Page 42 of Black Sheep

She flinches. “No, I didn’t fuck him happy,” she whispers.

My relief is unlike anything I’ve felt before. I have the answer to the question I despised myself for needing to ask. I should move on to other subjects.

Like why this room, for instance. I don’t. “I’m waiting to hear what he did.”

“It doesn’t matter!”

“The fuck it doesn’t—”

She drops to her knees, the swiftness of her action dislodging my hold on her. Her hands fall on her bare thighs, and she tilts her face to me, the perfect supplicant. “This is what you want, isn’t it? Me, at your mercy? Groveling at your feet?” Her gaze lowers to my still-hard cock. “Is that what turns you on now?”

I have never been into power play in the bedroom. Never needed to establish my dominance over a woman. I have sex the way I want, the way that delivers pleasure to whatever woman I’m fucking. Sure, I like to control proceedings, but it’s never a pre-planned routine.

The sight of Cleo, so readily submissive, open and vulnerable, slices open a sinister vein of need so voracious that I stagger backward. Even as my cock swells to raging proportions.

She sees my body’s reaction. Her breath hitches, and her lips part. This time the image of sliding my cock between her lips powers bolts of lightning through my bloodstream. I can barely see straight.

An incoherent sound erupts from my throat. I’m not sure why the sound galvanizes her but she begins to crawl forward. But something about the way she’s moving isn’t right.

A warning tingles on my nape. “Stop.”

This time, the fear in her eyes is raw and unfettered. Every other emotion is stripped away. As I watch, frantically attempting to decipher what my brain is transmitting over the blinding roar of my hard-on, she shivers. “You have me, Axel. I’m begging.”

Potent words that should immortalize the flames of my retribution.

And yet…

My feet propel me back another step. “Stay there. Don’t say another word and do not move a fucking inch.”

I stagger out the door, slam it shut behind me. My fingers spike into my hair, and I pace, confused about why I’m confused.

A segment of my plan may have come to fruition earlier than expected but I meant it when I called her a pawn. She is by no means the grand prize in my fight with Finnan. Not when he’s sullied her beyond redemption.

So…why…?

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Distracted, I fish it out.

Bolton.

Bolton!

My finger hits the answer button.

“Why does he keep sending Cleo back to me?” I bark into the phone.

A weird little chortle. Then a harsh sniff. “Hello to you too, brother. You’ll be happy to hear that I’m in…or out…or wherever the fuck you want me to be. Are you pleased to know you have thirty-three percent of the brotherhood in your favor? Or should I say thirty-three point three three three three—”

“Why, Bolton?”

“Because she’s your fucking Achilles heel, brother. Always has been. Always will be.”

I don’t waste my breath denying the absurd assertion. “Why does she keep coming back?”

“Because he makes her.”

My vision blurs. When it clears, my hand is braced on the wall. “How?”

“Ask her—”

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