Angel Dust

Similarly to when they were in his car, Valentino looks at Anthony lingering in his bedroom doorway with that teasing little smirk on his lips, and his mind wanders.

He pictures Anthony standing at the foot of his bed, chin lifted slightly so he's looking up at Valentino. His eyes are so fucking pretty, his mouth soft and tempting. He imagines Anthony laid out on his bedsheets, his skin milky white where Val's peeled him out of his clothes, dotted with light freckles nearly everywhere, his back arched. He imagines bruises at his throat like a necklace, sucked into delicate skin, and fingernails digging sharply into his back, stinging and hot.

Is there room for Anthony here? Valentino thinks he would knock out a whole wall to make space for him without a second guess if there wasn't.

But he doesn't say this. Instead, he takes a moment to wet his lips, maybe the only indication that he's been thinking less-than-modest thoughts about Anthony at all. He takes a slow, sauntering step closer to Anthony and catches his chin between his thumb and index finger, turning him slightly so they're eye to eye.

"I'm sure." Voice low, slightly rough in his throat. Briefly, his gaze flickers from Anthony's eyes, down to his mouth, and then back again, and it's not subtle. "There is more than enough space... and I can keep a better eye on you this way."

His thumb shifts just slightly, touching the corner of Anthony's mouth.

"You are mine, now." His responsibility, his charge, technically, one of his men. His to look after and command - but there's no way he's not implying more than that.