The captive had not slept well. With every attempt to close his eyes, he recalled that bitter kiss—a mark burned upon his lips. He could still sense the presence of a man who acted as if he already owned him.
When the lock snapped, the captive's chest tightened with emotions he would not admit.
The boss said nothing this time. He swept in like a typhoon—jacket off, tie loosened, eyes blazing with a wild greed. A cigarette dangled from his fingers, smoke drifting slowly, and his other hand outstretched, already claimed.
"Tomorrow," he growled, his voice husky and controlled, "is here."
The captive struck back, "Go to hell.".
His words were cut off when the boss clamped his jaw shut, fingers biting cruelly into the flesh and forcing his head back. Their eyes met—one angry, the other lecherous.
"I said," the mafia king whispered, standing so close that their lips almost touched with every syllable,
"imagination time is finished."
He kissed him again, but this time without hesitation. It was a taking, a rough bruising of lips and teeth that swallowed the prisoner's protest and allowed him to taste the smokiness in his mouth.
The captive fought the ropes, his scorched wrists. He tried to turn away his face, but the boss's grip was steel, pulling them closer with each yank. His quick mind had no chance to strike back, buried beneath a hunger that felt no mercy.
When the boss finally let him go, the captive's lips were swollen, his breathing harsh. A sly, satisfied smile spread onto the boss's face.
Beautiful," he whispered, stroking his thumb over the marks he'd made. "I could almost think you want me already."
The prisoner spat, his voice rough. "You're crazy.
The boss's laugh was dark, tinged with cruel amusement. "Delusion does not make men tremble like this." His hand fell, resting flat on the hostage's chest, feeling the wild pulsing of his heart. He pressed down on him more heavily, as if ropes were not enough.
Every touch was intentional, meant to linger, to burn, to invade. Fingers slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, pulling fabric aside and exposing skin to the cold air. His palm pressed against the collarbone, then traced lower, slow and unyielding.
The captive shuddered. "Don't—"
"Don't?" The boss leaned in, his lips brushing the captive's ear. "That's the first word you've said that tastes like begging."
He smiled as the captive fought the ropes, every inch of him tensed. One hand held him down, the other crawling on, going lower and rougher until strugglings turned to gasps gagged behind clenched teeth.
Each sound was a victory. Each convulsive twitch of muscle, each gasp of breath fed the boss's obsession.
"You'll learn something important tonight," he whispered, invading deeper, slower, crueler. "Your body is mine before your will ever breaks. And when your mouth finally admits it, it will be the sweetest confession of all."
The captive bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a moan. But his body betrayed him, responding to touches he swore he didn't want.
The boss's lips found their way to his throat, taking with teeth and tongue, dragging heat along skin until the captive's head fell back in his chair. Each kiss was greater than need—it was possession carved into flesh.
When the boss finally pulled away, the captive was shaking, his puffy lips, his partly open shirt, his chest working like a man who would drown.
The mafia king exhaled smoke into the air, watching it curl above the captive's ruined posture. His smile was slow, satisfied, predatory.
"Tonight was only a taste," he said softly, tucking his cigarette between his lips. "Tomorrow, I'll take until there's nothing left to imagine."
The lock clicked shut.
In the silence, the prisoner shivered seated, hated the man, hated his own body more—and hated most of all that already he feared and yearned for what would be done to him tomorrow.