CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE #2
No one has ever called me darling before.
But every time he does, it makes me feel cherished, like a 1940s movie star who’s about to be kissed violently until she faints.
If any man could cause a woman to pass out from a kiss, it’s Axel Noire.
It was a sacrifice serving the greater good that he didn’t wield that power carelessly.
His attention flicks to where we’re joined, his gaze smoldering as he traces my opening, skimming the edges of his still-hard dick and scooping up the cocktail of our release, leaking from the sides.
He studies it before raising his dripping fingers to my mouth and shoving them inside.
A growl thunders from his chest as I hollow my cheeks with a throaty purr and consume the salt-and-tang flavor of us.
“That’s the taste of belonging to me, Zara.
Memorize it.” He’s so formidable with that order, constrained darkness pouring off him.
And then, as if to present me with all his perplexing sides, he presses his lips to mine again, gentle and sweet while sampling his ownership, before sinking his teeth into the pillowy flesh with a warning.
“If you have doubts, you talk to me. You don’t jump to conclusions or get lost inside your head. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper with a coy grin, not able to fully process the gravity of what he’s professing.
Maybe we’re simply swept up in the moment.
He smacks my ass in a silent command to let him set me on my feet.
Then he pulls his pants up, helps put me back together, and laces his fingers with mine, guiding me through the passageways.
It shouldn’t be shocking that even with sex-mussed hair and his shirt rumpled, Axel is imperial.
An indomitable leader who spins the world for those under his care.
It must be tiresome, and yet he does it with such grace, like being the one to hold everyone and everything together is what he was meant for.
On the way, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, scanning some messages with a grunt that hovers somewhere near a laugh before passing his cell to me with a quirked brow. “This is what you’re getting into.”
I’m not sure what he’s referring to, until I see it’s their family text thread.
Ryker: We’re getting reports of odd noises behind some of the executive office walls.
Maddox: Do you think Slugger took him down again?
Ryker: I’m guessing he welcomed it this time.
Jax: Papa Axe is a dirty slut.
Cash: Apparently, they’re headed toward the suites. Are they fucking on the move? Like a spicy triathlon?
Maddox: And crashing into every wall, it would seem. People are terrified. It’s mayhem out here. Every man for himself. Can you hear the screaming?
Jax: I’m guessing it sounds something like, “Fuck.”
Cash: So, the obvious kind. Yelling, “Fuck,” while having sex is the equivalent of jumping and shouting, “Parkour.”
Tessa: I will never be able to not think that now. lol
Maddox: Back to the traceur of the hour, who knew the man shrieked like that?
Jax: She broke Papa Axe.
Maddox: Based on the reports we’re getting, it doesn’t sound like he’s broke. Maybe going for broke.
Mercy: Or breaking his balls.
Ryker: That’s not what that means, Merce. But … yeah, okay.
Maddox: Not to worry. I just spread a story that a group of raccoons got into one of the bootlegger passageways. That should throw them off Papa Axe’s scent.
Tessa: What is your obsession with raccoons?
Maddox: No obsession and no bathtub.
Cash: If that is some kinky code, I really don’t want to know. It’s worse than the triathlon fucking or the five hundred bottles of champagne. You all pair up and get fucking weird.
Jax: Speak for yourself. That shit is a train wreck. I’m not looking away.
Tessa: You’re all freaks. It’s nothing kinky. What the hell could even be kinky with a raccoon? He just thinks about raccoons more than the average person.
Mercy: It’s a gaze. Or a mask.
Maddox: You lost us.
Ryker: A group of raccoons.
Jax: Like a wisdom of wombats.
Ryker: A mob of kangaroos.
Cash: A conspiracy of lemurs.
Maddox: I propose changing the raccoon story to the following in the spirit of inclusivity: Master Axel Noire was without a lick of wisdom when attacked in the bootlegger routes this evening.
Caught by a mob, in a conspiracy, and held by a masked gaze, our very own king broke his balls. We apologize for the disturbance.
I can’t smother my laugh, regardless of the possible disruption. “They feed off each other and harass you like this all the time, huh?”
His chest inflates with utter pride, and his lips battle a smile. “Yep. All the time.”
I swipe out a response and show it to him. “Is this okay?”
He chuckles and presses Send.
Me: Slugger has apprehended Papa Axe’s phone. He is indeed a dirty slut. But you might want to tweak your announcement, or he’ll be adding crows to the report.
Mercy: Murder.
Maddox: She gets us, Papa Axe. Let’s keep her.
Once we emerge in his corner of the penthouse, he carries me into the en suite, which is almost a castle in itself.
There’s a skylight through the center of the vaulted ceiling, adorned with hefty wood beams. And a fireplace in the corner, which seems wholly unnecessary in New Orleans, but absolutely divine.
The floor is stone, matching the rock on the accent walls.
The cabinetry is chocolate, the tub is copper, and all of it is opulent and cozy and rustic, with a grand overlook of the city.
Axel starts the shower—which has multiple showerheads shooting from every direction—undresses me, and orders me to sit on a leather bench.
He meticulously folds each item of our clothing, laying them in a neat pile, even though they’ll likely be placed in a hamper. But that barely holds my attention.
Axel is the star. And it isn’t only the sight of his long, thick, pierced cock glistening with precum and raring for another round already.
It’s every inch of him. I knew he was rugged and chiseled because I’d felt him when we sparred in the gym, when I sat on his lap, and when he pressed himself against me, but this is a physique of discipline.
Sculpted thighs and rippled abs. Decades of denying himself and devoting his time to training.
He’s the kind of fit that my father would commend. The form of a warrior.
He has more tattoos than I would’ve expected.
Tattoo doesn’t really sound adequate. He’s adorned in art—a 3D fleur-de-lis, a roulette wheel, storms and Spartans and flames and music notes.
To list it that way sounds haphazard, but it’s a collage that seamlessly blends the separate elements into one depiction of Axel’s story.
Or pain. There’s even an eerily real sapphire eyeball—his only colored tattoo—and in the upper-right corner, it has the faintest reflection of a burning house. Haunting.
“Jax did those?”
“All of them.” More of that fatherly pride seeps from him. “My piercing too.”
I press my hand against my thrashing heart. The realization that this man has not only given his family his time, love, and devotion, but he’s literally donated his body to them nearly mows me over.
“He practices his art on you—or masters it,” I correct.
“Masters.” He spins to show me his back, which has a 3D mural of the Greek god Atlas, holding the heavens. “He’s a genius.”
It’s this out of everything I’ve witnessed, learned, and surmised that has me staring at a demigod in supplication, entranced by the sovereignty emanating from him, even in his nakedness.
A tailored suit has nothing to do with why Axel Noire is ordained to reign.
He was born to rule, and he earns that reverence with every breath in his lungs.
“He’s a genius,” I agree. “And you’re beautiful.”
A tear trickles down my cheek. Maybe he really did kill Keller out of vengeance because he cares with the intensity he mentioned.
For me. When I deserve the opposite. I don’t know how to navigate this—the ache in my chest for Tripp and my father, the draw to be enfolded into the warmth of this incredible family, the need to not be seen as a failure at my job while also conflicted about who I am, and the depth of emotion swarming me for the best man I’ve ever known.
Without a word, he wipes the drop of my turmoil, carts me beneath the rainfall showerhead, and washes me from head to toe. He massages my scalp, scrubs the soles of my feet, and dotes on every pore in between—with cherry blossom and vanilla bath products similar to what I use.
Noting the curiosity on my face, he simply says, “I guessed based on your scent. I wanted you to feel at home.”
He planned for me to be here.
I needed to hear that more than he could fathom. Or maybe he does.
“I like being used.” I’m not sure why that confession pops out of my mouth. Maybe because the pampering feels undeserved, and while I like him taking care of me, I also like him taking from me.
He nods, steps out of the shower, grabs his Hermès crocodile leather belt, and weaves it around my wrists and the showerhead above me.
His pampering turns into him feasting on my pussy again until I come, then pumping into me from behind for another orgasm, and eventually getting rid of the belt, pushing me to my knees, and ruthlessly fucking my throat while I touch myself at his insistence.
He fists my wet hair, driving into me until I’m a teary-eyed mess from his ornamental crown engraving my tonsils and my jaw is practically unhinged with the most enlivening pang.
After I climax again—though I honestly don’t know how my body is managing at this point—he comes all over the front of me, painting my face and chest and stomach with a cascade of his release before washing me again and praising me for being so good for him.