Chapter 21
This wasn't my bed, my penthouse, my territory.
I turned my head carefully, muscles tightening against the movement.
Maxime slept beside me, face half-buried in a pillow, breath steady and deep.
In the dim light, the bruises from his encounter with Xander stood stark against his skin, purple-black across his temple, yellowish along his jaw.
His split lip was still raw, a dark line bisecting the lower half.
I lifted my hand, reaching toward his face. I stopped before touching him. The urge to press my thumb against that split lip, to reopen it and suck until I tasted copper on my tongue, surprised me with its intensity.
That kind of damage had no place on Maxime's skin, not unless I put it there, not unless he'd earned it.
The fact that Xander had marked him without my permission ignited something primal in my chest. Maxime was mine to protect, mine to shield, mine to hurt if necessary, and I had failed in the most fundamental way.
That failure ached worse than any surgical reconstruction.
I studied him in the half-light. Silver threaded through his dark hair.
Lines marked the corners of his eyes, deeper in sleep without his careful control to smooth them away.
The sheet had slipped to his waist, exposing his chest where shadows of violence marred his skin.
His right hand curled against the pillow as if still holding his ever-present tablet.
The paper crown from last night sat dented on the nightstand, and I kept catching it in my periphery. A cheap cardboard token, meaningless to anyone else, and it shouldn't have mattered, but it did.
We had been side by side all these years, and never once shared a bed until now. I had never woken up to the sight of him in the early morning light. I'd kept that boundary solid as concrete for decades, convinced that true intimacy would compromise the empire we were building.
So many years wasted, years I could have had him like this, years I could have woken with him beside me, watched his face in morning light, felt his skin against mine. All of it thrown away for what? Power? Money? An empire built on empty beds and careful distance.
Maxime stirred, tensing before his eyelids fluttered open. Confusion gave way to recognition.
I reached out then and cupped his cheek.
"Al?" His voice was rough with sleep, surprise coloring my name.
"Who else?" I kept my voice low, unwilling to shatter the quiet.
A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. "You stayed."
"I said I would." I traced the edge of a bruise along his jawline, careful not to press.
Maxime's hand flew suddenly to his hair, eyes widening. "God, I must look..." He touched his mouth, self-consciousness washing over his features. "I should at least brush my teeth before you..."
"No." I caught his wrist, pulling his hand away. "I like seeing you like this. Undone. No one gets to see you this way but me."
A flush spread across his cheeks, something I'd never witnessed before, making him look almost boyish and bashful. This unguarded version of him stirred something in my blood just as potent as watching him destroy a rival in the boardroom.
"How's the pain?" I asked, giving him a moment to recover.
He pushed himself up on one elbow, wincing as his ribs protested. "Manageable."
I sat up fully, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. My damaged leg sent a bolt of white-hot pain up my spine. I gripped the edge of the mattress, riding it out, refusing to make a sound.
"Your leg." Maxime's hand found my shoulder, not offering help, just acknowledgment.
"Old news. Worse in the mornings."
"Mine too." He nodded toward his ribs. "We're not young men anymore." Maxime moved to stand. "Let me get us coffee."
"Stay." I pushed him gently back against the pillows. "I can manage."
His eyebrows rose slightly. In all our years, I had never served him, not once, and this reversal of our roles clearly unsettled him.
"Consider it an order," I said, my tone softening the command.
Ten minutes later, I returned with two steaming mugs. Maxime accepted his with a grateful nod, took a sip, then paused. His face remained perfectly neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes.
"It's..." he began diplomatically.
"Terrible," I finished, wincing at my own sip.
"Strong." He took another sip anyway, refusing to set the mug aside. "You made it for me."
I leaned forward, pressing my lips to his forehead, allowing myself this simple tenderness that would have been unthinkable days ago.
My mother had loved coffee. Even when there wasn't enough money for food, she'd find a way to buy those cheap grounds from the gas station. She'd serve it to Shane in chipped mugs, hoping the small gesture might soften his fists. It never worked.
I'd spent my entire life determined to avoid becoming either of them. I'd buried Jackson Wheeler so deep sometimes I forgot he had ever existed. But here, on this quiet morning with Maxime looking at me like I was worth something beyond power and control, old ghosts stirred.
My hand found his, and I laced our fingers together.
"Would you still want me if I were Jackson Wheeler?" I asked. "Not Algerone. Just the trailer park boy from Oklahoma."
Maxime's eyes widened briefly before a small smile touched his lips. "Would you still want me if I were just a Quebecois crime lord's son? We all come from somewhere, Algerone. I didn't fall in love with a name."
Love. He'd said it, and my breath caught in my throat, my chest tightening, ribs suddenly too small to contain what surged beneath them. In all our years together, through all the loyalty and service and devotion, neither of us had ever named this thing between us, not once, not until now.
I stared at him, searching for any sign of calculation or manipulation in his expression, but there was none, just raw honesty in those dark eyes that had watched me for so long.
I leaned forward, my lips brushing his. He tasted of sleep and yesterday's whiskey. His hand tightened in mine as he leaned into the kiss, mindful of his split lip.
The kiss deepened, his free hand finding my shoulder, my neck, the back of my head. I pulled back before hurting him, my thumb tracing the corner of his mouth.
"Your lip."
"Worth it." He tugged me closer, refusing to break contact.
My palm settled against his chest. His heartbeat pulsed steadily beneath warm skin.
His breath caught when my thumb brushed across his nipple, the small bud hardening immediately.
I rolled it between my fingers, watching his eyes cloud with desire, his back arching slightly, his lips parting, his pupils dilating.
I kissed his throat, the place where my marks had faded. My teeth scraped lightly against his pulse point, and he gasped. His cock strained against the fabric, a wet spot darkening the material where pre-cum had already soaked through.
I bit down harder, not enough to break skin but enough to make him cry out. A dark satisfaction spread through me at the sound, knowing those marks would last for days and everyone would know he belonged to someone, to me.
"Fuck me in my bed," he said, his voice low and urgent as his hand slid down to grip my ass, the words not a request but a demand barely disguised as one. "No one else has ever been here. Only you."
His directness sent blood rushing to my cock. I ground against him hard.
"How long have you fantasized about this?" I asked, my voice rough against his ear.
"Since the beginning," he admitted. "Since the first time I saw you."
"Show me how. Show me what you do when you think of me."
Color flooded his face. Without looking at me, he reached toward the nightstand drawer and withdrew a sleek black object. A prostate massager.
"This," he said quietly, the simple admission clearly costing him. "This is how I thought of you. For years."
I took the toy from his hand, examining it. "It's smaller than I am."
Maxime's flush deepened. "I know."
The simple acknowledgment sent a wave of possessiveness through me. Even in his private fantasies, he'd known I'd be more than any substitute could match.
"Take off your pants," I ordered softly.
He obeyed immediately, lifting his hips to push his sleep pants down, revealing his cock, hard and straining against his stomach.
I shed my own boxers, my cock springing free. His eyes darkened with want, fixed on it like he couldn't look away. The naked hunger in his gaze only made me want him more.
I settled back against the pillows. "Now show me exactly how you use that toy."
He retrieved lubricant from the drawer. His hands trembled slightly as he coated his fingers, then reached between his legs, teasing himself before pressing one digit inside.
"God," he breathed, eyes closing as his finger disappeared into his body.
"Look at me," I commanded. "I want to see your eyes while you fuck yourself for me."
His eyes snapped open, meeting mine as he added a second finger, then a third, stretching himself open. His breath came faster now, chest rising and falling rapidly.
I took the toy, coating it generously with lube. "Let me."
I pushed the toy inside him, watching his face transform as it filled him. His head fell back, throat working around a moan that seemed torn from somewhere deep inside. When the toy was fully seated, I turned it on.
His entire body convulsed. His cock jerked against his stomach, dripping wet with need, and the sound that escaped him wasn't even a word, just raw, animal need.
I twisted the toy slowly, angling it upward to find that sensitive bundle of nerves.
"Fuck!" he cried out, back arching off the bed, and there it was. I kept the pressure steady against his prostate, watching him come apart beneath my hand.
"All these years," I murmured. "All this time, you've used this and imagined me."
"Always," he admitted, voice breaking.