Chapter 9
Saint
We've been at this for two months. Fucking with Adrian.
It was small at first.
A painting defaced, and then, a sculpture bought out from under him. Our focus has been on making it harder for him to hide his money.
But when he started finding work arounds, we escalated. And as our plans got more dangerous, the sex... The fucking sex...
Well, it got hotter.
Which is how we ended up in my office discussing our biggest hit since the gallery with my cock firmly in Gemma's tight little pussy.
"The shipment comes in Tuesday," I say, spreading the blueprints across my desk. "Three a.m. Red Hook docks."
"Adrian will have, fuck—" Gemma's words cut off in a gasp as I thrust up into her.
She's draped across my desk, dress hiked up, and my cock is disappearing inside of her, slowly. We'd been at this for half an hour. That's all I could stand.
First, I had her sit on me, warm my cock, as I discussed plans with her. My fingers teased her pretty nipples, but as she grew wetter and wetter, and she started squirming, my plans shifted from cock warming and teasing to all-out fucking.
Now, I'm thrusting into her hard as I show her blueprints.
Multitasking at its finest.
"Focus," I tell her, swatting at her ass. "Adrian will have what?"
She glares at me, breathless and flushed. "Guards. At least six. Maybe eight."
"Good." I thrust again. I had a mirror installed across from my desk, and I can see her flushed face. She's trying to keep it together, but she's failing as inch by inch I claim her. Over and over. "And the routes?"
"Two ways in. North entrance is, Saint, I can't think when you're—" She lets out a low moan, and I can see her eyes are heavy with pleasure.
"Yes, you can." I reach between us, find her clit with my thumb. Circle it slowly. "Two ways in. North entrance is what?"
"Camera coverage," she gasps, tightening slightly. I close my eyes briefly, trying to regain control. "South entrance has a blind spot between—oh God—"
"Between?"
"Between two and four a.m. When the guards rotate."
"Perfect." I increase the pressure on her clit, and she clenches around me. "You're so fucking smart, you know that?" I press my lips against her neck. There's a spot right under her ear that she loves, and I press my teeth against it.
"Fuck Saint."
I chuckle, pressing into her so hard that she jerks on the table. "I'm trying," I say.
"Let me come, Saint." She tightens around me, and I want to finish her, so I can finish myself. But we have business to conclude before we can get to the rest of the pleasure.
I grin. "Tell me about the warehouse."
"You're insane."
I pull out, thrusting in slowly.
"You love it."
She does. I can feel it in the way she's gripping me, the way her breath comes faster when I make her work for it.
This has been our routine since we started this. Planning operations. Executing them. Fucking each other senseless in every available location—my office, our bedroom, the back of the car, against the wall in the hallway when we couldn't wait to get to a room.
She even let me fuck her in a dressing room as I watched her shop for lingerie.
It's been the best month of my life, sex wise. And honestly, business wise as well. We've enjoyed a fruitful partnership.
Adrian is paranoid and desperate. The Neros are hemorrhaging money and credibility. And I have a partner who's brilliant, ruthless, and takes my cock like she was made for it.
"The warehouse," I prompt, still moving inside her. Slow. Torturous.
"Single floor. High ceilings. Shipping containers, fuck, Saint, please." She's practically howling. I've edged her so well, I know I just need to hit one small spot, and she'll explode.
"Please what?"
"Let me come. I'll tell you anything." I look up at the mirror. Tears are shining in her eyes.
"I know you will." I grip her hips, start moving her faster. Harder. But not giving her what she needs. "But I want to hear about the security first."
She releases a sob, but she continues. "Motion sensors on the main floor. But the office level—" She's close. I can feel her fluttering as she tries to hold off. "Office level is clear after midnight."
"Good girl." I thrust up hard, angle changed to hit that spot that makes her scream. I add a finger to her back passage, something I've learned she enjoys, and she howls. "Come."
She does, clenching around me, crying out my name. I follow seconds later, spilling inside her with a groan.
We sit there for a moment, both breathing hard. Her forehead rests against the desk, and I press a kiss against her throat before pulling out.
"You're an asshole," she says, but there's no heat in it. Her muscles shake.
"You're the one who came to my office wearing that dress."
"You texted me to come here."
"Didn't tell you to wear this." I run my hands up her thighs, bringing the silky fabric with me. "Practically an invitation."
She grabs tissues from my desk and cleans herself up while I tuck myself back in.
"So, Tuesday night?" she asks, pulling her dress down. It's all silk and lace, making her look like a virgin sacrifice. The sight immediately got me hard when she walked inside, and even now, I want to get on my knees and worship her flesh.
"Tuesday night." I stand, move around the desk.
"I want to come."
"No."
We've been over this. And over it. And over it. And frankly, I'm getting fucking annoyed by it.
"Saint—"
"No." I cup her face, making her look at me. "You give me the intel. I do the dangerous part. That's the deal."
She scowls but doesn't argue further. This time. I know she's going to continue to bug me about this. She's not content to just take my cock and give me intel. She wants in the mix.
And there's absolutely no fucking way that will be happening.
"I need to use the bathroom," she says, sauntering away from the desk.
"Go ahead."
She disappears into the private bathroom attached to my office. I turn back to the blueprints, making notes, planning the approach.
This is good. This partnership. She's exceeded every expectation.
I've had plenty of women. But none like her. None who could match me, challenge me, make me want to skip sleep just to have her again.
She wasn't kidding when she said she'd let me do anything. And that level of control is like an aphrodisiac, and I absolutely can't get enough.
The bathroom door opens. Gemma emerges, face pale.
"What's wrong?" I stand up, concerned.
"My period started."
The words hit like a physical blow. "What?"
"My period. I'm not pregnant."
Eighteen weeks. Eighteen fucking weeks of trying. Every night, sometimes even twice a day. And nothing.
"Why?" The question comes out harsher than I intended.
She flinches as if I hit her. "What are you saying?"
"Why aren't you pregnant? We've been—" I gesture between us. "We're having sex constantly. You should be pregnant by now."
Her face hardens. "I don't know, Saint. Maybe it's stress. Maybe it's—"
"Are you doing something to prevent it?" The words slip out before I can stop them. I know I need to handle Gemma with an easier hand, but I can't fathom how the fuck we haven't created a kid yet. It doesn't make sense.
"What? No!"
"How do I know that?" I grip the edge of my desk hard enough that my knuckles turn white. Antonio has been on my fucking ass for weeks about getting Gemma pregnant, and I was fucking sure that this time took.
"Fuck off." She grabs her bag from the chair. "I'm not sabotaging this. Trust me, I want to get pregnant just as much as you want me to be. The sooner I get pregnant, the sooner this ends."
Her words are supposed to wound me. They don't. Every time she tells me we've failed, I have to report to Antonio. And he's getting sicker, and we aren't delivering the one thing he wants.
"Gemma—" I run a hand through my hair. I want to explain this to her, but she's pissed, and she's not paying attention. I reach for her, but she pulls back.
"No. Don't." She's at the door now, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know what I am to you. A womb. An asset. So don't pretend you care about anything other than the fact that I'm failing at my primary purpose."
I roll my eyes at her. "Let's not be theatrical—"
"Fuck you."
She slams the door behind her so hard the mirror I installed shakes.
I stand there, staring at the closed door.
That went poorly. Incredibly so.
I'm going over the Tuesday plans alone when Antonio appears in my doorway.
"Busy?" he asks.
"Always." I don't look up from the blueprints. I'm focused on work, and I'm not interested in hearing Antonio's disappointment in my inability to knock my wife up.
Not that he cares what I'm doing. He walks in and takes a seat. "You seem...different lately."
I lift my head.
"Different how?"
"Happier. Despite the fact that Gemma still isn't pregnant and Nero is breathing down our necks about the attacks."
I glance up. "You want me to be miserable?" I ask, confused. "My happiness is bad?"
"I want to understand what's changed." He sits across from me, and I see the toll that the cancer is taking on him. His face is thin, and his eyes look sunken. "A month ago, you were going through the motions. Now you're...engaged. Excited, even." There's a note of suspicion in his voice.
Fuck, he suspects something. And why wouldn't he? The only time I'm this jovial is when I'm killing. And there hasn't been much chance for that lately.
"The Neros called me. They're concerned about Gemma. They haven't heard from her."
I snort. "Adrian isn't exactly her favorite person," I remind my uncle. "She blames him for this marriage. More than she even blames me."
"Even so," he says, "have her call. Check in."
I want to tell him I don't tell my wife what to do. But that would be a lie. I love commanding her. I just don't think she needs to kiss her brother's ass. He's not really concerned about her. He told me as much.
"I also want to talk about why she is still not pregnant—"
My jaw tightens. "It's been eighteen weeks. Everyone is acting like we've been at this for years."
"I am simply thinking that perhaps we need to consider if everything is…" he trails off. "Alright."
"Alright?" Where is he going with this? My chest feels tight as I think about the look on Gemma's face when she told me her period came.
"In working order?"
"With my cock?" I laugh. "I can assure you—"
"No," he snaps. "With your wife."
His words stop me dead. I'm not laughing anymore.
"We should have her see a specialist." He shakes his head. "Honestly, I should have forced that before the wedding. Fertility rates in women—"
"No," I cut him off. "No, fucking way."
"Saint—" There's a warning in his voice.
"I said no." My voice is cold. Hard. "No one is examining her. No one is touching her. She's fine, and she will conceive."
"You can't know that."
"I know she doesn't need some doctor poking around because you're fucking dying." I stand. "Tell the Neros to back off and take that same advice. An heir will come. It's been less than five months."
Antonio raises an eyebrow. "Since when do you care?"
"Gemma is my wife. She will not be paraded around because you want to make sure she can produce. She's twenty-five for fuck's sake. There's nothing wrong with her."
Antonio looks at me, a gleam of interest in his eye.
"Protective." He says it like he's tasting the word. "Interesting."
"Is there a point to this?"
"Just that you should be careful. Attachment can be dangerous in our world."
"I'm not attached. I'm practical. Women are only fertile six days a month. This is a timing issue. That is all."
"If you say so." He stands. "But Saint? Whatever this is with her... don't lose sight of what's important. The succession of this family. Everything else is secondary."
He leaves without another word, and I sit back down, staring at the blueprints without seeing them.
Attachment.
Is that what this is?
I run through the evidence:
I think about her constantly. I look forward to our planning sessions. I want to fuck her multiple times a day. I care what she thinks. I get angry when she's upset. I just threatened my uncle for suggesting someone examine her.
Fuck.
I might be attached.
Who wouldn't be? Her pussy is like gold, and her mind would be a terrible thing to waste.
I'm a psychopath, but I know biology. Most couples take months to conceive. Just because Sera Nero is apparently a walking fertility statue doesn't mean Gemma is the same.
Fuck, Gemma. She's pissed, which means no sex. No help. Back to the cold shoulder.
I need to fix this. The thing with her period. The argument.
I need her sharp, which means I need to fix it.
And she needs to get over her delicately hurt feelings.
I leave my office, head to our bedroom. It's late—past midnight. She might be asleep.
The room is dark when I enter. I can make out her shape under the covers, facing away from me.
"I know you're awake," I say.
She doesn't respond.
I undress, climb into bed. Instead of keeping to my side like I usually do, I move closer. Wrap an arm around her waist. Pull her back against my chest.
She stiffens. "What are you doing?"
"Sleeping."
"You never—we don't—"
"Well, we are now."
She's quiet for a moment. "I'm still mad at you."
"I know."
"You can't just hold me and make it better."
"I'm not trying to make it better. I'm just..." What? What am I doing? "Here."
Another long pause. Then she relaxes slightly, settling against me.
"You're an asshole," she says softly.
"I know."
"I'm trying. I really am. I don't know why it's not working."
"I know."
"And you asking me like I'm... like I'm deliberately failing..."
I press my face into her hair. She smells like vanilla and something uniquely her. "I shouldn't have said that."
"Is that an apology?"
"It's an acknowledgment."
"You're impossible."
"You like it."
She huffs, but I feel her hand come up to rest on my arm. Holding me there.
We lie in silence. My mind is racing, trying to categorize what I'm feeling. Trying to justify it.
She's useful. That's why I'm here. She's good at planning operations. Good at reading people. Good at gathering intel. Good in bed.
That's all this is.
I appreciate her as an asset.
I hold her tighter. She's a belonging. A possession. And one day, she'll give birth to my son. Until then, everyone can shut the fuck up about it.