A quiet groan finally left Damiano’s lips as he thrust hard and came deep in his throat.
Jordan coughed but swallowed greedily, the craving in him finally satisfied. He was full of Damiano’s come. He had given him pleasure.
Except when he lifted his half-drunk gaze back to him, Damiano didn’t look like a man who had just been thoroughly pleasured. His face was stony and he was looking at Jordan like he was a moment away from pulling out his gun and shooting him.
Jordan blinked, unconcerned, and let the cock slip out of his mouth. “Damiano?” he said, leaning his cheek against Damiano’s muscular thigh and breathing. His voice sounded absolutely wrecked. He didn’t mind.
Damiano stared at him for a long moment.
“Get back in the bed,” he said at last, fixing his gaze on the opposite wall. “It’s still early.”
Jordan did as he was told, stretching out on his back. He was hard, but there was no real urgency. It hadn’t been about sex. It had been pure need, the craving to have this man inside him, and it had been satisfied. But now he wanted cuddles.
He got what he wanted: Damiano yanked his boxer-briefs up and lay down on top of him. He buried his face in Jordan’s neck again and breathed, his breaths too deep to be natural.
Jordan closed his eyes, threading his fingers through Damiano’s hair, and fell asleep.
Chapter 17
A sudden jolt woke Jordan up.
For a moment, he felt disoriented, but then his sleepy gaze focused on the man standing by the bed, looking at them.
Raffaele Ferrara.
Flushing, Jordan scrambled into a sitting position. He looked sideways at Damiano, who was already seated, leaning back against the pillows in a manner that would have seemed lazy if it weren’t for the hard glint in his eyes.
Oh, and the fact that there was a gun in his hand.
He wasn’t aiming it at Ferrara, thank fuck, but it wasn’t very reassuring, considering what a fast shot he was. Jordan had no idea where Damiano had even gotten the gun from so fast. Did he sleep with a gun under his pillow?
The thought made his stomach clench. It seemed he was really lucky that Damiano’s subconscious had gotten used to him so much that his body didn’t react when Jordan climbed into the bed.
“Get out,” Damiano said, looking at Raffaele coldly. “You know how much I hate to have my sleep interrupted.”
Ferrara’s lips thinned. If the gun unnerved him, he didn’t show it. “You have some nerve. I won’t leave without him.”
Damiano smiled, his gray eyes glinting with something ugly. “Are you saying you’re jealous? Don’t be a hypocrite, Raffaele. Should I tell your boyfriend about the fuck-toy you have on the side?”
Fuck.
Jordan exchanged a look with his boss, and quickly made a decision. There was no point in lying anymore. Ferrara might not believe him, but Jordan knew it wasn’t Damiano who had been trying to kill him. There was no reason not to tell him the truth.
“All right, that’s enough,” he said, pulling the gun out of Damiano’s hand. “Give me that.”
Damiano shot him a sour look but let him take the gun. Ferrara stared at them like they both had grown seconds heads overnight. In any other circumstances, Jordan would have laughed. He’d never seen his unflappable boss look so confused.
“First of all, he isn’t my boyfriend,” Jordan said. “He’s my boss. He paid me to take his boyfriend’s place on this trip, because he was concerned for Nate’s safety and we look similar enough.” He held Damiano’s gaze steadily. “My real name is Jordan. Jordan Gates. I couldn’t tell you the truth until we knew for sure that you weren’t behind the assassination attempts on Raffaele and Nate.”
“We still know no such thing,” Ferrara said with a sigh, but Jordan ignored him, his eyes only on Damiano.
There was a very strange expression on Damiano’s face, but he couldn’t quite read it. Jordan couldn’t tell what he was feeling—if he was feeling anything at all.
At last, Damiano shifted his gaze from Jordan to Ferrara. “Did you really think it was me?” he said, his lips twisting in derision. “I had a higher opinion of your intelligence. If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead. Killing you is pointless for me. The only people that would benefit from your death are your blood relatives, who can actually inherit your property. I’m pretty sure it was Gustavo—he’s the one who needed money the most—so you’re welcome.”
“You killed him?” Ferrara said, frowning.
Damiano blinked and glanced at Jordan.
His ears uncomfortably warm, Jordan shook his head slightly.
A muscle jumped in Damiano’s jaw, something almost like confusion appearing in his eyes, but his face was blank when he looked back at Ferrara. “I can neither confirm nor deny it. I can only say that he won’t bother anyone anymore.” He gave his stepbrother a cold look. “Though, it’s possible that the culprit is Paolo or Andrea. I hope you weren’t harboring the delusion that they liked you. As soon as Marco died and couldn’t protect you anymore, you were always going to be an easy source for inheritance. If I were you, I’d write a will and tell your dearest cousins that if you die, you’re leaving everything to charity.”