“Thanks for your help,” Luke said, shaking Raffaele’s hand. “We really appreciate it.”
Raffaele just nodded and laid his hand on Nate’s nape. “Into the car,” he commanded, clearly wanting to exchange a few words with Demidov without him present.
Keeping his face blank, Nate waved awkwardly at Luke and strode toward the car. The bodyguards were putting their baggage into it. He muttered, “Good morning” and received a laconic “Buongiorno” in response. It was still more conversation than he’d gotten from Raf—Ferrara this morning. Ferrara. He had to go back to thinking of him as Ferrara. His boss. And nothing else.
He got into the car and watched Ferrara shake Demidov’s hand. Then Ferrara was heading to the car, his expression somewhat thoughtful. Nate dragged his gaze away and looked back at the couple. Luke waved, smiling at him and mouthing “Text me,” his curly head on Demidov’s shoulder. The Russian wrapped his arm around his lover’s waist and held him close.
Nate felt a pang of wistfulness. Or maybe envy. He wanted to find someone who would look at him the way Demidov looked at Luke—as if he were the most important thing in the world. He wondered if they’d get married. Probably.
Ferrara opened the door and got into the car, and Nate’s whole focus snapped back to him.
Pursing his lips, he pulled his phone out and fixed his gaze on it, as if every cell of his body wasn’t hyperaware of the man beside him.
“Milano,” Ferrara told the driver, without even glancing at him.
Nate sighed inwardly.
It was going to be a long flight.
***
Thirteen hours later, Nate finally crawled into his bed, nearly groaning from how amazing it felt. Even a first class seat was nowhere near as comfy as his own bed. The angry tension between him and his boss hadn’t exactly helped him relax, either.
“You’re finally back!” Maya said, plopping down on his bed next to him. “How was Italy?”
“I posted pics on my Instagram,” Nate grumbled.
“Just on the first day, and then nothing.”
Yeah, because I was too busy sucking my boss’s face and spreading my legs for him, Nate thought glumly.
“Okay, what happened? I know you. Spill.”
Nate sighed, but there was no point in trying to hide it. His sister knew him too well. “I had sex with him.”
The resulting silence was deafening.
“You did what?” Maya half-shouted, half-shrilled. “Like, buttsex?”
Nate buried his face deeper into his pillow, his skin burning with embarrassment. “Yes.”
“Did you like it?” Maya sounded curious. “Getting fucked? Was it weird?”
“Why do you assume I was the one who took it up the ass? Maybe I fucked him.”
Maya laughed. “Sorry, but from everything you told me about him, he sounds like such a top. Though maybe he’s versatile. Is he?”
“No,” Nate grumbled. He was annoyed that the idea of fucking Raffaele hadn’t even occurred to him—he just hadn’t wanted that, too addicted to getting fucked.
“He didn’t force you, right?” Maya said, her voice losing all humor.
Nate nearly laughed, wondering what she would say if she knew how eager Nate had been to get a dick into him. “He didn’t. I told you he’s not like that.”
“So did you like it?” she pressed.
He groaned, knowing that she wouldn’t leave him alone until he told her. “It was fine.”
“Fine? Come on, you can do better than that.”
“What do you want me to say?” Nate snapped, his pent-up frustration finally bursting out. “That I loved it? I loved it so much that we fucked all the time while we were there?”
Maya was quiet for a while.
Nate was glad he couldn’t see her face. Christ, this was so mortifying.
“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dumbass,” she said at last.
“Easy for you to say.”
“I don’t really see a problem,” she said. “So you like fucking guys. Big deal. I’m sure Mom and Dad won’t care if you tell them you’re bi.”
Nate opened his mouth and closed it, unable to say it. How could he tell his sister that he wasn’t even sure that he was bi? That he couldn’t imagine allowing some other guy to fuck him in the ass—being eager for it? The mere idea just seemed… strange. Wrong.
He tried not to think about what it meant.
“It doesn’t matter,” Nate muttered. “We decided that what happened in Italy stays in Italy.” Raffaele Ferrara was just his boss. Nate was his personal assistant. Nothing more. Nate would go back to running errands for him, while Raffaele would go back to fucking his booty calls.
His stomach tied up into a knot, and Nate bit the inside of his cheek, hard.
It was fine. Totally fine.
He could do it.
He wasn’t needy, thank you very much.
Chapter 22
There was something maddening about your boss standing there over you when you were trying to focus on your damn job.
Nate glared at the monitor in front him, putting all his focus on typing instead of the man who stood behind him, dictating—Nate actually had no idea what he was dictating. He typed the words, but they didn’t seem to make any sense, his body painfully aware of the other man. He even had to breathe shallower in order not to get a whiff of Ra—Ferrara’s scent.