Axel is the star. And it isn’t only the sight of his long, thick, pierced cock glistening with precum and raring for another round already. It’s every inch of him. I knew he was rugged and chiseled because I’d felt him when we sparred in the gym, when I sat on his lap, and when he pressed himself against me, but this is a physique of discipline. Sculpted thighs and rippled abs. Decades of denying himself and devoting his time to training. He’s the kind of fit that my father would commend. The form of a warrior.
He has more tattoos than I would’ve expected. Tattoo doesn’t really sound adequate. He’s adorned in art—a 3D fleur-de-lis, a roulette wheel, storms and Spartans and flames and music notes. To list it that way sounds haphazard, but it’s a collage that seamlessly blends the separate elements into one depiction of Axel’s story. Or pain. There’s even an eerily real sapphire eyeball—his only colored tattoo—and in the upper-right corner, it has the faintest reflection of a burning house. Haunting.
“Jax did those?”
“All of them.” More of that fatherly pride seeps from him. “My piercing too.”
I press my hand against my thrashing heart. The realization that this man has not only given his family his time, love, and devotion, but he’s literally donated his body to them nearly mows me over.
“He practices his art on you—or masters it,” I correct.
“Masters.” He spins to show me his back, which has a 3D mural of the Greek god Atlas, holding the heavens. “He’s a genius.”
It’s this out of everything I’ve witnessed, learned, and surmised that has me staring at a demigod in supplication, entranced by the sovereignty emanating from him, even in his nakedness. A tailored suit has nothing to do with why Axel Noireis ordained to reign. He was born to rule, and he earns that reverence with every breath in his lungs.
“He’s a genius,” I agree. “And you’re beautiful.”
A tear trickles down my cheek. Maybe he really did kill Keller out of vengeance because he cares with the intensity he mentioned. For me. When I deserve the opposite. I don’t know how to navigate this—the ache in my chest for Tripp and my father, the draw to be enfolded into the warmth of this incredible family, the need to not be seen as a failure at my job while also conflicted about who I am, and the depth of emotion swarming me for the best man I’ve ever known.
Without a word, he wipes the drop of my turmoil, carts me beneath the rainfall showerhead, and washes me from head to toe. He massages my scalp, scrubs the soles of my feet, and dotes on every pore in between—with cherry blossom and vanilla bath products similar to what I use.
Noting the curiosity on my face, he simply says, “I guessed based on your scent. I wanted you to feel at home.”
He planned for me to be here.
I needed to hear that more than he could fathom. Or maybe he does.
“I like being used.” I’m not sure why that confession pops out of my mouth. Maybe because the pampering feels undeserved, and while I like him taking care of me, I also like himtakingfrom me.
He nods, steps out of the shower, grabs his Hermès crocodile leather belt, and weaves it around my wrists and the showerhead above me. His pampering turns into him feasting on my pussy again until I come, then pumping into me from behind for another orgasm, and eventually getting rid of the belt, pushing me to my knees, and ruthlessly fucking my throat while I touch myself at his insistence.
He fists my wet hair, driving into me until I’m a teary-eyed mess from his ornamental crown engraving my tonsils and my jaw is practically unhinged with the most enlivening pang. After I climax again—though I honestly don’t know how my body is managing at this point—he comes all over the front of me, painting my face and chest and stomach with a cascade of his release before washing me again and praising me for being so good for him.
Once he dries me off, brushes and braids my hair, provides me with water and painkillers, and dresses me in one of his button-ups, we move to the library. He orders Chinese food because during a meeting, I mentioned it was my favorite. So, over eggrolls and wine, he feeds my soul and gives my exhausted body a sanctuary to recuperate, snuggled beside him on his love seat.
Even shirtless and wearing a pair of gray joggers, he’s the Axel I’ve come to know, stoic and brilliant, as we discuss literature and history, music and iconic films—things that skirt the fringes of our unstable reality. And occasionally, when I surprise him by knowing an obscure artist, book, or movie, he glows with what must be teenage giddiness buried deep inside him. It wrenches my stomach for the fourteen-year-old boy who was exploited by the same monster who strangled the life out of my vibrant mother. For all the years he endured, all the burdens he carried, all the childhood lost. For all the ways he determined not to only run his father’s empire differently, but to raise his siblings with the love and stability he’d never had.
It stokes a burning ambition in me to keep that glee at the surface of this stalwart man. Despite that, I wait for him to drill me about my mission, to demand that I divulge what I was hired to find, or even to rebuke me for killing Shep, for this night to be tainted by choices I can’t undo. But he doesn’t. The reprimand and interrogation never come.
That thought sends me in another direction though. “You’re a Dom. That’s what you like, right?”
“Yes,” he says, swirling the cognac in his snifter since he switched from wine, “but that term is broader than what most realize. And this—what we’re doing—is all new for me. I like having you submit, but I don’t need you to. I wantyou, Zara. Your spirit and fire.”
“I don’t think there’s any getting rid of that,” I tease. “But I want you too. And I want to … understand. Explain it to me.”
For a still beat, I fret that these types of conversations only enforce how much younger I am, but then I realize he would have been just as schooled in these topics in his twenties and even his teens. He grew up around a sex club, like I grew up around killers.
He sets his glass on the coffee table and drapes my legs over his, holding me close. “I’ve never been the type of Dom who finds joy in inflicting pain for the sake of inflicting pain or who seeks control because intimacy and arousal only unfold then. If that’s what you needed, I’d provide it with pleasure because it served you. But for me and many Doms, power and dominance are synonymous with servitude. In all my relationships, I want to be worthy of the trust and loyalty I demand. Even if someone I care for isn’t concerned about their health, future, or emotional needs, I am. I can carry it.”
“Like your Atlas tattoo,” I summarize, realizing I already suspected this about him.
He slants his head, debating that assessment. “In part, yes.”
“And who helps you when you’re weary?”
“I don’t—” He stops abruptly, surveying me with an expression I can’t completely discern. “Are you volunteering, little Thorn?”
I burrow my head in the crook of his neck, melting into his solid strength. “I would be honored.”
