Dark Soul Vol. 1 Read Online Free PDF

against Silvio, push his erection against the man’s glutes. He wanted to be inside him, feel him tighten and push back like Donata did when he fucked her from behind. No, not like her at all. No love or tenderness in any of this.
    He allowed himself to touch Silvio’s cock, the silky skin sliding over a much harder core. Just once. He hadn’t thought he could do that. It should have felt enormous, wrong. But it seemed natural, and even more astonishing, Silvio was still hard.
    He splayed his fingers on Silvio’s sweaty skin, feeling the man’s heart thunder beneath his palm, the harsh breaths. They slowed in the stillness, evened out, until Silvio seemed almost serene in his arm. Trusting?
    But he doesn’t trust me . He trusts Falchi.
    Vince returned. “Stefano . . . are you sure?” he asked, even as he handed over a tube of gun oil.
    “Can’t watch it?” Stefano challenged.
    Big mistake. He might have been able to get Vince out of the room otherwise.
    “Yeah, but that’s my weapon—” that you’re about to stick up a faggot’s ass, Vince’s expression clearly said.
    “I’ll buy you a new one,” Stefano snapped, pulling the gun back and placing it on the table. “Faggot gets what he deserves for attacking you. For sneaking into my room like that. Bitch was about to kill you, and likely me.”
    “Yeah.” Vince still looked dubious, but those doubts likely concerned his weapon.
    “I wasn’t,” Silvio whispered, so softly Stefano barely heard. He sounded drowsy, lost in a dream.
    Which suited Stefano just fine. He opened the squeeze-tube of oil and placed it upon the swell of Silvio’s ass, dribbled the liquid into his crack. Vince couldn’t possibly see what he was doing, standing on the other side as he was, Silvio’s body between them. Unlike him, Vince wasn’t willing to get close enough to touch.
    Stefano traced two fingers into Silvio’s crack and breached the muscle there. Silvio started in his arm again, jerking so hard in the restraints it had to hurt. The muscle yielded, though, and Stefano pushed more oil inside. He watched his fingers as he pulled out again, and the tight flesh around them . . . Jesus, what the fuck had happened to the man? There were scars unlike anything he’d ever seen. Certainly not with Donata.
    “Somebody tore you,” he whispered near Silvio’s ear.
    Another violent shudder, almost as if Silvio were making a bid to escape. But the fight never really materialized. He looked down at the scars again, wondering if Silvio had yielded without a fight then, too. What terrible violence that must have been, likely with a sharp object and the desire to inflict as much damage and pain as possible. But he found the scars touching somehow, like Silvio’s old bullet wound. Testament to how vulnerable—even mortal—the sicario was.
    Stefano picked up the Desert Eagle and pushed the muzzle against Silvio’s opening. Reasonably sure there would be no tearing. Somebody had torn Silvio, made him suffer, and while part of him was appalled by that, another part of him admired the fact that Silvio not only suffered as sensuously as he did, but also that he’d won out. Survived. So much softness and strength in one human being seemed amazing and precious.
    Silvio made a choked sound as he struggled to take it. And if this wasn’t the stuff of fantasies until he was gray and senile . . . Just watching that enormous sleek chrome barrel pushing inside the man almost made him come. Mind-blowing to feel the body yield, to feel Silvio very gradually accept what Stefano was forcing inside him, even as gun screamed danger and horror, overloading him with a desire he’d held in check most of his life.
    Silvio took it, arching against Stefano’s grip as if to have more and escape at the same time, making small sounds of wordless pleading and discomfort. God, Stefano wanted to fuck him, take him, feel that surrender through his own flesh and blood.
    But this would do. He pushed the