Chapter 19 You're A Fucking Brat
The next two hours were a blur of fabric and tailoring chalk and being dressed and undressed more times than Cedric could count. Antonio and his assistant Marco brought out suit after suit, shirt after shirt, each one more expensive than the last. They pinned and adjusted and made notes while Cedric stood on the platform like a mannequin.
Falcone provided commentary on everything.
"Too loose in the shoulders."
"The inseam needs to be shorter."
"Try the navy instead of the black."
"That collar doesn't work with his neck."
It was controlling and presumptuous and should've made Cedric furious. Instead, he found himself... not hating it. There was something oddly intimate about the way falcone studied him, the way his eyes tracked every line and fold of fabric, the way he clearly had opinions about what Cedric should look like.
Like he'd thought about this. Planned for it.
"Try this one," Marco said, holding up a shirt in deep forest green.
Cedric pulled off the previous shirt~some Italian brand he couldn't pronounce~and reached for the green one. As he raised his arms to slip it on, he caught falcone's reflection in the mirror.
He was staring. Not at the clothes, but at Cedric's body. At the lean muscle and pale skin, at the scattering of freckles across his shoulders, at the faint bruises on his hips that were shaped exactly like fingerprints.
Falcone's fingerprints.
Their eyes met in the mirror, and the air in the fitting room changed. Thickened.
"That color," falcone said, his voice rougher than before. "Get it in multiple styles."
The green shirt did look good, Cedric had to admit. It brought out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes and made his hair look more golden than mousy blonde.
"We'll take six," falcone told Antonio without looking away from Cedric. "And the navy suit. The charcoal one. The black dinner jacket. All of the casual wear we discussed."
"Of course." If Antonio noticed the tension in the room, he was professional enough not to comment. "And shoes? We should visit Santini's next door…"
"Later." Falcone stood abruptly. "We'll come back for the fitting next week. Have everything ready by then."
"But we haven't finished the measurements for the formal…."
"Next week, Antonio." Falcone's hand was already on Cedric's elbow, guiding him off the platform. "Thank you for your time."
They were out of the shop and back in the car in less than two minutes, falcone giving clipped instructions to the driver that Cedric didn't catch. The privacy screen slid up, sealing them in the back seat.
"What was that about?" Cedric asked.
Falcone didn't answer. He just pulled Cedric across the seat and into his lap, one hand fisting in his hair, the other gripping his hip hard enough to bruise.
"You," Falcone said against his mouth, "are driving me fucking insane."
Then he kissed him, hard and desperate and completely at odds with the controlled man who'd been calmly ordering suits twenty seconds ago. Cedric kissed back without thinking, his body responding on pure instinct, grinding down against the obvious hardness pressing against his ass.
"Falcone…."
"Shut up." Falcone's teeth caught his lower lip, tugging. "Do you have any idea what it's like? Watching other men look at you? Touch you? Even professionally?"
"They were measuring me for clothes…."
"I don't care." Falcone's hand slid under Cedric's shirt, fingers splaying across his ribs possessively. "You're mine. Only I get to touch you like this. Only I get to see you like this."
It was unhinged. Jealous and possessive and completely irrational. Cedric should've pushed him away, should've told him he didn't own him.
Instead, he rolled his hips deliberately, grinding down harder. "Like what? Half-dressed in the back of your car?"
Falcone groaned, low and rough. "You're a fucking brat."
"You like it."
"I do." Falcone's hand tightened in his hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat. "I like everything about you. Even the parts that make me want to lock you in my bedroom and never let anyone else see you again."
"That's not healthy."
"I never claimed to be healthy." Falcone's mouth was on his neck now, teeth and tongue and deliberate pressure that would definitely leave marks. "I claimed to be obsessed. There's a difference."
The car turned a corner, and Cedric became suddenly aware that they were moving through the city in broad daylight, that there were people and other cars around them, that anyone could potentially see inside if they looked hard enough.
"Falcone, we're in public…."
"The windows are tinted." Falcone's hand was working at the button of Cedric's joggers. "No one can see."
"Your driver…."
"Is paid very well to mind his own business." The joggers were open now, falcone's hand slipping inside. "Stop overthinking and let me touch what's mine."
Cedric's head fell back against falcone's shoulder as those skilled fingers wrapped around him, stroking with just the right amount of pressure. "You're insane."
"You keep saying that like it's going to change something." Falcone's other hand guided Cedric's hips, creating friction, rhythm. "Like you're going to suddenly realize what you've gotten yourself into and run."
"Maybe I will."
"No." Falcone's teeth scraped his earlobe. "You won't. Because you love this. You love being wanted this much. You love that I can't keep my hands off you."
He wasn't wrong. That was the worst part. Cedric did love it, this consuming intensity, this feeling of being the center of someone's entire universe. Even if that someone was a monster.
Especially because that someone was a monster.
"Come for me," falcone commanded, his hand moving faster. "Right here, right now. Show me you're mine."
It was the command that did it. The absolute certainty in falcone's voice, the assumption of ownership, the way he said "mine" like it was the only truth that mattered.
Cedric came with a choked gasp, his whole body tensing and then releasing as pleasure crashed through him in waves. Falcone worked him through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks faded, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder that were at complete odds with the claiming roughness of thirty seconds ago.
"Good boy," falcone murmured. "My perfect, beautiful boy."
Cedric's brain was too scrambled to form a coherent response. He just slumped back against falcone's chest, boneless and satisfied and trying not to think too hard about how completely he'd just surrendered.
Falcone cleaned them both up with tissues from some hidden compartment, then rearranged their clothes with efficient care. By the time the car pulled up to the mansion, they looked perfectly presentable.
Like nothing had happened.
Like Cedric hadn't just been thoroughly debauched in the back seat.
"Go shower," falcone said as they entered the house. "I have calls to make. We'll have dinner at seven."
"Yes, sir," Cedric said, the words automatic.
Falcone's eyes darkened. "Don't call me that unless you want me to fuck you against the nearest wall."
"What if I do?"
"Then you'll have to wait." Falcone's smile was sharp. "Anticipation makes everything better."
He walked away toward his office, leaving Cedric standing in the foyer with a racing heart and the uncomfortable realization that he was falling for this.
For all of it.
For him.
Mrs. Kozlov appeared from somewhere, her expression as neutral as ever. "Mr. Santos. Will you be requiring anything?"
"Just..." Cedric ran a hand through his hair. "Just some time alone, I think."
"Of course." She inclined her head. "Dinner will be served at seven in the dining room. Mr. Falcone prefers you to dress for dinner."
"Dress how?"
"Business casual at minimum. The charcoal trousers and white button-down would be appropriate."