Dark Soul Vol. 1 Read Online Free PDF Page A

if it turned him on, he was hiding it much better than Silvio. “Your gun.” Stefano flicked the butterfly knife shut and put it down on the table. Silvio’s gun, too.
    Vince pulled his pistol, a chrome-plated Desert Eagle.
    Laughter, raw and thirsty. Silvio was actually laughing. “You compensating for something, Vince?”
    “Shut up, bitch,” Vince hissed.
    Stefano gripped the heavy pistol tight. He much preferred a smaller gun, like Silvio’s 9 mm. At least that one he could point for a while and fire a few times without wrists of steel.
    He stepped behind Silvio and popped the magazine and the chambered bullet from the Desert Eagle. Much more manageable now. His eyes drifted from the gun to Silvio’s ass. Athletic and small, genderless, the sort of thing most men only ever saw in wet dreams. The kind he could practically grip in one hand. Like a woman’s.
    He placed the cold steel barrel against the small of Silvio’s back, and the man curved his spine—moving his back away, but pushing his ass out.
    Stefano trailed the gun lower, changed the angle and pushed the barrel lengthwise into Silvio’s ass crack. A full-body shiver raced through Silvio and didn’t stop.
    Stefano couldn’t tear his eyes from the contrast of skin and metal, the skin glowing with sweat, the chrome of the gun a colder, more brilliant shine. Both shaped to perfection. He traced the line of Silvio’s ass, angled the gun so the muzzle was pushing against his hole.
    “God,” Silvio breathed. Sweat was beading between his shoulder blades, a single drop running down the curve of his spine.
    Stefano pushed the muzzle harder against his opening, reveling in Silvio’s sudden brittleness. The man’s hands—red and bluish and swollen—were clenched tight around the rope.
    Impressive, that play of muscle under Silvio’s skin. He nudged the gun deeper, harder, felt it almost breach him, but then Silvio took a half step forward, shaking his head as if dazed, leaning into the restraints. Stefano stepped closer, pulled Silvio back with an arm around that narrow waist. The smell of Silvio’s sweat went straight to his cock, fresh and healthy.
    And male .
    “ No, io . . . non posso .” Soft, pleading, yet terribly affectionate. Was Silvio even aware anymore of who was doing this to him? He looked gone, eyes closed, elsewhere again.
    “You can’t what?” Stefano kept his voice low, no longer wishing to tear Silvio away from wherever he was. Maybe to Vince it sounded like teasing, like cruelty, but Silvio’s yielding was a heady drug, and Stefano couldn’t bring himself to shatter the delusion this time.
    “It’s . . . it’s too big. Battista, ti prego .”
    So Falchi had taught Spadaro more than shooting and killing. Stefano shivered down to his toes at the thought of them together. Silvio begging like he was now. The cultured mid-fifties Mafioso and the harsh young killer locked in desire. Il barracuda e il gentiluomo .
    He could picture it too well. Could even imagine Silvio breaking.
    Silvio. When had he stopped thinking of him as Spadaro? That way lay madness. He couldn’t allow himself to do this, couldn’t allow himself to feel this.
    Part of him wanted to break the hold Silvio had over him by making him bleed, forcing the gun into his body and raping him with it. Forcing him to snap out of whatever state he was in, making him choke on his own tears and misery—making him beg with his name on those pretty lips. But holding Silvio close like this, every breath, every shudder of that lean body echoed in his own, close enough to smell and almost taste, to feel Silvio’s body heat radiating into his own bones.
    He caught Vince’s gaze: narrowed eyes, head pulled between his shoulders like he was expecting something very unpleasant to happen.
    “Get me oil,” Stefano ordered.
    Vince, looking grateful for the diversion, rushed off into the connecting room. Just a few precious moments alone, and Stefano allowed himself to grind