Written for the kink meme! I do love me some religious guilt, yes I do. And now, without further ado, enjoy and review! (:
He was not supposed to feel this way about his ward.
He knew this, knew it all too well, but that knowledge did nothing to quell the need, the ache for the boy. His henchman, his Roma. The one he guarded so jealously, so precious to him that gold nor bloodshed could pry him away from Spain's desperate hold. He was no longer a child but not yet a man, just beginning to make the transition to adult. He was awkward, gawky, and oh so lovely.
Spain could list more things wrong about this than he had fingers, but his infatuation ran so deep, so vast that he could not stop it. Romano was his ward and had been for decades, and in anyone's eyes that would make him his son. His son! It would pass, surely, this great longing for the boy, yet a part of him didn't want it to pass. He wanted to love his henchman forever, to crave that auburn hair with a stubborn curl, that smooth-as-honey voice that cracked on occasion, that sun-kissed skin, those delicate hands that had hardly seen a day's worth of labor, and those absolutely maddening golden eyes, beautiful eyes that made Spain want to take him, ravish him until they became clouded with lust and desire. To touch that tanned body until it became slippery with sweat, to feel those soft hands stroking his cock. To pull the silky chestnut hair and make him scream in that sweet voice as Spain pounded into him.
He cursed under his breath, taking a large gulp of water in a last-ditch attempt to banish the heat of arousal. It didn't help of course, just as palming himself through his trousers didn't help. Despite every effort, Spain could do nothing but think of his darling, damning sin of a ward, who must have returned his desire. Spain both hoped and despaired that the fire burning in Romano's eyes was for him, and that the caress-like brushes of limbs were intentional. He was crazy, completely mad for his underling, cursed with the affliction of love and lust.
It was at this moment that Romano sauntered into the room, eyes smoldering –burning like an inferno, El Diablo just beyond, waiting—as he advanced toward his caretaker. Spain's hand moved from his groin to his thigh, squeezing and knowing there was no point in hiding it, his tented shame already lurking in his darkened eyes. Romano approached him with a wicked smile on his lips, situating himself on Spain's lap without hesitation. Spain grunted at the pressure his protectorate's bottom supplied, closing his eyes as if to dispel the image of Romano in his lap. This action was his undoing, Romano's breath hot in his ear as he whispered, "I want you, Boss. Touch me."
Spain was a man of the flesh. He lusted for gold, reveled in the blood of the slain, and was easily swayed by carnal desires. His misdeeds were many, and by this final act even God would rebuke him, he who was unworthy of His grace. He didn't need God, though, as long as he had Romano.
His darling, damning sin.