by Zara Cox
But they forget I’m forged from the same Irish steel Finnan Rutherford loves to boast about.
I step out of the shower and dry myself. In the wide vanity mirror, my gaze drops to the red patch of skin just above my right hipbone where his name once resided. Against my will, my fingers trace the four-inch arch, a tiny part of me wishing I could laser away my feelings for him as easily as I erased his name from my body.
But no. What was taken away from me needs to be repaid a thousandfold.
So first I will take care of Finnan. Then I will take care of Axel.
The man whose death is the only thing I live for.
Chapter Four
MAJOR SALVO
Axel
Running an empire that operates on a nocturnal cycle means most of my mornings are spent sleeping or coming down from whatever ill-advised activity I indulged in the night before.
Yet I’m wide awake at ten a.m. The six hours spent in the punishment chair two days ago did nothing to take the edge off the raw insanity pounding through my bloodstream. Like every morning for the past two weeks, I prowl my penthouse apartment, sleep the furthest thing from my mind.
Not that I need a lot of sleep to function. My stint in the special branch of the army cured me of the need for several comforts I previously took for granted, while it equipped me with a whole new set of stomach-turning skills. Skills I was primed to excel at, according to my commanding officer, having seemingly acquired the basic building blocks of rendering mayhem at birth.
I switch off those memories and turn away from the Upper East Side view of a heat-hazed New York. Heading down the hall, I enter the room I converted to a private gym when I moved in. I ignore the gleaming dumbbells and head for the punching bag in the middle of the room. For the next hour, I pound the shit out of it, until sweat streams down my body. But my mind still churns.
My growl of frustration bounces around the room as I stand there, breaths heaving out of me. Tugging off the boxing gloves, I toss them across the room and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
Immediately her image springs into my mind.
Cleo. With him.
Cleo. With me.
Please, Axel.
The clarity of her voice in my head makes my jaw clench. A different image slides into frame. Cleo, on her knees, saying those two words. Cleo, her stunning face captured in a mixture of innocence and arousal. The innocence is mockingly deceptive; I know that now, but my starved cock is on a mission and doesn’t appreciate the rationalization.
Dropping my hands, I leave the room, shedding my sweatpants as I go. Even before I hit the shower, I’m fully erect. Cold water slams my face and neck as scalding water hits my back. I brace my hands on the wall and give in to a dark chuckle. Hell, even my preprogrammed shower function is as torn as my mind and body. Grimly, I reach for the shower gel, hating myself for thinking about her. But I can’t stop.
Please, Axel.
My hands slow over my body, and my eyes drift shut at the image of small, greedy hands trailing up my bare thighs. My breath catches in eager anticipation. Her dusky-rose, sinful mouth begins to curve, the knowledge that she has me trapped, at her mercy, gleaming in her eyes. Insatiable for her, I drink in her expression even as I fall deeper under her spell.
She wraps one hand around me, the other tentatively reaching for my balls. The ingenuous move makes me even harder. Knowing that I was her first, as she was mine, is like no other feeling on earth. Her sharp inhalation at my hardness almost makes me smile, but my balls in her exploring touch wipe away any amusement. She literally has me in the palms of her hands, hers to do with as she pleases. I rock forward, sliding into her loose grip. Her fingers tighten reflexively, dragging a groan from my throat. Blue eyes darken as further knowledge dawns. Applying more pressure, she pumps me once. Twice. My full-body shudder makes her eyes widen.
“Omigod. That’s so hot. Show me more, Axel,” she breathes, her gaze darting between my cock and my face.
The eagerness in her voice almost makes me blow my load there and then. Clenching my jaw, I fight to stay in control. “Just keep doing that for now, baby.”
“You like it?” A question filled with a little wonder and burgeoning power.
A harsh snort rips free. “You have to ask? Can’t you tell?”
A sultry little laugh clenches my body with helpless need. “I want to make sure I’m doing it right. You stopped me the last time…”
Only because I wanted inside her tight, little pussy more than I wanted a hand job. “I’m not stopping you now,” I say, my throat tight with biting hunger.
Her gaze returns to her task, her mouth dropping open as the veins around my cock thicken in her hand. Every desperate forward thrust brings me within inches of her delectable mouth. A frown of concentration darts across her forehead as her tongue slicks her lower lip. She leans forward, and the involuntary, ravenous little breath she takes pushes me closer to the edge. Fuck, I want those lips around me. I want to pull her up, turn her around, and slap her pert, little ass for torturing me like this. I want to rip off that thong she’s wearing beneath my T-shirt and lose myself in the sweet heaven of her pussy.
Hell, I want so many things with her that it’s all a crazy jumble in my head. But I stay put. Because this, too, is paradise on earth. Her thumb slides over my sensitive head. The single convulsion that jerks through me bumps my cock against her parted lips. We both freeze.
Wide eyes sweep up to meet mine. Her breaths emerge as shaky and hot as I feel. Slowly, she moves closer. Tastes me. The touch is gone almost before it happens, but the trace of pre-cum on her lips sends my temperature soaring higher.
Determination mingles with inexperience on her face as she continues to caress me. “I want to suck it. Please, Axel. Let me?”
Jesus. “Yes,” I groan, dangerously close to the edge.
The bracing breath she takes pushes her plump breasts and tight nipples against the white T-shirt. Unable to help myself, I reach down and brush my knuckles back and forth over one rigid peak. Heat flares up her face, and she squirms deliciously before she closes her mouth over me in a bold move.
The sight of her pink lips enclosing the tip of my cock shoots sensation straight to my balls. A second later, her firm suction has me gripping her hair, holding her in place. Desperate for more. “Fuck, yes, just like that. Christ, don’t stop.”
My head drops as I fight to breathe. Her gaze is pinned on mine, absorbing my every reaction as she quickly acclimatizes to giving her first blowjob. Ever the quick learner, Cleo flicks her tongue over my slit as she sucks, her mouth closing more firmly on me, taking more of my cock.
“Shit, why did I think you wouldn’t be a fucking natural at this?”
She smiles that Delilah smile as, empowered, she works me like an aficionado. Slow, smooth strokes grow longer, faster. Her mouth is almost as tight as her pussy as she takes me deeper, gliding her wicked tongue along my stiff length. Delirium beckons, and my fist tightens in her hair as I plunge into her mouth.
My cock hits the back of her throat, caressing the soft membranes that vibrate pure electricity against my sensitive head. Insanity encroaches. My legs begin to shake. I feel my balls tighten, and I know I’m about to blow.
“Cleo.”
“Hmm…” She releases me long enough to lick me from root to tip before she swallows me again.
Pleasure drowns me. “God, Cleo…”
My groan is deeper than it should be. The tone of a man, not the boy standing in the middle of his childhood bedroom, receiving his first blowjob from the girl he loves.
My eyes fly open. Memory fades, and reality intrudes. I’m alone with my cock gripped tight in my hand. The slide of the gel aids my desperate, helpless pumps, but even with my eyes open, I see her face, feel her mouth around me, sucking harder with every plunge.
I’m at the point of no return, caught in the spiral of arousal I can’t stop even if I want to. I stab at the cold shower button,
turning it off and leaving only heat. Steam rises around me, shrouding me in my own erotic hell as I continue to stroke myself. Longer. Harder. Faster. Pre-ejaculate mingles with the gel, making me slicker, reminding me of the deep recesses of her mouth. I slam an open palm against the wall, the knowledge that she can draw such a visceral reaction from me pissing me off. But no amount of anger is enough to stop the motions of my hand or the dirty bliss that beckons.
Weeks of no sex have me on the tightest edge as I fuck my hand with all the finesse of a teenager. I grit my teeth harder but I can’t stop the rough groans that rip through me as my balls turn hard as stone seconds before I erupt. My head drops against the tiles as thick cum shoots from my cock and splatters on the wall. The force of the climax draws further shudders through my body.
Unceasing, I keep up the strokes. Lost in euphoria, I’m not sure how long I stay propped against the wall, caught between the past and the present, hating myself, and hating her even more. Slowly, my spent erection dies, and a semblance of control returns.
By the time I turn off the shower and leave the bathroom, my thoughts are less chaotic than they’ve been for a while. Using Cleo for my unwilling self-pleasuring is a stupid fantasy, but what the hell, I’m no fucking saint. I’ll take that for now.
After dressing, I head to the living room to pour myself a drink. The sound of my buzzer interrupts my mellow self-loathing. I freeze, gritting my teeth while toying with not answering. The buzzer sounds again. I slide my untouched glass of Patrón onto the coffee table and head for the intercom.
“Yes?” I snap.
“Sir, there’s a Miss Widow here to see you.”
If I were in the mood, I would smile at the game the Black Widow plays with my concierge by supplying him with a different name on each, albeit rare, visit. As it is, she’s at risk of pissing me off, first with her clear reluctance to follow my orders in the punishment room and now turning up here unannounced.
“Send her up.” The quicker I deal with her, the sooner I can knuckle down the exact details of how I will deal with Finnan and Cleo.
My already fucked-up sleep pattern notwithstanding, they both need to be dealt with. Quickly and decisively. Especially if my brand of self-prescribed therapy has truly stopped working.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my sweatpants as I head for the door. My black T-shirt doesn’t cover nearly enough of the ink on my arms but the thought of anyone seeing them doesn’t disturb me enough to waste time covering myself up. Besides, another reason the Black Widow and I work well together is she knows not to ask questions. Or at least she did before the other night.
For a moment, I contemplate whether it’s wise to invite her up here. Despite my satisfactory hand job, my senses are still churning. With sleep out of the question, I crave the next easily attainable distraction.
Long, hard fucking.
The elevator pings its arrival as I toy with adding my manageress to my fuck list.
She steps out, her walk brisk and confident, unlike the practiced sexy swagger she reserves for the patrons of the Punishment Club. She’s back in her usual all-black attire although she’s dressed for the day rather than in her night leathers, and her hair is caught in a ponytail.
I observe her critically, note the firm, supple body beneath the black jeans and silk top. Her waist is trim, her hips and breasts eye-catching enough to tempt any red-blooded male. And yet my cock remains unmoved, my libido still firmly in the grip of a foolish fantasy.
Not sure whether to be concerned or irritated by the distinct lack of interest, I return my gaze to her face. “You better have a damned good reason for interrupting my sleep.”
“Call me psychic but I had the distinct feeling you weren’t asleep,” she replies, her voice droll as she walks past me and enters the living room.
My irritation mounts as I kick the door shut. “Next time, rely less on nonexistent psychic powers and more on your phone. I don’t pay you to waste my time.”
A trace of emotion darts across her features briefly before she shrugs. “I was in the area and took a wild gamble. Since you’re up, I thought we could get some work out of the way.” She reaches into her slim-line briefcase and extracts a black file. “We have a new set of applications ready for approval including a couple of expedited ones. I wanted to go through them with you.”
“They couldn’t wait until tonight?”
“Sure, but why wait? You’re up so I thought I’d make hay while the sun shone.”
“A curiously bright outlook for someone who works best at night. Alone. Without the likes of your boss disturbing you. Weren’t those your exact words to me a couple of weeks ago?”
She grimaces. “Damn you and your sharp memory. Okay. Whatever. So I came to check on you—”
“It’s not your place to check up on me,” I say impatiently. Her presence stirs another pulse of anger inside me at the further evidence of my inability to control Cleo’s effect on my life.
Her lips purse. “It is when you entrust me with your care at the Club and I fail you.”
My teeth clench. “You didn’t fail me.”
Her gaze drops to my wrist. “Didn’t I?” she says softly.
Her tone rubs me almost as raw as the deep chafing on my wrists. “This is none of your business, B. Don’t forget that the reason we work well together is because we respect each other’s privacy.” It’s the reason I call her B, short for Black. I have no idea what her real name is, and I have zero interest in finding out.
“I think I’ve earned the right to be concerned about you, Axel.”
“Take it from me that that’s a stupid move.”
I admire her for not showing a single iota of emotion at my response. She stares at me for several seconds before she turns to admire the view. “I’ll leave after you let me dress your wounds,” she says eventually, her voice hard and implacable. “While I’m getting your first aid kit, you can make me a coffee and we’ll discuss the applications.”
“Leave the files—”
“No.” Her tight-lipped smile most likely hints at affront. I don’t have the capacity to decipher it. “You can find someone else to take care of you at the Club if you wish. Until you do, I owe you a duty of care. That might mean fuck all to you but I take my responsibility seriously. And I take my coffee black. Thanks.”
Throwing her out will be easier than blinking. But one of the reasons I placed her in charge of one of my most lucrative businesses was the ruthless warrior’s instinct I sensed in her. Also her soul is deeply tainted. If I believed in having kindred spirits, I would claim her as one.
It’s that respect that makes me turn toward the kitchen after I point her in the direction of the bathroom. The coffee is already brewed. I pour two mugs and bring them back to the living room as she returns with the kit.
Wordlessly, she sets up the antiseptic, and nods at me. Exhaling, I extend one wrist for her to tend.
“Now the other one,” she says.
My right wrist is in worse shape, an inch-wide layer of exposed flesh covered in dried blood.
“Jesus, Axel,” she murmurs under her breath.
“Save it.” My tone is cold, the memory of when and why that particular injury occurred playing afresh in my mind. I was mildly surprised my wrist didn’t break with the pressure I placed on it once that video started replaying for the fourth time.
The video of Finnan fucking Cleo was his present to me in my second year at West Point, two days after I informed my instructor that I wished to leave the program. After Finnan was informed of my decision, he ensured that any hopes I had of reclaiming what was mine were reduced to ashes. I stayed. I excelled. I became one of the US Army’s most lethal weapons.
Then I used my skills the best way I knew how—to extract every last secret that Finnan Rutherford possessed so I could dismantle his kingdom.
The Armenians and Albanians were relatively easy to convince to switch sides. Money buys them their number one objective—p
ower—and I have enough of it to make it worth their while. It’s the reason Finnan’s coming after me now. The parts of me that didn’t wither and die in the far-flung places of hell where I dished out death and destruction in the name of my country welcome the deeply personal war headed my way. Another part of me is already mourning just how quickly it will all be over.
B’s mouth purses as she dabs the cotton swab over my wound. “So, the applications. Unless you have an objection, I’m going to refuse the pilot who claims he wants to spank only women who look like his mother. Something doesn’t quite jive with me about him.”
I force my mind away from blood and gore and retribution to the present. “Fine.”
Her gentle touch continues to soothe my ravaged skin. “And that prosecutor who wants six black cats eating sushi off his naked body? Yeah, that doesn’t work for me. I’m not into bestiality,” she states dryly, her mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile.
“Sure.”
She nods and carries on listing the pros and cons of applicants without referring to the file, a testament to how good she is at her job. All I want is for her to be done.
“Okay, great. Two more came in this morning. I recommend we approve both of them. One is a girl who wants a replica of her boyfriend’s old bedroom—”
“Enough.” Taking the gauze from her hands, I throw it back into the kit and rise. “You’ve done what you came to do. It’s time for you to leave.”
“Axel…”
I shake my head, my patience at an end. “I meant what I said earlier. You’re good at what you do, which is why you’re in charge, but you’re still expendable.”
She takes a deep breath, stands, and gathers up the file. “Got it. But even at the risk of getting myself fired, I have to say this. I know a thing or two about paying penance. You spent six hours in the chair. And yet you’re still wound up as tight as a fucking drum.”
The reminder amps up my cold rage. “Watch it, B. You’re two blinks away from becoming the sacrificial lamb in a chaos-fest you didn’t ask for. Walk away. Now.”