Black & White

Gone from lying on the bed to kneeling, Roman opened his mouth obediently, eyes trained on Saint's.

Saint waited a moment, one hand in Roman's silk like hair the other on his own cock. And then he ruthlessly shoved his dick down Roman's throat without much of a warning. He only pulled out to let him catch his breath when he felt like it and pushing it in as hard and fast as he liked.

"Touch yourself while you suck me," he breathlessly told Roman. "And do not make a mistake of making yourself come."

It wasn't like him to follow orders but Roman did as he was told, again. He was so wound up. Scared the slightest thing was going to trigger him into finding his release and for some odd reason he really wanted to please Saint. Even if it meant denying himself pleasure.

"You look beautiful like this," Saint admired the sight of Roman on his knees, thick cock glistening with streaks of precum collecting at the swollen fat tip as if he were van Gogh admiring his half-finished masterpiece. "So desperate. Needy..."

"You've made your point, okay? I get it." Roman spoke around Saint's cock, the vibrations of his mouth must've felt so good making Saint curse violently. "You're pissed. Now finish me."

"That's not how this works," Saint looked at him again. Not just looking. Devouring him with his eyes and taking full ownership of every nook and cranny of his body.

Roman exhaled. "What do you want from me, Saint?"

"Roman," the ice in Saint's voice thawed a bit when he said his name. "You know what I want."

The back of Saint's knuckles grazed against the length of Roman's erection, slowly—so slowly Roman thought he might just incinerate into rubbles, the cool metal of Saint's family ring sent jolting shivers chasing down his back. Each brush of his fingers over Roman's flesh made him want to curl into a small ball. To scream. It was torture.

"I want to touch you and taste you and tell you how beautiful you are." Finally, Saint began to stroke him. And Roman forgot to breathe. "I want to make you feel good."

Roman's fingers clawed into the sheets, frustration curling in his gut. Saint's touch clearly had been carefully calculated, deliberate. He made sure to drive him closer and closer to the edge of pleasure—only for him to pull back at the very last second. Denying him another orgasm. Over and over. Roman felt like a spring pulled taut, trembling, full of tension and ready to snap.

When Saint withdrew his hand entirely from his erection, leaving him aching and completely empty, Roman's mismatched eyes snapped to his. "You could've just let me finish, Saint," he barely recognized his own voice. Throttled and full of gravel.

Saint arched a brow, he was unbothered by Roman's death glare. "If you were mine, I'd let you finish," he turned, heading toward an en suite bathroom. "I'm not the one being difficult here."

He proceeded to peel off his polo shirt as he walked, revealing lean, corded muscles of his back, the elegant dip of his spine. Roman's lips parted as he stared after him, every nerve in his body demanding he reach for Saint and drag him back in bed.

The rhythmic patter of a shower starting a few feet away was almost hypnotic. Roman lay there for a moment in shock, his body still coiled with need. His frustration had now reached to a tipping point and he pushed himself off the bed.

Screw this. He was going to end Saint's little game right the fuck now.

When he stepped into the bathroom, the air was thick with steam, the glass walls of the shower fogged up, but that didn't obscure the pleasant view of Saint's naked silhouette.

Roman's mouth went dry as he watched Saint, his head tilted back, water streaming down his sculpted form, tracing every inch of him like it was worshipping him.

God he's gorgeous. And evil.

Roman slipped into the shower without a word. Saint didn't look at him, a faint smirk played on his lips, as though he'd known all along Roman wouldn't stay away for long.

Their bodies almost brushing, Roman's hands found Saint's waist. "Please tell me you've got lube somewhere in here," he murmured, voice coming out muffled in Saint's neck.

Reaching for a clear bottle meticulously hidden on a shelf filled with different types of skincare products, Saint popped the cap before passing it to Roman who then took advantage, sliding a wide palm over an ass cheek and squeezed. Roman earned a deep sexy growl from the man in front of him that went straight to the epicenter of his core.

Soft lips brushing Saint's ear, Roman murmured, "I'm yours, baby. Is that all you needed to hear?" He squeezed more of that ass and it was only primal for him to enjoy the way Saint's ass felt in his hand. "Is that what it takes for you to let me fuck you?"

"This is not a joke to me, Roman." Saint answered gruffly. "Don't just say it for the sake of saying it."

"Sorry,"

Roman's hand slid lower, his fingers teasing the sensitive skin between Saint's thighs before moving boldly to the darkest, most intimate part of him. The pad of his lubricated forefinger circled there, teasing, applying just enough pressure to make Saint shudder visibly under the cascading rivulets.

The second Roman's hand found his angry cockhead, Saint tilted forward letting out a groan of helpless pleasure. He braced one hand against the slate ceramic tiles, the other clenching into a fist at his side.

"Why does it matter so much to you?" Roman's finger pressed slightly harder against the fluttering flesh of Saint's hole, his other hand sliding up the man's torso to rest on his chest.

Saint turned his head, whiskey-green eyes meeting Roman's through the steam. For a moment, Roman thought he'd pushed too far. But then Saint's stance shifted, his legs spreading slightly, offering him more room.

A rush of burning lust and adrenaline licked through Roman's blood at how willing Saint's body was. Christ. The things he could do to him.

"You still haven't told me why you need to hear it so bad," Roman murmured, his soft lips brushing against Saint's damp skin.

"Because if you're not mine I don't have the right to touch you the way I want to. To ruin you the way I want. I don't have the right to keep you... or destroy anyone who dares to look at you the way Cavallini did."

Roman stared at the back of Saint's head dumbfounded. He hated how much he wanted to say and mean the words Saint needed to hear if only to remove that fractured look from his face.

But Roman was stubborn. And scared.

Not even Max, the man he was going to marry and spent the rest of his life with had all of him. Some of the ugliest parts of his life he kept to himself. Roman was terrified of what it would mean to give himself completely to someone like Santino Bertinelli.

"I don't need you to keep me safe," Roman muttered, his lubed up forefinger finally breaching him. So tight. "I know how to survive."

"Surviving isn't living Roman," Saint's sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through Roman as he watched the man tremble beneath his touch. "You deserve more than that."

Roman's laugh was bitter. "And what do you think you're offering me, Saint?" his finger started to move in and out of him. Slowly. "Stability? Safety? Love? You think you're some kind of savior who's going to save the pathetic gambler who can't keep his ass out of trouble?"

"Dio Santo," A deep guttural moan left Saint's mouth the second Roman's deft finger curled, pressing against a bundle of sensitive nerve endings clustered inside that lit his whole body aflame. "I'm not a savior. I'm selfish and controlling, and I have more blood on my hands than you can imagine. That doesn't change the fact that I want you to myself."

"Until I take something valuable from you and pawn it for my next lottery ticket."

"I told you this before, your gambling addiction is a disease," Saint reveled in the way the finger inside of him moved, the hot, wet contact almost shocking in it's intensity. "And like any other disease, it can be cured. That shouldn't define who you are as a person."

Roman kissed the back of Saint's neck, his lips lingering on the warm, wet skin. "You say that now. But what happens when I screw up? I usually do."

"You're forgetting I'm not the most perfect man out there. I'm probably going to do something far much worse than you could ever do."

"You don't know that."

With a strained voice, as though he were trying to maintain his composure and failing. Saint groaned as Roman added another slick digit. Then another. He definitely could come just like this.

"Why does everything have to be so black and white with you?"

"It's easier that way," Roman admitted as he paused with the fingering though he kept all three digits fully buried inside. "If I can make sense of it, I can control it."

"Keep going," Saint commanded and there was a slight tremor in his voice that made Roman's blood sing.

He wanted more. Wanted to see Saint fall apart, to know he was the one who'd brought one of the most powerful, dangerous man to his knees.

"With pleasure."

***

The golden light of early evening bathed Rome as Roman and Saint strolled through its winding streets. A blend of ancient history and modern vibrancy buzzed with life on every corner. Street musicians played soft serenades in piazzas as the aroma of roasted chestnuts and fresh espresso from vendors wafted along with the warm scent of weathered stone.

Roman's hand occasionally brushed Saint's as they navigated the narrow streets and each time it happened, he thought how easy it would be to just reach out, grab Saint's hand and lace their fingers together.

It would be so natural here, in this city of lovers and poets. But he didn't. He wasn't sure why. Somehow it was way simpler having his fingers fuck an earth shattering orgasm out of Saint but holding the man's hand in public was too complicated.

Saint had planned their route well. They wandered through Piazza Navona, the fountains shimmered like molten lava underneath the amber streetlights. A street artist sketching portraits then caught Roman's attention.

"Do you want one?" Saint asked, noticing his date's piqued interest.

Roman blinked. "A sketch? No, I don't think so."

Saint's lips curved into a smirk. "You'd make a gorgeous subject."

Roman rolled his eyes, though his cheeks warmed slightly. "It doesn't matter, I can't afford it."

Saint ignored Roman's follow up protests and approached the artist, pulling out a few crisp euros from his wallet. The street artist's face instantly lit up at the sight of cash. It was way more than he'd usually charge for a portrait.

"Un ritratto, per favore," Saint gestured toward Roman.

The artist nodded and arranged his easel, glancing between Roman and Saint. "Va bene. Sit down, signore." he motioned to the stool.

Roman gave Saint a sidelong glance. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," Saint's hands were tucked into his tailored pants pockets as he stood off to the side. "Sit still. Try not to ruin my investment."

Roman scoffed but settled onto the stool nonetheless, his posture stiff at first. The artist's pencil strokes worked quickly, Roman could feel Saint's gaze on him the entire time, and it made his skin heat in a way he wished he could ignore. It wasn't helping his case that he hadn't gotten his relief earlier.

Then, without breaking his rhythm, the artist looked up at Saint and said something in rapid Italian. Saint's brows arched before he chuckled.

"What did he say?" Roman asked.

Saint took his time answering. "He says we make a beautiful couple."

"Oh."

"And," Saint continued, his smirk growing, "he wants to know why I'm not joining my beau in the portrait."

Roman looked away as though the cobblestones suddenly fascinated him. "Well, what's the problem then?"

"This is about you. Not me."

A small, almost shy smile painted Roman's lips. "What if I want you in the portrait?"

Saint studied him for a long minute, something unspoken passing between them, before he sighed with exaggerated drama. "In that case..." he stepped forward.

"Perfetto," the artist clapped, positioning Saint right behind Roman. "Now hold still."

The artist worked quickly and when he finally stepped back, he beamed. "Ecco qua! Bellissimo."

Roman stood and moved to Saint's side as the artist presented the finished portrait. It was stunning. The sketch seemed to have captured a crackling connection neither of them could deny.

"Wow," Roman murmured.

Saint scrutinized the portrait. "It's better than what I expected."

The artist grinned, pointing to a nearby display. "I sell frames too. A portrait like this deserves to be protected."

"We'll take one," Saint agreed. "Black."

They eventually moved on, weaving their way toward a quieter street. When Saint stopped in front of a restaurant Roman paused beside him, taking in the elegant façade.

"This is the place?" his brows lifted.

Saint simply nodded and held the door open for him.

Inside, the restaurant had nothing short of luxury. Marble floors gleamed under the soft light of crystal chandeliers, and the tables were set with pristine white linens and polished silverware that seemed almost too delicate to touch. Roman froze just inside the doorway, his gaze sweeping over the space.

"It's empty," he said, stating the obvious.

"Go ahead," Saint prompted, gesturing for him to step further inside.

Roman frowned. "Uh, Saint? Either this place serves really shitty food, or it's so ridiculously expensive that even the locals can't justify it."

Saint huffed out a quiet laugh. "I promise the food is fairly priced," he led Roman to a table near the center of the room. "The most expensive item on the menu is wine. They only serve what comes from our vineyard because they attract a lot of food and wine critics."

Roman slid into his seat and glanced around again. "Okay, fine. But that doesn't explain why its empty."

"Because I wanted it to be empty."

"A private dinner?" Roman felt his stomach twist. "That must be really expensive, Saint."

Saint's lips curved. "Relax. I'm not spending a dime in here. This place belongs to Alessandro," he poured a glass of wine for Roman. "He insisted. It's his way of kissing my ass for setting up cameras in my apartment."

Roman frowned slightly, unsure of how to respond. "That's... sweet of him, I guess." he looked around the restaurant. "It really is something."

"It is," Saint agreed. "And for the record, this place has been awarded Best Restaurant in Europe multiple times."

Roman couldn't help the smile that followed. Seconds later, a door at the back swung open revealing a lanky man clad in a crisp white chef's coat.

"Don Bertinelli," the chef had a grin on his face as he strode over to them. "Benvenuto."

"Alfredo," Saint said, gesturing toward Roman. "This is Roman."

Alfredo's grin broadened. "Ah, Signore Roman! Tonight, you're my inspiration. Let us make something unforgettable!"

Roman let out a startled laugh. "I... sure. Okay."

Moments later, Alfredo wheeled a cart to their table, the center of it was a skillet already on flames. Literally. Roman watched as the chef began to toss ingredients with theatrical precision. Blue flames erupted with each movement and the aroma of garlic, butter, and fresh herbs filled the room.

Roman leaned slightly toward Saint. "Is it always this... dramatic?"

Saint tilted his head, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Only when he feels like showing off."

When their plates were finally set before them, Roman took a single bite and let out a small, involuntary moan. "Okay, this might actually be the best meat I've ever put in my mouth."

Saint smirked over the rim of his wineglass. "Are you sure?"

"Saint!"

"I don't think you are giving my meat enough credit, sweetheart," Saint hummed on a thought. "You seemed to enjoy it so much just a few hours ago."

"Do not speak about meat ever again." Roman appeared scandalized. It didn't help that the chef caught on the dirty joke and burst into laughter.

"I will leave you two to your dinner." The chef finally announced before returning to the back.

Roman took another bite before glancing up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Never have I ever had a guy take me out on a private dinner just to impress me."

"Is that... a question?"

Roman laughed. "You don't know the game? Oh, my God! That's how I know you didn't go to college."

"Explain it to me."

"It's simple," Roman said. "You say something you've never done, and if the other person has done it, they take a drink. It's a college classic."

"Well, you're wrong. I did go to University, actually." Saint casually set his glass down. "I've got a masters degree in business with the Imperial College London."

Roman blinked. "Wait, what? Why? You already have everything."

"Managing generational wealth isn't the same as building something of your own. I wanted that. And it was a good excuse to get away from Ciro for a while."

Absorbing that, Roman nodded slowly. "Fair enough. So were you homeschooled for high school?"

"Thank God, no. I went to a rich assholes boarding school in Switzerland."

"Of course you did," Roman uttered with a laugh.

Their conversation flowed effortlessly after that, flowing from topic to topic as the courses came and went. By the time dessert arrived, Roman felt strangely comfortable with Saint's presence in a way he hadn't expected.

When Saint suggested they head back to his apartment for the night, Roman thought it wasn't the worst idea. In the center of the room was a baby grand piano, its glossy black surface reflecting the dim lighting of Saint's apartment.

Roman's fingers wandered over the keys. "You play?"

Removing his suit jacket, Saint shook his head, "No. It belongs to my mother."

Curiosity flickered in Roman's mismatched eyes, "Where is she now?"

"In South Africa," Saint shrugged. "She lives in Cape Town with her husband and two children. She didn't want anything to do with this life."

"Even... you?" Roman asked softly.

Saint didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crossed to the wine rack, selecting a bottle. As he poured them both a glass, his fingers brushed Roman's lightly as he handed one over.

"Shit," Roman quickly added. "I'm overstepping."

"She wanted to take me with her," Saint's voice was quiet. "Ciro wouldn't let her. Said his son wasn't going to be raised by another man while he was still alive."

Roman frowned. "From what I've gathered about your father, I'm surprised he let her go at all."

"It was as violent as it could get," Saint said, his tone clipped. "You know Ciro, the old bastard didn't have much of a conscience. She almost lost her life trying to get away from him."

Roman didn't press further. Instead, he raised his glass, their fingers brushing again. "To surviving," he murmured.

Saint's lips curved slightly. "To surviving."