Black Sheep

by Zara Cox

  I shouldn’t breathe easier. I want to keep her. I’ve wanted to keep her from the moment she walked into my club four weeks ago. Hell, from the moment I set eyes on her seventeen years ago.

  She was mine first. That gives me fucking rights.

  But I’m finding out that holding on to her when she doesn’t want to be held is going to be a problem.

  “Axel?”

  I refocus on her stunning face. “Yes?”

  “You look…angry.”

  “Yeah, that fucking poetry is worse than Chinese water torture. It might be perfect for them, but I want to swallow a bucket of nails listening to that.”

  She probably doesn’t buy it, but a twisted little smile curves her lips. “Don’t look now, but one of them looks extremely constipated. So yeah, I’ll say it’s working.”

  “Let’s leave them to it. Fancy a late-evening pizza?” I ask.

  She blinks then nods eagerly. “God yes, I’m starving.”

  I hold out my hand. “Let’s head upstairs. Delivery’s already on its way.”

  She hops down from the barstool. “Is it—?”

  “Half anchovies, half ham and pineapple thin crust, with a side order of buffalo mozzarella balls?”

  Her eyes light up, her breath catching a little. “Yes.”

  I lean down and taste her lips. Because I can’t help myself. “Yes.”

  Her happy groan goes straight to my cock. And the stupid jerking thing in my chest.

  I keep her hand trapped in mine as we head for the elevator. Then draw her close the moment the door shuts. She kisses me back with enough fervor to makes me rethink a few things.

  When we part, she looks at me with a touch of trepidation.

  “Now you look…possessed.”

  I walk her down the hall and into the suite in silence. I don’t want to confess what’s on my mind for fear that I’ll spook her.

  Because I am possessed. By her.

  She’s mine. She’s mine. She’s always been fucking mine.

  And regardless of the consequences, I’m keeping her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  FULL DISCLOSURE: PART ONE

  Six days later

  Cleo’s lying on the sofa in my office at the Punishment Club where I’ve temporarily moved my base of operations. One leg propped up, the other foot on the floor, she rolls the tip of a pin between her teeth as she frowns down at the New York Times crossword puzzle. Her hair is spread over the arm of the sofa, rippling with life from the bright sunshine slanting through the window. Her striped, off-the-shoulder blue sundress rides halfway up one thigh. From my position behind the desk, I can see the faintest outline of her bare pussy against the light fabric.

  “A primal transaction…” she muses.

  “Fucking.”

  Her gaze swings to me, and she laughs. “You’re obsessed with sex.”

  I’m obsessed with you. “Nothing wrong with a healthy libido.”

  One beautifully shaped eyebrow lifts. “There’s healthy. And then there’s super-charged. And then, there’s you.”

  My gaze traces over her. Lingers on her kiss-swollen mouth, the nipples ripening beneath her dress. “What can I say? I have the perfect stimulus right in front of me. And I don’t see you complaining.”

  Her exhale is as unsteady as mine. It pleases me that she needs to make a huge effort to redirect her attention to the crossword. “Anyway, it’s fourteen letters.” Her foot taps as her brow creases again.

  I close the email containing Malone’s abysmally disappointing report—he really needs to go—power down the laptop and walk around my desk. “I can tell you but it’ll cost you. Big.”

  Her gaze darts back to me, the bright blue darkening to a perfect navy when it drops to my crotch. “Is there room for negotiation?”

  I’ve started going commando when we’re together. So much quicker to get inside her. Beneath my jeans, the power surging through my cock is plain for her to see. “No, baby. Payment in full. Upfront.”

  Her fingers convulse around the newspaper. “It’s the last clue. I really need it,” she pleads raggedly.

  I nod. “It’s easy, sweetheart. Give me what I want then you’ll get what you want.”

  I reach her, drop onto my knees beside her, and flick a nail over one erect nipple. Her tortured moan is music to my ears.

  “Y-yes…”

  “What was that, baby?”

  “Yes, I…accept your deal,” she gasps.

  Transferring my finger to her other nipple, I slide my other hand up one supple thigh, kneading and caressing her exquisite skin.

  “Axel…” Her moan is needy. And yet the power of it weakens me.

  I yank down the elastic bodice and bare her breasts to my greedy gaze. “Beautiful Cleo. So fucking beautiful.” I drop my head to one globe, suck and lick until she’s writhing. My upward caress reaches the outer lips of her pussy. Desperate to see her, I toss up her dress, exposing her perfect little mound. She’s still wet from my fucking two hours ago. But holy fuck, I want her wetter. I want her wearing my possession on every inch of her body.

  Her pen drops and rolls away, and her hand reaches down between my legs. The top of my head threatens to blow off when she fondles me boldly through my jeans. I roll my tongue over her velvet-soft nipples, hopelessly, fatally addicted to their perfection.

  Her eager hips pump, searching greedily for my touch. I slide one finger inside her. Two. Her tissues are swollen. Fuck, she’s probably sore. I need to throttle back this insane need to have her, every minute of every day.

  But she loves it. And I crave it. It’s the only time I am unequivocally confident that she’s wide open to me.

  And that fucking gushing? It’s a new addiction I never want to deny myself. I plunge my fingers deep, stroke up to that sweet spot. Her flesh closes around my digits and she gives a tiny scream.

  Fuck, there it is…

  “Oh, A-Axel!”

  I pull back and watch the convulsions rip through her, all while her hand is wrapped tight around my cock. I trail my nose over her skin, inhaling her intoxicating scent.

  Her hand continues to stroke me until the red haze of lust completely engulfs me. Pulling my fingers from her, I stagger to my feet. “Need you, Cleo. Fucking need you.”

  “Yes.” She lurches upright and scoots to the edge of the seat. I catch her tiny wince and change tactics.

  “Your mouth, baby. On me.” Complete sentences evade me, and I can barely breathe.

  “Yes!” Her eager hands push my T-shirt out of the way and attack my fly. My heavy girth drops into her hands, and a second later, her mouth is on me.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus,” I groan.

  I’m less than gentle when I fist her hair and pump into her mouth. She takes as much of me as she can, and fuck, it’s more than enough to feel her tongue and mouth and throat spur me toward my fatalistic end. “I’m coming, baby. So hard. You ready?”

  Her groan vibrates against my bulging head. The inferno I’m helpless to stop rages up my spine, shoots into my balls. I explode like a fucking fire hose, conscious I’m roaring incoherent words.

  She swallows me. Every last drop, then collapses against the seat. I drop to my knees and take her face in my hands.

  “God, that was…”

  “Fucking amazing?” she supplies with a slightly smug, slightly drugged smile.

  And I know, in that moment, that I never stopped loving Cleopatra McCarthy.

  The depth of emotions rampaging through me terrifies the shit out of me. All I can do is lurch forward and seal my lips over hers.

  Her arms creep around my neck.

  We kiss until a knock jerks me from bliss. My thick curse makes her smile. I tug her dress down reluctantly before seeing to my jeans.

  “What?” My query is less than cordial.

  The door opens, and B pokes her head through a second later. Her gaze skates over me to Cleo. “You ready?” She smiles.

  My hands tighten on Cleo�
��s waist. “No. She’s not,” I growl.

  “Jeez, lighten up, big guy. We’re only going upstairs.”

  She’s having lunch with B on the roof, a bonding routine that seems to have established itself without my permission. Something I’ve decided to allow. For now.

  “Besides, your visitor has arrived. She’s waiting in the bar.”

  Cleo’s gaze snaps to me. “She?”

  I kiss her on her scrunched-up nose, loving that she’s not bothering to hide her jealousy. “Nothing to worry about, baby.”

  Even though what I’m about to do rams a spike of tension through me, I have no choice. Detective Malone keeps my secret because of the wads of cash I fling his way and also because he knows better than to cross me after getting a small glimpse of my military history.

  This is new territory for me. But in a world where trust is a huge issue, Quinn Blackwood’s word is one I’m prepared to risk a lot for. Nevertheless, I’ve done my homework. The feelers I put out for his contact have so far drawn a conspicuous blank, which perversely reassures me that the woman is the right person for the job.

  I drag myself to my feet and help Cleo up. She looks satisfactorily just-fucked disheveled, and the glaze hasn’t cleared from her eyes yet.

  She’s so beautiful. I smooth back her hair, press another kiss to her lips, and trail my hand down the side of her neck. God, I can’t stop touching her.

  “Come on guys, it’s rude to keep people waiting,” B grumbles.

  “You’re not people,” I snap.

  “Wow, you’re all prince.”

  Cleo smiles against my mouth before she steps around me. “I’ll see you later?” she asks softly.

  B huffs. “You say that like you have a fucking hope of getting rid of him.”

  I spin around to glare at my intrusive partner. “Are you still here?”

  She lifts an insolent brow. Cleo laughs and strolls to the door.

  “Cleo?”

  She looks over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Monkey business.”

  She looks blank for a second before her gaze drops to the discarded newspaper. “Oh. Thanks.”

  My gaze travels over the body I’m hopelessly addicted to. “A deal’s a deal.”

  They leave. I stare into space for a minute. Then every ounce of elation drains from me. I leave my office and head to the lobby.

  My eyes zero in on the only woman sitting at the bar, nursing a spritzer. I stop for a moment to study her.

  Nondescript hair. Slightly baggy but stylish clothes. She’s chatting to the bartender, a ready and open smile bursting through every now and then.

  The perfect camouflage.

  I reach her, and she swivels in her seat. She looks me up and down, and I’m treated to a wider smile.

  “Hi, I’m Fionnella Smith.” She holds out her hand, and I take it.

  “Axel Rutherford.”

  “Great to meet you.” She hops down, grabs the largest, rattiest purse I’ve ever seen and stares up at me from her short height. “Okay, shall we wrestle this ferret into the bag?”

  The bartender snorts. She throws him another smile over her shoulder.

  It’s an act. Or Quinn will owe me a serious explanation.

  We head across the lobby. It’s only lunchtime, but the crowd is healthy. And bracingly eclectic.

  “This is…interesting.” She indicates the room and the members.

  I shrug. “Different strokes…”

  She grins. “Hey, you don’t need to tell me.”

  “What I want to show you is upstairs.”

  Her grin widens. “Aren’t they all? Lead the way.”

  I head for the elevator and press the button just as Cleo and B emerge from B’s office. Cleo sees me and stops, her eyes swinging from me to Fionnella and back again.

  We start heading for each other at the same time. When we stop, her hand comes up to rest on my chest. On my heart.

  “What are you doing down here?” Already a few male club members are checking her out. And setting unpleasant fires in my gut.

  “B needed to grab something from her office.”

  “And of course she couldn’t do that before she came to get you?” I glance past Cleo at B when she doesn’t come back with a smart-assed reply.

  She’s staring behind me at Fionnella, a deer-in-headlights look on her face.

  I glance back at Fionnella. Her gaze is on B, but her smile is still firmly in place. What the hell?

  “Axel?” Cleo prompts me.

  I make the introductions, my voice a little terse. They shake hands, Fionnella cheerily charming.

  My nerves fray. Far too much attention is centered on our little party. On Cleo. “Go. Enjoy your lunch.”

  She nods, but her eyes are full of questions.

  I draw her close, plant a hard kiss on her mouth, and turn to Fionnella.

  She’s watching me with half-sad, half-indulgent eyes.

  That looks stays on me for a few floors until I ask. “What?”

  One eyebrow spikes. “A McCarthy and a Rutherford? Two competing mob families? Really?”

  I’m not surprised she knows about my history. I hadn’t expected her to show her hand though. “Yes. Really. You have a problem with that?”

  She carries on staring at me.

  “What?”

  “You remind me of my son.”

  “Damn, you have my sympathies.”

  She laughs, and she’s transformed into a Sunday school teacher. I’m not fooled for a second. There’s hardcore titanium behind the maternal demeanor.

  “Ah, you all think you’re badasses. Then you find the right woman and suddenly you’re like adorable puppies.”

  A huff barks from me. “Jesus, I’m no one’s puppy.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. Your teeth are sharp when you need them to be, but I’m willing to bet you were happy to remain steeped in your…issue until recently? Am I wrong in thinking that ninety-nine percent of why I’m here is because of that woman downstairs?”

  “And that makes me soft?”

  “No. That makes you badass in a completely different way. A way that isn’t headache free, but then where’s the fun in that?”

  I frown, wondering just who the hell Quinn saddled me with. “Tell your son he has my sympathies.”

  Her smile dims. “I can’t. He’s dead.”

  I inhale sharply. “Hell. Sorry.”

  She nods. “He would’ve liked you. And before you self-deprecate, trust me, I know a lot about you.”

  I believe her. “But not everything.”

  “Everything is a tall order, son. But try me.”

  The emotion expanding in my chest isn’t one I feel often. It isn’t one I trust well. At all. But it keeps growing as we leave the elevator on the sixth floor.

  She stops a few feet into the room, her gaze taking in the austere chair, the chains and cuffs, the black walls, the multiple screens. “Now this punishment I understand. Not the frill-fest going on downstairs.”

  She moves towards the chair but doesn’t sit in it. Instead she drops her purse on the floor and crosses her arms. “Whenever you’re ready, Axel.” Her voice is soft. Sympathetic.

  As if she’s already on my side. The side of evil.

  I don’t have time to ponder that. I lock the door, pick up the remote, and stand on the other side of the chair. Deep breath. Stomach clenched tight, I hit play.

  She watches the video from beginning to end, her expression not once changing.

  Then she turns to me.

  “Jesus, son. You’re fucked.”

  My fingers curl around the remote. “Is that your professional opinion?”

  “Everything I say is my professional opinion,” she quips. But her eyes are narrowed and fixed on the screen. “Play it again.”

  My chest tightens. “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes, it’s necessary.” She holds out her hand for the remote. “But you don’t need to be here. I think you’ve reach
ed your permanent viewing quota.”

  Something about that makes my stomach roll in rejection. “No, I haven’t—”

  “You’ve tortured yourself enough for something you didn’t do. I’m here. Let me help. Besides, I work better alone. Especially when there’s all this”—she waves a hand over my body—“distraction in my way. Go alpha over your woman. I’ll let myself out.”

  I stare at her, wondering if I’ve regressed into one of the handful of hallucinations I had when I dallied in coke. But almost without my will, my hand lifts and offers her the remote.

  She nods at me, her smile infinitely kind. “Go, Axel.”

  I go.

  “Oh, one more thing.”

  I stop with my hand on the door. “Yeah?”

  “Fire Malone. Today. He’s a drunk and a liability.”

  A twisted smile tugs my lips. “I knew that. But…”

  Her eyes soften even more. “You were desperate. I understand how that works. But seriously, he’s been knocking on doors loud enough to wake the dead. If you want to know about Taranahar, I’ll get it for you.”

  I take in the soccer godmother in front of me and shake my head. “Will I find you on any…database?”

  She laughs softly, understanding my meaning. “No, son. Same as I won’t find you listed under that extra-special covert black ops program attached to a certain colonel’s unit.”

  I nod and leave the room. I shouldn’t feel lighter. No matter what she finds, I’m still responsible for ending those two lives. But the open, festering wound of not knowing will be over. I can finally make proper amends. And that eases the crushing weight I believed I would live under for the rest of my life.

  On impulse, I hit the button for the roof when I enter the elevator. The need to see Cleo, right now, is a searing hunger inside me.

  A few special guests are having drinks at the bar, others admiring the view from the glass-walled terrace. I see her immediately. Her hair dazzles in the sunshine, the curve of her cheek and chin pinched with laughter from whatever joke B is telling.

  I pause and drink her in. I pause and entertain with audacity the idea that things could be salvaged, in some way, between us. That I haven’t committed to loving a woman who may never love me back.