With a guttural groan, I pulled back, my face slick with her juices, the lingering taste on my tongue a promise of more. Melissa, her face flushed and her eyes glazed, sagged against the desk, her breath coming in ragged gasps as I quickly stood, gripping my dick hard, stroking it roughly as I placed the head against her wet cunt and slammed forward.
The sensation was electric, a primal surge that vibrated through my very being. Her moans intensified, a raw, guttural chorus that echoed my own escalating need. Her body convulsed, a desperate, rhythmic clenching that gripped me like a vise. I thrust harder, faster, each movement a testament to the raw power that coursed between us, the exquisite friction of her wetness against my straining shaft. My world dissolved into a symphony of gasps, groans, and the rhythmic beat of flesh against flesh, a tempestuous crescendo building to an inevitable, shattering release.
Her body shuddered, a violent tremor that seized her entire frame as she desperately clung to the desk, the lingering sensation of my tongue within her still rippling through her. My arousal pulsed, a raw, insistent thrum against my throbbing cock. I watched her, the primal satisfaction of her conquest coiling tighter in my gut, as I slowly, deliberately, lowered myself onto her, guiding my engorged shaft toward the slick, welcoming heat of her pussy. The friction of my entry was a searing pleasure, a molten inferno as I sank into her depths, her body instinctively clutching me, pulling me deeper. Her choked cries were a promise, a desperate plea for release that I was more than willing to grant. I moved, a slow, powerful rhythm that mirrored the urgent beat of my desire. Each thrust was a testament to the raw power I held, the absolute control I exerted over her trembling form. Her legs were still weak, unsteady, but she held on, her fingers digging into the edge of the desk, her hips rising to meet mine with a desperate fervor. The scent of her, the intoxicating sweetness of her juices, filled my senses, urging me on, pushing me closer to the edge.
With a final, guttural roar that echoed the storm raging within me, I drove my cock deep, unleashing a torrent of my being into her. Her gasp was swallowed by my groan, her body arching beneath mine as the wave of pleasure crashed over us,leaving us both breathless, spent, but undeniably entwined. The silence that followed was thick with the aftermath of our shared tempest, a testament to the raw, untamed passion that had consumed me.
Chapter Forty-Two
Rowen
It was late as I navigated the city’s dusky streets, the flickering glow of traffic lights dappling across the windshield. The hum of the engine seemed to amplify the tension in the car. Michael sat beside me, arms fiercely crossed, his jaw set so tight I could almost hear the grind of his teeth. He shifted restlessly, feet tapping out an anxious beat against the floor mat. His gaze was locked on the passing city, but every so often, he flicked a glance my way—sharp, searching, bruised with suspicion. The silence between us stretched thin, weighted by everything unspoken: my own guilt, his simmering anger, the secrets that lingered in the air.
After what felt like miles of strained quiet, Michael finally broke. His voice was low, almost hoarse, with an impatience that barely disguised the rage beneath. “Why the fuck are we going to see some bigwig business dude?” His words lingered, but I caught the faint quiver—a subtle vulnerability that reminded me of how deeply he cared for Melissa, and how every perceived threat to her safety cut him down to the bone.
I kept my grip loose on the wheel, forcing my voice into measured calm, but inside, guilt twisted sharp as barbed wire. “Because, like Sinclair, he knows everyone.” I paused longer than I meant to, searching for the right words. “He also has a vested interest in making sure the Italian Council and Irish Mob don’t end up at war.” My words felt heavy, echoing the precarious balance we were both trying to maintain.
Michael let out a groan, his exasperation evident. The sound was sharp but not cruel, as if he needed the anger to mask something softer underneath. “So what you’re saying is, this guy does business with them too.” He shook his head, fingers drumming on his knee, a restless energy that seemed to vibrate through his entire frame. For a moment, he turned, searching my face for any trace of reassurance, but I couldn’t give him what he wanted.
“Yes.” I kept my answer short, almost clipped, hoping to spare us both another argument. But my heart thudded with guilt; I could feel the tension in my shoulders, the regret for all the things I should have said, for everything I’d kept from him.
Michael’s scowl deepened, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he leaned forward, voice sharp but quieter now. “Then why the fuck didn’t you just say that?” His sarcasm had an edge, but beneath it, I saw a flash of vulnerability—a brother’s raw protectiveness, honed by years of watching over Melissa in a world that had never been kind to either of them.
I risked a glance in his direction, my voice quieter, softer. “I did.” The words sounded hollow to my own ears, more a plea than a defense. For all my practiced calm, I couldn’t ignore the burn of guilt in my chest. He’d always been the one to fight for her, to patch her up when the world left bruises. Distrust was his armor, and right now, I couldn’t blame him for keeping it close.
Michael broke the silence again, voice rough yet uncertain, “So who the fuck is this guy?” His tone was laced with skepticism and something else—a faint tremor of distrust, maybe. I could see it in the way he hunched his shoulders, his protective instinct bristling, memories of past betrayals lingering just beneath the surface. For a moment, the tension eased, replaced by an uneasy truce, and I realized that beneath all our sparring, we were both just trying to protect the people we loved, in our own flawed ways.
I kept my tone even, my words slipping out beneath the steady drone of the engine and the city’s distant sirens. “His name is Matthias Black. CEO—he owns Black Incorporated. The man’s reach is everywhere; he doesn’t care who you are, only what you have to offer. Money, leverage, secrets. He’s got his claws in Wall Street, Hollywood, real estate, you name it.” My voice dropped as we pulled to the curb, the car idling in front of a skyscraper that rose into the clouds, steel and glass gleaming in the pallid city light. “But most of all, he’s a collector. Obsessive. Ruthless.”
We stepped out into the lobby, the hush swallowing us whole. Each footstep sent a crisp echo across the marble floor, mingling with the low thrum of distant elevators and the faint click of polished shoes. The air was cold and sharp, the kind of chill that prickled against the back of my neck and left my palms clammy. Overhead, light glinted off towering columns and polished brass, each detail a testament to Black’s appetite for control.
I leaned in, my voice a quiet warning, edged with something Michael would recognize—caution, maybe fear. “He’s shrewd, Michael. And unpredictable. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you can outplay him. You won’t.” My gaze slid over to him, catching the flicker of defiance in his eyes, but underneath it, I saw the same uncertainty twisting in my gut.
Michael’s lips curled, skepticism thick in every word. “So he’s going to help us out of the kindness of his heart?”
“No,” I said flatly, letting the word hang between us.
He snorted, a harsh sound that echoed off marble and glass. “Right. Then why the hell would he lift a finger for us?”
I met his stare, steady and unblinking. “Because I have something he’s always coveted.”
The elevator’s doors slid open with a soft sigh. Inside, the cold intensified, the hum of hidden machinery underscoring the silence. As we rose, the city unfurled beneath us—streetsdissolving into a wild sea of lights, the skyline fractured by distant thunderheads. I caught my reflection in the polished steel, eyes dark with exhaustion, but beneath it, a current of purpose.
“The Codex Leicester,” I murmured, so only Michael could hear.
“The what?” he asked, confusion knitting his brow as the elevator chimed past the fortieth floor.
“Leonardo da Vinci’s Codex Leicester,” I said, every syllable weighted. “Seventy-two pages. Hundreds of sketches, notes, and theories DaVinci wrote in Florence and Milan. It’s irreplaceable—one of the world’s rarest manuscripts.” I paused, heart pounding as the walls seemed to press in. “Black’s tried to get his hands on it for years. It’s never been for sale.” The words stung—I thought of the years I’d spent tracking its location, of the risks, the betrayals, the cost if I lost it now. If Black refused to help... I didn’t know what I would do. The Codex had always been more than a prize. It was proof—of what I’d sacrificed, and of what I stood to lose.
Michael’s skepticism faded into suspicion; his voice was barely more than a whisper. “You actually have it?”
A faint, bitter smile tugged at my mouth. “Not here. But I know where it is. And more importantly, I know what it’s worth. That’s why Black will listen.” The elevator shuddered to a halt. I nodded toward the corridor ahead, feeling Michael inch closer, the air between us charged with something uneasy—a fragile trust, not quite hope.
The hallway stretched ahead, silent except for the soft hush of ventilation and our footsteps echoing off glass and marble. At the reception desk, a striking woman looked up, her gaze poised yet welcoming. “Professor Shay. Mr. Black is expecting you.”
I nodded my thanks, knuckles tightening as we approached the grand oak doors. With one last glance at Michael—suspicionand curiosity still vying in his expression—I rapped on the polished wood and stepped inside. Matthias Black was waiting, hidden behind an empire of paperwork, his presence as cold and commanding as the city far below.
Without looking up, he said in a low, gruff tone, “I don’t see it, Rowen.”
