There’s some foreign part of me that longs to melt into him, to assure him I understand that he stuck his neck out for me, though I don’t have any idea why. But then I’m reminded that my mother died by—I’m guessing—his father’s hands. That Axel vowed to end me himself just a few days ago. That people like me don’t have the luxury of indulging in some far-fetched romantic fairy tale. Attachments are liabilities. But in relation to that, maybe it pisses me off a tad that he views me as too young, rather than as a peer.
So, I go with a response that is sure to irk him—or at the very least, make him face his regrettable desires.
“Ahh. That’s true. So, since I’m right here, beneath you, you have choices.” I swivel my hips with a prelude to his options. “You could fuck me, or I could kill you.”
He laughs at that. Laughs. It’s deep and husky, and it shoots straight to my throbbing clit. “So, if I fuck you,” he rasps, his lips less than an inch from mine and his dick jerking against my abs, “you won’t kill me?”
We’re so close, so connected; I can taste the lust in his words, feel the taunt buzzing between us. That’s a go sign. Since he’s completely locked into this moment, I free my legs, drive myself upward, using his grip on my wrists to afford me leverage, and overturn him so I’m straddling his pelvic area.
His hands float to my hips, and every cell of my body thrums with a thrill from his warmth. Based on his wolfish expression,I think we’re both consumed with another scenario that this position could work for, but this is nothing more than a tease.
“I didn’t say that,Papa Axe.” I draw out the sweet moniker Maddox used with a trace of seduction, rock my hips once to torture him, and push off his erection—he’s certainly not lacking in that department.
Everything about this man is larger than life.
As I stand, I wonder if my own arousal is as obvious. My panties are drenched, far more than I’ve ever experienced. But my fury is greater too.
Once I’m towering over him, I bite my lip, rake my gaze down to his tented crotch, and strut away, calling over my shoulder, “Still might be something to think about. You’d die a lot happier, and I’d walk away satisfied. On all accounts.”
AXEL
Alaugh bubbles up in my throat as I lie on the floor and watch Zara’s luscious, yoga-pants-clad ass sashay to the door. She slips into the covert hall without another glance back.
Fuck, she’s something else.
Trouble. Ruination. Irresistible.
If she fucked me and killed me, I’d die happier, and she’d be satisfied on all accounts.
I shouldn’t find that as hilarious and tempting as I do.
Might be worth it.
Her snark is invigorating. Sparring with her—physically and verbally—is enlivening. Even when I call her out on it, she doesn’t contradict my claim that she’s here for reasons that could put me or someone I care about six feet under. That alone should be enough to keep me from ogling her.
But the age issue is quickly dying. Any thought regarding her being younger gets lost in our conversations. And when she grinds against me. She doesn’t hold herself like someone in her twenties. She’s poised and mature and … alluring.
And probably closer to death than I am.
I’m guessing reality is hitting home now. Maybe at this very minute since she’s probably stuck in the corridor, unable to leave. I let her sweat it out for another minute before I peel myself off the floor, will my hard-on to stand down, wipe off with a towel, and go after her.
The corridors leading to and within the penthouse walls require various specific authorization to go in or out. That way, if by chance someone manages to sneak inside, they can’t leave. It’s a mix of codes; finger, iris, and retina scans; and facial recognition. You need to be armed with it all to navigate our private domain.
As I round the corner to the first locked exit, she scowls at me. Her arms are crossed beneath her chest, which has her perky breasts practically spilling out of that tiny sports bra. Far too tiny to be wearing in public. It makes me want to rip off my T-shirt and cover her up, smack Maddox, and maim the guards—I guess she took care of them.
I saunter closer, and she huffs, glaring at the wall as if her eyes were laser beams that could cut her a hole to leave.
Despite my best effort, I can’t help but chuckle at how furious she is right now. “Such a stellar exit, overshadowed by your inability to escape.”
She says nothing, but waits expectantly. So, I stand beside her, answering emails on my phone—enlarging the print since I don’t have my glasses.
Eventually, her head slowly turns toward me, her emeralds bulging. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting,” I respond without sparing her a look.
I’m not sure why I like messing with her so much. That is a tactic one of my younger brothers would employ. Not me.
Everything I do is strategic, methodical, well planned. Women are no different.
