Whatever base urges the lech could manage to extract from him with his petty teasing, he would never incite Finas to behave in an unprofessional manner. That much was beyond mortal means and always had been.
"and how many times just for me, eh? It's got to be at least ten by now…every time I visit it seems like..""You very well know what it "seems like", you slimy git." Finas had spat back at him icily, before reluctantly submitting to a kiss. His reluctance seemed to mean nothing, he always submitted.
The dark palms worked in small tense circles over pale skin drawn snug over plates of hard muscle, lower, lower down the canyons of his sides and into the little dip of pliable white flesh between his thighs and midsection, causing muscular calves to tense in ways they should not have as his toes dug too hard into the cobalt damask spread under him.
It was legendarily difficult to find a spot on Finas's body, conditioned as a Roman soldier's by training and time that was soft and weak. However Casimiro had quickly sought out every sensitive location he could ferret out. Once, pinning Finas below him, he had exacerbated these 'spots' for over an our until finally he had forced an earth shattering climax out of the proud man without needing to ever actually touchhim. It was then that the tables had turned, and Finas had begun to hate him, or come very very close.
That incident had set the stage for the uneasy scenes they now played out together, both underpaid actors without any audience but their own eyes.
While those hands kneaded persistently at his spine and lower back, Finas's cock was kissed rhythmically against the buched up layer of silk with every press and slide of those finger pads, the sensitive flesh brushed the smooth material in a way that was utterly lovely. Finas kept grumbling irately inbetween long stretches when he couldn't formulate words about how he was ruining it, that they needed to move, that it was impossible to clean silk, but the bastard only kept laughing.
He didn't care about silk, his main concern was power. Finas could tell as much by the way his slender dark cock kept brushing, fully hard against the cleft of his buttocks, but doing no more than that. He only wanted it, if it was exactly his way and would settle for nothing else, and Finas matched him in terms of stubbornness.
Through it all he kept laughing.
No good man could laugh that much and Finas had no illusions about the sort he was. The fact that he heaped carnations at his feet did not change that, it only made it worse because it was more difficult to understand why. He was a heartless asshole and a sodomite to boot, someone who slummed and paid for sex. Why on Earth would he send flowers? Evil didn't usually send flowers, but it did always seem to take notes.
He had realized all too soon, for example, that the nape of Finas's neck, usually shielded by a barrier of tawny fuzz liked to be petted by his tongue, nuzzled and occasionally savagely pinched under teeth, he had also realized that if, without warning, he thrusted those sharp bony hips hard enough against the other man's body with a well timed under-handed grope he could get the larger man below him to flop and seize like a hooked fish.
He could then take the opportunity to flip him over and gently maul his chest, squeezing pectorals lewdly as though they were breasts, pry fingers into curls of brown hair and scratch at the square cut of his beard, bumping chins and noses, kissing and cajoling and getting in his face until finally Finas would finally release a frustrated groan and allow him to slip past his thighs, heels digging into his back, far too confused and overwhelmed to do anything else.
If he had just asked, Finas of course would have ages ago as he did for any other client, but the Italian always had to do it like this, just so. He always had to bug him until he was forced to relent and start the act without as much as a coherent word.
Finas knew him so well by now, he'd invaded his work, his thoughts and sometimes, most unsettlingly, his dreams. The Italian was all smiles and sinews and sun-soaked flesh that seemed to be perpetually warm no matter the time of day. He'd always paused to gloat then, flash those teeth at him, practically buzzing with energy sprung from some leak of psychosis within him, as he rested his
forehead against Finas's own, shielded by that stubborn section of hair, forcing the other man to stare into his eyes.
One was dead, white and vacant; the other was quickly becoming filled with the life he was drinking from his paid company, vulgar dark amber like beer glass.
"Dark blue" the Italian had said "Is really more your color. You own it"?"…""Well you ought to. Heh. You do now."He'd waited for Finas to draw back to hold it against his chest, out of politeness, what else would motivate him?" What do you think of it"?"…"
"It's handsome, isn't it"?He was staring at Finas expectantly, and the Englishman immediately understood something terrifying. He wasn't just asking whether or not Finas liked the silk he was asking in the most blatant way he could possibly manage.'Do you like this? Do you like me? Do you want me to keep coming to see you?'Finas had simply run his hands over the silk, bid the Italian 'Good evening' in so cold a manner that it couldn't have meant anything other than 'Get out. Please, go away. I need to think'.
Itwas handsome. He could not deny that, but he had not worn it. Just like all the carnations, now adding color to several landfills far off from the Blue House, he had utterly ignored it's presence, packed it away in a box only to take it out upon specific request, even then it had been with reluctance that he had draped it around himself. It fit close to the body but flowed comfortably at the shoulders and arms, like a garment made out of water.
He was not surprised. It had come from his best client. He had known he would like it, which was why he had, before now, never allowed himself to wear it.