“That’s a nice outfit,” I grit out as she strokes me without prompt, her purse still hanging from her shoulder. Fingering it off, I relieve her of it while doing my best to restrain the beast roaring inside of me. “You look beautiful.”
“T-thank you.”
I’m tempted to laugh at her reply, but I’m too fucking hard, too needy, and on the verge of making a fool of myself. Years of pent-up longing, of need, of lust, of devotion, of love, threaten to overtake me. I want her too much, I always have, and at this point, I want to punish her just as much as she has me, but it wouldn’t be just. But when she smears the precum over the head of my dick with her thumb, I snap. “Sorry, I’m about to ruin it.”
Before she can react to my threat, she’s off her feet and in my hold. Slick with sweat from my workout, she glides her hands along my shoulders, pressing her forehead to my bicep as I walk her toward her bed. “Is it too much to ask to take things slow?”
Attaching my lips to her neck, I bite down. “At the moment, yes.”
It’s when I lay her on the bed, and her hair fans out behind her that my cock jerks in warning. She gazes back at me, waiting, no more protests on her lips.
Jerking her skirt up to rest on her hips, I groan when I see she’s wearing leggings. More layers. Annoyed, I yank her sweater up to see lace-covered breasts and drag the flesh-colored material beneath her perfect tits, so they’re drawn together in offering. Regripping my dick, I resume my strokes, and she gazes on, rapt.
At the sight of her drawing nipples, I increase my pace, and with a few more frustrated tugs, I groan out my release, coating her breasts, bared stomach, and leggings.
Disappointment flits over her features as her navy eyes drop.
Good.
“You’re playing on a weakness we both have, Trésor.” Lifting her foot, I pull off her Uggs one by one and toss them over my shoulder. With the beast partially satiated for the moment, I kneel at the end of her bed, pulling both her panties and leggings down. She watches, entranced, as I run my hands up and down her newly bare skin while she sinks further into the mattress. It’s my voice that brings her gaze back to me.
“You want slow?” I run a finger through her soaked lips and am rewarded with the buck of her hips. “Fine, we’ll go slow, though I don’t see the fucking point because I’m not the only one you’re punishing. But since we’re laying down the law,” I press a thumb to her clit, massaging it briefly before taking it away. She hisses through her teeth, eyes flickering with impatience.
“Lover, boyfriend.” Leisurely, I rim her opening with the pad of my finger before I slowly push it in—knuckle deep. The sight of it, along with her neatly trimmed landing strip, threatens to ruin what restraint I have. My dick hardens, envious at the sight, as she clenches, wet and hot. Her eyes close when I twist it to beckon her G.
“Tobias.”
“That will do, too,” I say, blowing along her center, increasing my speed while using the ridge of my finger to fully prime her. “Not your fucking roommate,” I lick her soundly from center to top, sucking her clit briefly to earn my first plea. “The man in your life, your partner, your soulmate, your other half,” I dip again and jackhammer my tongue where she needs me most. She mewls in protest when I pull away.
“Tobias.” Her voice is laced with years of ache, and I feel every single day of our separation.
Heart hammering its own plea and fully erect again from just the taste of her, I tamp down my own need because there’s something I want more.
“I thought I would never hear that again, dis mon nom.” Call my name. Dipping, I nudge her clit with my nose, and she bows off the bed. She needs this just as much as I do. Flattening my tongue, I smoothly lick her again and pull away.
Tossing her head back in agitation, she slams her eyes shut as I press in a second finger, filling her before nipping her clit.
“Who am I?”
She lifts her hips, searching for friction. In response, I hook her legs over my shoulders, ignoring my greedy dick as it demands its rightful place. But it’s greed I shove away, needing to feast.
“Who loves you, Cecelia?” I enunciate each word carefully, knowing they’ll bring her back to the first night I brutally kissed her in that clearing, a place that has since become sacred to the both of us. I want her to know that even then, I wanted her for myself. The way I still want her. I’ve been starving for her. But it’s penance I’m paying, for then, before there can be a now.
My needs don’t matter.
Not yet.
“Please,” she cries out as I continue to run my finger along her G, feeling the telltale swell. She rips at my hair, thighs quivering and squeezing around my head. I reward her with another long pull on her clit. Pulling away, I gaze up at her, just as she sinks her nails into my scalp in retribution.
“Slow,” I remind her. “I’m capable of slow. It requires patience. You think I haven’t suffered through the lesson of patience while waiting for the right time to come back to you? Waiting all these months for the day I could finally and fully give in to what I feel for you? All I’ve got now is time.” I savor the anger swimming in her eyes, her pebbled nipples, the flush of her skin, the swell of her body.
Rising from my position, I lift her top from her body as she pounds against my chest in protest, in an attempt to get me back to the task at hand, all traces of her own patience gone, her need taking over. I hover above her as she glares up at me, still covered in my release.
“You want to take things slow, Trésor? Is that what you want? All these years apart wasn’t enough? If I seem eager,” I let her hear the jealousy in my tone as I lift my hand, spreading my cum on her chest before sliding my palm down her stomach. “If I seem eager, it’s because I want to erase every touch that wasn’t mine.” I trail my hand down her body and press my essence between her thighs. At the moment, I’m at her mercy in every aspect of our situation, even in the bedroom. But it’s time to remind her that I’m still the bad guy, and forever will be the tyrant she fucked and fell for—and on this playing field, we’re equals. But her relent to let me dominate is a gift I refuse to let her take away. The vulnerability that shines in her eyes, the emotions she’s feeling, the hint of helplessness is what I need solely for the purpose to let her know—in this physical way—she can still trust me as she has countless times before. Her pleasure is mine, and without it, I’m not the same man.
Fingers still thrusting inside her, I hoist myself atop her and press our bodies together as I gaze down at her with the culmination of the longing I’ve felt, hoping she can see.
“I love you,” I murmur and instantly see her eyes soften. “I’ve missed you so fucking much, so much.” Emotion threatens as I think about the collective seconds, hours, minutes, days, and years I forced myself to believe she could never belong to me again. Of how at one point, I knew I possessed her, that she was mine, and losing her cost me more than a broken heart. It cost me my sanity and my soul. “I can do slow, but don’t deny me my rightful fucking place.”
She grips the back of my head and brings me to her, kissing me with unspoken confession. Clasping her legs behind my back, she opens for me fully. Mouths molding, tongues dueling, we kiss for long minutes, and I rub my cock against her pussy and stop her just as she lifts her hips to allow me inside. Pulling away, I shake my head. “I’ll wait for you, Trésor, as long as it takes.”
Lowering back to kneel before her, I thrust my fingers in and suck her clit with fervor. Not long after, she calls my name, gripping the sheets in her fists. She goes completely silent as her body erupts, back bowing from the bed, her clit pulsing against my tongue with each wave of release, the glide of my fingers growing slicker and slicker as she floods my mouth. As another wave hits, my name bursts out of her, and the sheer force of it has my throat burning.
Fast breaths pump out of her as I milk the orgasm savoring the taste along with the crash of emotion coursing through my chest. My act turns selfish as I seek more, fe
eding the rush. Only she can get me this high. Only she can make me feel this way. Only she can soothe the burn she, herself, creates.
I love her beyond limits because she loved me through what I forced her to endure. She loved me, though I made us impossible.
I was the one who forced our stars to blaze past each other. I was the one whose wrath made our path detrimental to us both.
And she loved, and still loves me, despite it all.
But even with the solidarity of that love, it’s trust and forgiveness I seek.
It’s when she goes limp that I go in for another, and she clamps her thighs against my ears in an attempt to push me away. Wrenching them apart, her dark blue eyes shine with momentary surrender as I bow and resume my worship.
With a few more targeted thrashing licks, she’s writhing again, and it’s then I relent, pulling my soaked fingers from her, licking the sweet, tangy aftermath off my lips. Dick throbbing, I watch her come down, her eyes glazing over. Flushed and gasping, she looks down at me when I bend and kiss the top of her pussy, the sensitive skin of her thighs, darting my tongue out one last time to her center, spearing her with my tongue just to satisfy my own greed with one last taste. When I lift to hover above her, the sight of her takes my breath. She’s a prism of beauty, glowing in residue as I flip her, caressing the wings on her back with my fingers. For the first time since I marked her, I can fully appreciate them for what they represent. Gripping her neck with my hand, I run my throbbing dick along her slit before lowering my mouth to trace the ink with my lips and tongue.
“Faite pour moi.” Made for me.
I squeeze her neck, kissing every single inch of marked skin before collapsing to her side, refusing myself the chance to make my words a lie.
Slow.
The stars have managed to pave the way for us again, and I’m not fucking up another chance to collide with her.
It’s taken me years to admit that the thing I fought the hardest brings me the most peace—as much peace as a man like me can have.
Turning her head, she looks over to me with eyes that hold heavily guarded affection, and I know I made the right choice by stopping myself.
“I won’t pretend to know how I hurt you or what it felt like when I did, Cecelia. But I do know how much it hurt me, and that’s enough to know I deserve your anger and caution. But right now, I need you too goddamned much to stay away when you’re right fucking here in front of me. When you are who you are, which is, in case you’re wondering, the other fucking half of me. I’m sorry for the things I’ve done, but it’s time you let me show you how much.”
She slowly nods her head, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. She’s angry with herself for giving in, and I make a firm decision that I won’t press her for more physically, no matter how much the space hurts.
Slow, it is.
We lay there for long moments before I speak again.
“Ask me anything,” I whisper as she regards me carefully, mulling over her thoughts before she finally speaks.
“Is the truck…with your things, still idling?”
I dip my chin.
“Then have them brought here.” Lifting to hover above her, I grip her face in my hand, searching for the sincerity in her words. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“You know what you’re saying?”
“I’m adequately scared, Tobias, and I’m not playing immune, but I like to think that my naïveté died a long time ago. I know who I am now. Next time, believe me,” her eyes flash with residual anger from the night her innocence was truly stolen, her tone sharpening with hindsight bite, “I won’t hesitate.”
She’s finally on guard the way I need her to be, and that brings me partial relief. Leaning in, I draw her lips in for a kiss. She breaks it, her voice an icy warning. “I’m expecting huge fucking dividends on my investment, Mr. King, a big payoff. You break my trust, my fucking heart again, and I’ll put a bullet in you my damn self. I’m still angry. I’m still trying to get used to the idea of you being here. All is not well with us, yet, but facts are facts, and the facts are, we’re in this together, no matter what. There’s a lot that hasn’t changed and never will. And sadly, I do love you, too.”
I can’t help my chuckle, and I kiss her again, this time more aggressively, and she latches on, kissing me back because we both know time isn’t on our side, never has been. These seconds are precious, and she lets me draw on her as much as I want because she feels it too. We’re forever on borrowed time, our opponents faceless, a whole new board, but this time we’re making all our moves together. When she finally pulls herself away, keeping closer to the edge from the free fall she used to allow herself when we got swept in our emotions for the other, I allow her the retreat. It’s when she pauses at the doorway to the bathroom, looking back at me for lingering seconds with the same longing, that I feel a shift between us. It’s small, but it’s there.
And it’s enough.
Finally.
Progress.
Age Twenty-Four
Parlay.
I read somewhere it takes three lines of solid income to make a man rich, six to make a man sustainably wealthy. Between the last few years of keeping tabs anonymously online—due to Dom’s help—as campus bookie at HEC, the scraps of profit I take from Antoine’s legitimate business deals. My cut of white-collar crimes my brother’s spearhead, and the fluctuating income from the garage—that makes four.
A rich man, I’m not. And sustainably wealthy is where I need to be.
As of late, we give almost as much as we take to keep our consciences clean and our hands heavy with loyalty. We’re gaining strength in numbers, but it’s not enough. Money and stature are the last hurdles I need to clear to get myself into a position to take Roman down.
With my masters earned from one of the best business schools in the world—as soon as I have the capital to start my company—I can declare war on my unsuspecting nemesis.
So, parlay, it is.
Today’s the day, and I’ve been on this board far too long.
It all comes down to a wildly expensive bet. A gamble capable of setting me free of being a slave or victim to any other man’s whims.
At this point, I stand to lose as much as I gain, having paid as much for the intel as I have to gamble with, but that’s the nature of the beast. Money has always been an obstacle for me, a necessary means of getting from point A to point B. And while some men let it drive them, let the abundance or lack of it corrupt or destroy them, I refuse to become a slave to it. Instead, I’ll obtain enough of it to wield its power, its sway, to open avenues and help level the playing field for men like me and my brothers, our parents, and whomever else’s fate rests in the hands of men like Roman Horner.
With the clip of the price tag, I’m ushered into the jacket, the last stroke of the brush on the picture I’m intent on painting. Giving myself a once-over in the floor-length mirror, I school my features to hide my excitement as the tailor looks on, brushing the shoulders of my jacket.
“Not bad for a poor mixed breed who grew up in a dilapidated shithole in Nowhere, North Carolina.”
With the furrow of his brows, it’s clear my words are lost on the tailor who speaks little English, but he nods in agreement to please me. “Cela vous va très bien.” It suits you.
Sorting through the bills from my pocket, I tip him and move to step off the pedestal. He stills me, kneeling and running a mildly soiled cloth along the top of my shoes. When I pull out another bill in gratitude, he waves it away, and I nod in thanks. “Merci.”
Making my way out to my waiting car, I light a cigarette and inhale deep, exhaling some of the threatening stress of the morning. Surveying the daybreak sky, I spot a flock of birds flying low in the milky clouds, wings extended in perfect formation, mimicking each other’s flight pattern, a silent communication amongst them along the wind. The sight of it makes me envious.
This. This is what was missing in the order bac
k home.
Frères du Corbeau (Brothers of the Raven) was my stepfather’s pipe dream. A dream to lead the revolt against the greedy leaders of corporate America—namely Roman Horner—to fight for the good of the common man.
The idea was good, but there was too much miscommunication amongst them—along with too many opposing beliefs and ideas about how to proceed in taking him down. And not one of them, my papa included, had enough backbone to move in any direction. They never could get it together enough to evoke any real change or take action against those who continually fucked them, especially Roman. The only person in that group who had any real gumption to carry out anything was Delphine, but she dulled her razor’s edge with the drink over time.
It all comes down to my brothers and me.
I refuse to indulge in a poison of any kind that will dull my edge.
Whether it be drink or a woman, or any other threatening vice, I’m determined to abstain. I refuse to let any personal or frivolous need weaken me. When I think of the bigger picture, it’s much easier to maintain.
I can make Papa’s dream a reality while seeking justice and ending Roman, or I can backslide like the rest of the originals, becoming useless, another voice in the void.
Throughout the years I’ve been in France, I thought it a possibility on more than one occasion that I would fail. That this whole thing was pointless. But doubt breeds insecurity, and insecurity chips away at confidence, and I have no fucking room for it. It’s time for bold moves. It’s time for execution.
With that needed mental clarity, I slide into the back seat after my borrowed driver opens the door, mildly surprised to see his boss waiting for me. The driver, Luis, gives me an apologetic glance before leaving me with Antoine, who does nothing to mask the smug pleasure on his face.
I should have seen this coming.
“Allais-tu m’informer de tes projets aujourd’hui, Ezekiel?” Were you ever going to inform me of your plans today, Ezekiel?
The Finish Line Page 16
