Chapter 8: Jealousy and Guns

Chapter 8: Jealousy and Guns

⚠️ Warning: Very explicit sexual content. Dominant/possessive behavior. Gun kink. Rough play. Emotional intensity. Read with caution.

Elio's POV

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I didn't mean to flirt with the man at the bar.

I didn't even think I was flirting. I just needed a moment outside the mansion. Air. Space. Sanity. Luca had gone into a back room at his club to take a call, and I wandered to the bar, sipping on something expensive and gold-colored, watching Milan's elite flirt with crime under dim lights and silk suits.

The bartender was young. Pretty. Sharp smile. Said I had sad eyes.

I laughed.

It was harmless.

Until I felt the weight of a stare burning into my spine.

I turned—and found him watching me.

Luca stood across the room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes cold as knives. The way men stepped aside when he moved was like something out of a fable.

The bartender noticed. "That your boyfriend?"

"No," I said too quickly.

"Ah," he smiled. "Then he looks like trouble."

He had no idea.

Luca didn't approach right away. He watched. Measured. Waited.

And then he disappeared.

By the time I returned to the car, he was already inside.

Silent.

I slid into the backseat, the leather freezing under my thighs.

He didn't look at me.

"Luca—"

"Don't speak."

The driver pulled away from the curb. The silence was louder than traffic.

"You're angry," I said carefully.

He didn't answer.

"Nothing happened."

His head turned slowly, eyes dark and dangerous.

"You smiled at him."

"It was just small talk—"

"You touched his hand."

My mouth opened. Then closed.

"You disrespected me," he said, low and sharp. "In public."

"You're not my owner."

His voice was ice. "Say that again."

"I'm not yours to leash."

The car stopped.

We weren't home yet.

I glanced out the window—an empty underground lot.

When I turned back, he was holding a gun.

Not raised. Not pointed. Just resting in his palm like a second skin.

My breath hitched.

"You want to play games, Elio?" he murmured. "Let's play."

He leaned forward, pressed the gun cold and flat against my chest.

My heart pounded under it.

I should've been afraid.

But my cock stirred instead.

"You like that?" he asked, voice silken and deadly.

I swallowed. "Yes."

His mouth crushed mine.

There was no patience this time. No teasing.

Just claiming.

The gun pressed between us as he shoved me back against the seat, one hand at my throat, the other holding the weapon like a lover.

His lips were bruising. His tongue unforgiving.

"Get on your knees," he growled.

The doors were tinted. No one could see. No one dared.

I dropped.

Leather creaked as he spread his legs wider. Unzipped.

I freed him, already rock hard. Already leaking.

He slapped his cock against my cheek once.

Then again.

"Open."

I obeyed.

He fed himself into my mouth rough, one hand tangled in my hair, the other still gripping the gun. I choked, gasped, took it.

"You want to flirt?" he hissed. "Then beg with your throat full."

I whimpered, swallowing around him.

He didn't let up. Fucked my face until spit and precum dripped down my chin. Until I was blinking back tears, hands fisted in the carpet.

He pulled out—just enough to breathe.

Then, the click of the safety.

He pressed the gun under my jaw, tilting my face up to look at him.

"You're mine, Elio. Say it."

I moaned, dazed. "I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I'm yours, Luca—fuck—I'm only yours—"

He hauled me up, turned me around, shoved my face against the cold tinted glass.

Pants down.

Cock out.

Legs spread.

I heard him spit into his palm. The wet slide of it over his length.

Then the stretch.

The burn.

He didn't go slow.

He drove into me hard, filling every inch, making me cry out as my breath fogged the glass. One hand braced around my chest, the other—gun still in it—rested against my stomach.

It was filthy.

It was perfect.

"Mine," he snarled. "Say it while I fuck it into you."

"Yours," I gasped, each thrust punching it deeper. "All yours—"

He pulled back just to slam harder.

Skin against skin. The wet slap. The rough grip. The danger of the cold steel just resting against me as he used me like his property.

My cock rubbed against the seat, leaking with each brutal thrust.

"You don't smile at anyone else," he growled in my ear.

"I won't—I swear—fuck—"

He sank deeper.

"You come from my cock. No one else's."

I nodded, losing myself.

Then—he reached around and stroked me. Two hard pumps and I was spilling, whimpering, ruined.

He didn't stop.

He followed, hips grinding, cock twitching as he groaned deep and emptied inside me.

The silence that followed was sticky. Heavy. Satisfied.

He collapsed against my back for a second, breathing hard.

Then, slowly, he pulled out.

I whimpered again at the loss.

He helped me back into my seat, wiped my mouth with his handkerchief, and zipped me up like I was a doll he dressed.

The gun was gone.

So was the rage.

He kissed me gently.

Then whispered—

"You ever smile at anyone like that again... I'll fuck you in front of them."

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