Page 71 of Cold Bastard
Chapter Twenty-Four
Nano
I didn’t sleep.
Not really. Not the way normal people did, with that deep unconsciousness that wiped away the day’s sins. I drifted. Floated in that space between waking and dreaming, where thoughts became slippery and dangerous. Behind me, Alex shifted again. Her breathing was shallow and uneven. Every few minutes her legs moved, rubbed together, seeking friction, seeking relief that wasn’t coming. The sheets rustled with each restless movement, and I could feel the heat radiating off her body even though we weren’t touching each other anymore.
She was suffering.
Good.
I eased myself out of bed slowly, carefully, not wanting to wake her. My feet hit the cold floor, and I stood there for a moment as I looked down at her in the darkness. The moonlight filtering through the window cast her in silver and shadow. Made her look almost ethereal, like something that might disappear if I looked away. But she wasn’t ethereal. She was flesh and blood and desperate with need. Her face was turned toward the pillow, one hand curled beneath her cheek. Even in sleep, her brow furrowed. Her lips were parted slightly, and I could see the tension in her jaw, the way her teeth occasionally clenched.
She shifted again, and this time her thighs pressed together hard, seeking pressure, seeking anything. A small sound escaped her throat. Not quite a whimper, not quite a moan. Something that spoke of frustration so profound it had invaded her dreams.
I did that.
I had reduced her to this. To a creature of pure need with nowhere to go. This woman, who had stolen seventy-five million dollars and thought she could outsmart everyone, was now lying in my bed, unable to find peace because her body screamed for a release I wouldn’t allow. The satisfaction that rolled through me was dark and visceral. Primal. It settled in my gut like warm whiskey, spreading through my veins until I could feel it in my fingertips.
This was power.
Not the kind that came from violence. Though I was intimately familiar with that too. Not the kind that came from fear, though I had wielded that weapon more times than I could count. This was different. This was control so complete, so absolute, that she couldn’t elude it even in sleep. Her body belonged to me now. Her pleasure. Her pain. Her desperate, aching need.
All mine.
I watched her for another moment, committing this image to memory. The way her legs shifted again, seeking. The way her breathing hitched. The way her fingers curled tighter against the pillow, as if she were trying to hold on to something solid in a world that had become unmoored.
Then I turned and walked toward the door.
The hallway was dark and quiet. Most of the brothers were either passed out or still downstairs in the gathering room, enjoying the spoils of another successful day. The clubhouse never really slept. There was always someone awake, alwayssomething happening. But up here, in the private quarters, it was peaceful.
I moved silently down the hall. Years of practice had taught me how to move like a ghost when I needed to. How to be there one moment and gone the next. It was a useful skill in my line of work. The stairs creaked slightly under my weight, but not enough to wake anyone who might actually be sleeping. I descended slowly, letting my eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the lower level.
The gathering room sprawled out before me. All exposed brick and dark wood, leather couches and pool tables, and a bar that ran the length of one wall. It smelled of smoke and whiskey, and sex. The scent of the Brotherhood. The scent of home, if I could call a place like this home.
Morpheus was exactly where I had expected him to be.
He was stretched out on one of the leather couches near the back of the room. A book lay open in his hands. Some thick hardcover thing. Philosophy, probably, or maybe military history. Morpheus had always been an intellectual. The one who read Sun Tzu and Machiavelli and quoted them during church meetings like he was some kind of warrior-philosopher.
Which, I supposed, he was. But what made the scene almost comical, if anything in this place could be called comical, was Lollie. She was kneeling between his spread legs, her blonde hair falling forward as she worked his cock with her mouth. I could see her head bobbing, hear the wet sounds of her efforts, watched the way her hands gripped his thighs for leverage.
And Morpheus?
He was reading his fucking book.
Not even looking at her. Just turning pages with one hand while the other rested casually on the arm of the couch. His expression was one of mild boredom, as if she were merely background noise. Like she was no more interesting than thedistant sound of pool balls clicking together from across the room.
I had seen this before. Morpheus had a thing about control, about proving that nothing and no one could distract him from whatever he had decided to focus on. Right now, that was his book. Lollie could suck his soul out through his dick and he would still be more interested in whatever the fuck he was reading.
It was a power play. Everything with Morpheus was a power play.
I crossed the room and dropped onto the couch next to him. The leather creaked under my weight. Lollie’s eyes flicked up to me for a second, wide and desperate, like she was hoping I might help somehow, before returning to her task.
I didn’t help.
For a few minutes, I just sat there, watching. Watching her work. Watching him ignore her. Watching the way her jaw must have been aching, the way her knees must have been screaming against the hard floor, the way she was trying everything she knew to make him come and failing spectacularly.
Because he wouldn’t let her.
