Crave The Enemy

ALEKSANDER

There are worse jobs than picking someone up from the airport. Not many, but yeah, I'd rather watch paint dry than pick him up from the airport.

I can't wait to get this over with.

My job is simple, pick him up, watch him, kill him when necessary. He's disposable .

I don't know why I was assigned to do this. I also don't know why I agreed. I could have sent any other person. Could it be curiosity.

No, I can't be curious to see him fly in from Italy.

I've heard enough about him from my siblings to sketch a mental picture of him. Arrogant, reckless, a trouble maker who wears his smile like an armour and his ego like a crown.

I hate him already.

Still, there is a difference between knowing about someone and watching them step into your world.

The terminal smells like burnt coffee and impatience. I lean against the railings, sunglasses hiding my eyes even though we're indoors.

Everyone here is holding flowers, balloons, big 'welcome home' signs.

I've got none of those, just a simmering headache and his name written in my mental burn book.

I've never met him in person. And frankly, I don't want to.

I take another sip of coffee, bitter, just the way I like it.

The intercom announces his flights arrival and my gaze cuts towards the gate just as the passengers spill out. Business men, tourists, women dragging their toddlers.

And then I see him.

He walks like the floor belongs to him, like he whole damn airport does.

Black leather jacket, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses still on inside. A duffel bag slung over his shoulder, not because it's heavy but because it looks good there. His hair is messy, but the kind of messy that's too perfect to be accidental.

Tall, broad shoulders and the smirk I've heard so many tales of.

Domenico fucking Vescari.

I could kill him. Not right now but the thought dances across my mind.

When his gaze locks on me, his mouth curves into a smirk that says he already knows who I am. Perfect.

He doesn't hurry. In fact I think he walks slowly on purpose just to be irritating.

"Ah" He says when he's finally close enough. "You must be my welcoming committee"

I stare at him "Aleksander"

"Nope, I did my assignment, it's Sasha, didn't know I had to tell you your own name"

I grit my teeth. He doesn't get to call me that.

"It's Aleksander to you"

"Of course you are" he says, grinning like he just met his favorite person.

"I'm Nico, you can start being impressed now"

I turn and walk towards the exit "Get in the car"

I hear him chuckle behind me " Are you always this charming?"

I don't reply him.

"I like you already. I was told you'd be one with a scowl. Nice touch. It really brings out your eyes"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath so I don't end up murdering him here.

He's just trying to get on my last nerve.

He yaps on about the 'boring' flight and the champagne.

In the car, he throws himself on the passenger seat like it's a throne.

"You drive" he asks, eyebrow raised. "Dangerous"

"For you or for me" I start the engine.

"Both, you look like you're planning my funeral"

"Maybe I am"

His grin widens.

"Cool"

I keep my eyes on the road.

"You always talk this much?"

He leans back, smirking "Only when I want someone to like me"

"Then you're failing"

"Ah" he says tapping the dashboard like he's testing it's patience "So theirs hope"

By the time we hit the freeway, I'm already reconsidering why I agreed to this. But then again, watching Nico from my peripheral vision, leaning back, humming to himself, I figure it's better I know what I'm dealing with. And right now, I'm dealing with a man who thinks the lion's den is his playground.

The freeway hums under the tires. I'm trying to focus on the road, on the space between us, on anything but the smug shape of him sprawled in my passenger seat.

Then I hear it. At first, I think I'm imagining it. Maybe he's playing music - badly. But, does music have wet breathless sounds and moans?

Then I glance sideways.

He's watching porn. On his phone. Volume up. Like it's the most normal thing in the world to do at nine in the morning in someone else's car.

"Are you serious right now?" I grind out.

He doesn't look up. "Dead serious." He tilts the screen toward himself, lips quirking. "They're just getting to the good part, wanna pull over and watch?"

I drag my eyes back to the road, jaw tight. My palms feel hot against the steering wheel. I'm not watching, but my brain fills in the gaps anyway, skin and hands.

"You're disgusting," I mutter.

"You're blushing," he shoots back.

"I'm not."

"You are." His voice dips, just enough to hook under my ribs. "Need help with that?"

I don't have to ask what he means. My grip on the wheel tightens. Can't believe I'm getting a boner right now.

"No."

"That's not a no to the boner part," he says, grinning. "That's a no to the help part."

My scowl deepens. "I don't do guys."

"Shame." He leans back like he's settling in for the rest of the drive, still smirking. "You'd be fun."

I focus on the white lines flashing beneath the headlights, anything to stop thinking about the sounds coming from his phone.

And the fucker is not helping.

He shifts in his seat, slow and lazy, like a cat stretching. His knee brushes mine. Not enough to be an accident.

"Relax," he murmurs without looking up from the screen. "It's just background noise."

I glance at him. "In case you've forgotten, this is my car."

"That's why I turned the brightness down," he says, like he's doing me a favor.

I grit my teeth. "You're not going to make me-"

"Hard?" He finally looks at me, eyes dark behind the sunglasses. "Too late."

The flicker of heat in my stomach pisses me off more than it should. I slam my gaze back to the road. "I told you. I don't do guys."

"And I told you, shame."

He tucks his phone away, finally, but the damage is done. The silence now is worse than the moaning. I can still feel him looking at me. Not casual or curious, it's like he's measuring every reaction I have and filing it away for later.

His voice drops, low and deliberate. "You sure you don't? Or is it just that you've never?"

I breathe in slowly, counting to three. I've killed men for less than this level of provocation.

"Don't test me," I warn.

Nico smiles, slow and wicked, like that's exactly what he's doing. "I'll take that as a maybe."

I don't bother correcting him.

NICO

The worst part about riding in a car with Sasha is not the silence.

It's the fact that he makes the silence feel like a knife, scraping my skin and baring my soul. The guy is not even moving. And I already feel uncomfortable in my own skin.

I close the video on my phone. Half because I'm bored and half because I've been waiting for him to crack and the subtle tightening of his jaw tells me he's getting close.

"That was... disturbing," he mutters, eyes on the road.

I smirk. "What? A little vintage leather and chains offend your delicate sensibilities?"

He doesn't bite, not exactly-just lets his gaze flick to mine in the rearview for a fraction of a second. Enough to make my pulse quicken and my grin widen. The man could gut me with a glance... or do something considerably more enjoyable. And I don't know why that excites me more than it terrifies me.

"Try something less... grotesque next time," he says, voice as flat as a blade.

"So you do look forward to next time", I say with a grin on my face. I can't help it. He says nothing in return. As expected.

I stretch, letting my foot brush the side of his seat. "You're cute when you pretend you're not into it."

His only reply is a sharp exhale through his nose. His version of flipping me off I guess.

By the time we turn into the driveway, I've already decided I'm going to get a rise out of him before the night's over.

The place is... well. Exactly what I expected from him, if I'm being honest.

The house sits back from the road like it's hiding something, which it probably is. Black stone walls, tall and unyielding. Big sheets of glass for windows, reflecting the forest instead of revealing anything inside. The trees crowd around it, thick enough to muffle sound, thick enough to bury bodies.

Sheesh!!

When we step inside, the air is cooler. It's spotless, like a magazine, if the magazine catered to men who own unregistered firearms. Not a single thing is out of place. Every line is clean, every surface polished until it could blind you.

I'm actually offended by it.

There's no welcome mat. No couch blanket. No photographs. It's a space meant to be occupied, not lived in.

And yet... it feels familiar. Like walking into the mind of the man himself. Controlled and weaponised. My fingers itch to touch things, to mess them up, to see how far I can push before he snaps.

I've never wanted to get a rise out of someone as much as I do now.

There's a faint trace of smoke in the air, mixing with his cologne-the same sharp, restrained scent that clings to him when he leans over me.

I toss my jacket over the back of a chair just to see his reaction. "You know, for a babysitter, you're not very warm and fuzzy."

"I'm not your babysitter."

"Bodyguard. Handler. Prison warden. Call it whatever helps you sleep better at night."

He doesn't even flinch. Which is infuriating. So I continue doing it.

I, Domenico Vescari, hereby pledge to make Sasha snap by the end of today.

-----

Dinner is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you want to throw a glass just to hear it shatter. Or, just me.

Sasha eats like the food owes him money. Making clean and efficient cuts, every movement controlled. He doesn't talk, doesn't even look at me. It's almost enough to make me wonder if I'm invisible.

Almost.

Round one: I bump my knee under the table, light enough to pass for accidental. He doesn't react.

Fine. Round two. My foot slides along the side of his ankle, slow and deliberate.

Nothing, except maybe the tiniest pause in the way he chews.

I lean in to reach for the salt, letting my elbow knock into his arm. My hand, instead of grabbing the shaker right away, rests just a little too far under the table, fingers grazing the inside of his thigh.

There. The twitch. Just a flicker of muscle under my fingertips.

"Well, hello," I say softly, just for me.

He keeps eating like nothing happened, but his fork hits the plate a little harder than necessary.

I withdraw my hand, only to "accidentally" drop my napkin. I duck down to retrieve it, letting my shoulder brush against his leg on the way back up.

When I sit back, I let my leg shift under the table until my knee accidentally bumps right into his crotch. Not hard. Just enough.

That's the one. His breath catches, so slight most people wouldn't notice. But I do.

I don't move my leg right away. I let it linger.

Finally, I lean back with a smirk, like nothing happened, and meet his eyes across the table. "Sorry," I lie.

He doesn't answer, but the muscle in his jaw ticks. Nico 1, Sasha 0

The rest of the meal, I toy with him. Letting my knee press against his for a beat too long, tilting my chair so my boot knocks his under the table, dragging my gaze over him like I'm undressing him one stitch at a time.

He doesn't flinch. Doesn't crack. But the air between us feels heavier now, thicker, like we've both noticed the line in the sand and I've already stepped over it.

Finally, he sets his fork down with precision so sharp it's almost violent. Pushes his chair back.

The wall is cold against my back before I can blink.

Waoh, he's fast

His forearm presses across my chest, not enough to crush me but enough to let me know that he could if he wanted to.

"Watch yourself," he growls, low and sharp.

I grin like I've just hit a jackpot. "Touchy, touchy."

He doesn't move. His face is close enough that I can feel his breath. Warm and steady, but not calm. Oh no, definitely not calm.

I tilt my head, slowly and deliberately dragging my tongue over the curve of his ear. He flinches, almost imperceptibly, but I catch it.

"You were assigned to protect me," I slur. Oh the things I could do to him.

His grip tightens. "That's..."

"...a lie," I cut in. "They just wanted you close enough to finish the job when the time's right."

His eyes are steel. Mine is a dare.

"You're not as clever as you think," he says.

"Maybe not," I whisper, smiling against his jaw, "but I'm a hell of a lot harder to kill than you think."

For a moment, we're locked there-heat and ice, both of us waiting to see who moves first.

Then he shoves off me like I've burned him, boots thudding against the floor as he storms down the hall without looking back.

I stay where I am, shoulder still against the wall, smile curling at my mouth.

Game on.

NICO

The first thing I notice when I wake up isn't the sunlight or the birds or whatever poetic crap normal people notice.

It's my dick.

And it's very, very awake.

I lie there for a minute, staring at the ceiling like maybe the ceiling will explain why I'm starting my day like this. It doesn't.

Morning wood is supposed to be random biology, right? Well, mine's got a name, an address, and an ego the size of Russia

Sasha.

Why the hell would it be him?

I glare at my dick "Seriously, dude?"

My subconscious has apparently decided to run an exclusive early morning Sasha programme.

Broad shoulders, lean waist, arms that could snap me in half but probably wouldn't because he enjoys dragging it out. I can practically feel the weight of him, the heat. And those hands...

God, those hands. Big enough to palm my throat. Strong enough to hold me there. I squeeze my eyes shut, and yeah, that's a bad idea, because now I'm picturing it.

And now I'm doing something about it.

I work myself, slow and deliberate, because apparently I hate myself and like to marinate in the problem. Every stroke just sharpens the mental image: Sasha's weight pressing me down, his voice low and annoyed like he's giving me one last chance to behave-and we both know I won't.

My grip tightens without me telling it to, and my knuckles whiten as I drag my fist slowly from base to tip, just to feel that twitchy, impatient ache build.

The room is quiet except for my breathing. It's like am starring in my own low-budget porn where the only plot is 'Nico makes bad choices before breakfast"

I imagine his hand instead of mine. Rougher, bigger and more calloused in places that would scrape just right. My pulse jumps, and my hips follow like they've got their own agenda.

It's ridiculous how clear I can see it: the press of his palm over my throat, the steady weight that says you're not going anywhere. My back arches, chasing the pressure that's not even there, teeth gritted like I can will it into existence.

Every shift of my hand is another memory - the cut of his glare when I pushed too far.

I'm breathing harder now, thighs tense, stomach pulling tight as I twist my wrist just enough to make my toes curl. I'm right there, teetering, and I don't even fight it.

When it hits, it's sharp, a gut-punch release that drags a groan out of me I'd deny under oath. Hot and messy across my stomach, every muscle jerking like I've been yanked out of my own body for a second.

For a moment, I just lie there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling like maybe it'll have something to say about the fact I just started my morning jerking off to the human equivalent of a smug smirk.

I should feel relaxed. Clean slate. Ready to start my day.

Instead, irritation simmers in my chest.

Not at the orgasm. That was fine. Perfect, even.

No, I'm irritated because it's him.

Why would it be him?.

I grit my teeth. This is pathetic. I could think about literally anyone else. Celebrities, random bartenders, my high school gym teacher (okay, no, not that). But nope, it's him.

By the time I drag myself out of bed, pull on sweatpants, and wander downstairs, I've decided I'm not going to look at him. I'm going to get coffee, maybe stare at my phone, and mind my own business.

Which is obviously why the first thing I do is look straight at him.

He's in the living room, shirtless, mid-workout. Because of course he is. Sweat is sliding down his chest in slow, perfect lines, catching the light like some cheap action movie scene. Every push-up makes his back muscles flex like a damn anatomy lesson, and I have to consciously remind myself that murder is illegal, because no one should be allowed to look that good before I've had caffeine.

I try to tell myself that I'm not ogling him, because I'm not. I'm watching the enemy.... Pathetic, I know.

I don't know what it is about him that's got my knickers in a twist. And the guy clearly said he wasn't gay. Hell, I wasn't even fully gay before yesterday. I mean, I always knew I was bisexual. I did try it once, or twice, because why limit myself to one flavour when I can have them all?. But I've never fully come out as bi.

Now? I don't know.

The guy treats the dirt on his shoe better than he treats me, and I don't know why I find that hot. What is wrong with me?.

I should be focusing on my coffee or the door. Or literally anything that doesn't involve tracking the bead of sweat sliding down his throat. But my gaze keeps dragging back, like I'm hooked, like he's reeling me in without even trying.

It's not in admiration. Not exactly. It's... assessment.

Predator clocking another predator.

Because there's a way he moves, controlled, that says he doesn't just train to look good. He trains for the kill.

My arms stay folded, casual, like I'm just passing time. Inside, every nerve's coiled tight, tuned to the rhythm of his body. His tank rides up just enough to flash the pale scar across his ribs, the kind that tells a story without giving away the ending. I want to know it. I also don't want to care. I don't care.

My dick twitches, like it's saying 'yeah you do'. Come on buddy, you have to be on my side.

And then there are his hands.

Veined, scarred and strong. The kind of hands that could pin you down or pull you up. Depending on which side of him you're on. Perfect for... yeah. That.

My hand tightens on the bannister because my brain has decided now's a great time to play the reel of something I never asked for.

Different hands. Pale fingers digging in until the world went spotty at the edges. A voice that was supposed to be holy, saying things that still make my skin crawl.

I drag myself back to the present before it pulls me under.

I already crawled out of that place, I'm not going back.

Sasha drops from the bar and lands with the kind of silent control that makes me want to mess up his wardrobe, just for sport. He wipes his hand on his shorts and doesn't even glance in my direction.

Or maybe he is looking at me, and he's just too good at pretending he's not.