9. Conrad
Conrad
I feel her the second she steps into the room.
It’s always been like this with her. A magnetic shift I can’t explain—like the air sharpens, gravity shifts, and every fucking sense I have zeroes in on her.
She hasn’t said a word, hasn’t even crossed the threshold, but I know she’s here.
My whole body reacts—tightens, tunes, waits.
It’s disgusting, really, how easy she makes it to lose control. Even now. Even after everything.
I want to drag her straight to the floor. Peel her clothes off with a knife. Fuck her until she remembers why she should’ve never left in the first place. But I won’t. Not yet.
Not when we finally have her caged.
The game is better this way. Slower. Hungrier. We agreed to rules, and for once, I’m glad we did. It’ll make it even sweeter when she’s the one who breaks.
The urge to run to her, to start the game immediately and demand that she get on her knees for me, is almost overwhelming. But I can’t.
That would break the rules.
Earlier today, over lunch, the guys and I had a long conversation about how this was going to play out.
We all want her—I knew of my friends’ interest before Phoenix and I ever got together.
It didn’t matter then, and it doesn’t matter now.
None of us are opposed to sharing her, but we want to take our time.
Savor her and this twisted arrangement we’ve locked her into.
We don’t have her for just the summer. We have her for an entire year.
We want to make the game last and keep things interesting.
The objective is the simple: the first one to get her begging for their cock, desperate and wet, coming to him on her own and begging him to fuck her, will be the winner.
It was Atticus’s idea to put in the contract that she wasn’t allowed to masturbate unless one of us was watching. The consequence would be an immediate dismissal without pay. I have to hand it to him—that was genius.
Though, I don’t think any of us have any intentions of following through with that consequence. The threat hanging over her head makes the game all the more interesting, because if we catch her touching herself, we can punish her.
I really, really want to punish her. I’m overdue. This contract we’ve locked her into…it makes things so much easier.
We don’t really expect her to follow all of the rules we had her sign off to…it would be next to impossible. If she breaks a rule—like masturbating—it creates a loophole where we can punish her and absolve her of her crime.
Brilliant.
As the sons of casino owners, games are our turf. We know how to keep them interesting, how to keep the players hooked, and most importantly, how to win.
Poker no longer challenges us, blackjack is a joke, craps are annoying, and slot machines are a waste of money. But this kind of game…this could hold our attention for some time. Especially given our history.
Since we agreed on taking our time breaking her, we also agreed that no one would speak to her this first night. No one would touch her. We’ll make sure she knows exactly where she stands in this arrangement.
We are in control.
It doesn’t matter that she was paid to be our minder, our glorified babysitter. I snort a little, making the girl on my lap lean back and toss me a look. I tip my chin, and she gets back to work, grinding on my junk.
She is still just Phoenix Jones, daughter of a deadbeat gambler, and we are still us. The Titans.
They don’t call us that for nothing. We’re the children of the Titan-Wynn Conglomerate, a business started by our parents to create resort and casino experiences across the U.S. The founding resort, Titans’ Folly, is the pinnacle of entertainment and guest hospitality here in Savannah.
There are others, scattered across the United States in other cities. They, too, are impressive in their own right, a legacy we can be proud of.
But it’s here, in Titans’ Folly, where we developed our reputation for ruthlessness.
We are in charge.
Through slitted eyes, I let my gaze wander over the room.
We decided on a party tonight…kind of a welcome event for our little nanny in the event tonight was the night that she showed up.
The living area, consisting of an airy living room, kitchen, bar, and dining table, is full of people. Most of them are naked, or nearly so.
A little smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Our naughty nanny.
After the way her body reacted when I took control of her in my room, I have a feeling she’s actually going to enjoy this arrangement a lot more than we had planned .
It’s fine. I’m all for her enjoying what we decide to allow her to enjoy.
She used to tremble for me. Not in fear. In anticipation.
I can still feel the way her fingers curled around my belt one long ago night on the roof of the hotel, before she ever tasted money or danger or any of this bullshit. When it was just her and me and a bottle of stolen vodka we barely touched. When I thought maybe I could trust her.
That was before she ran. Before she fucking wrecked me.
And now she’s back—on her knees or on the run, I’ll make sure it’s my rules she remembers.
The elevator doors slide open, revealing her standing there, rooted in uncertainty.
Fuck .
It shouldn’t hit me like this.
But it does—like a gut punch in the middle of the chaos I orchestrated. The second she steps into view, my cock gets harder, my pulse gets meaner. It's not supposed to be like this anymore .
I tell myself it’s the game. The setup. The contract. But I know better. I feel it in places I swore I killed off in the past several years.
I watch as her gaze flits around the casual mayhem we’ve designed, watch as the doors begin to slide shut and she sticks a hand out to stop them.
When she walks in the room, the energy shifts—a kind of subtle inhaling of her presence—and I know every one of us is completely, one hundred percent aware of her.
We lock in on her, predator to prey, all of us absorbing her every micro-expression and movement—and yet none of us actually look at her.
Storm’s shoulders tense first. Barely. A slight twitch beneath the collar of his black tee as his knife stops mid-flip.
Atticus’s thumb pauses on the controller.
Maverick lets his poker chips fall in a loose clatter onto the table, his hand curling tighter around his whiskey like he’s imagining it’s her throat.
We don’t speak. Don’t move. But we all feel it—her. The way she smells like fear and pride and bravado, the way her breath catches when she sees us. Her presence coils through the room like smoke, sticky and charged. A promise. A threat .
It takes everything I have not to break formation.
But we made a pact. Tonight, we don’t touch. We don’t speak. We watch. Let her feel the heat of it—every hungry, unforgiving ounce.
We’re pack animals in this moment—calm, still, but ready to strike. She doesn't know it yet, but she just walked into a room where the hunters are only pretending to sleep.
The rules say don’t touch her, so none of us will. But we all want to.
I watch her for a moment through the reflection of a mirror while the big-breasted blonde I hired for the occasion continues to rock on my lap.
Technically, she’s a stripper, hired to dance, but she understands the assignment, and she’s all too willing.
I pretend to watch the way her bare breasts sway in my face as she dry humps me, rubbing her barely covered cunt against my cock while I steal glances at Phoenix. I wonder if she realizes that I only got hard once Phoenix walked in the room. I doubt it.
Maverick sits in the middle of the room at the table, playing strip poker with several girls who are either shit at poker, generally stupid, or very smart judging from their lack of attire. I guess it depends on your point of view.
Atticus has a woman lying naked in front of him, acting as a footstool while he sips champagne and plays video games.
I never did understand Atticus’s particular brand of degradation, but whatever. I suspect Phoenix will lose her shit if he does some of the things he enjoys to her.
Then there’s Storm, sitting with his back to the wall across the room as he flips his knife. He is the only one openly staring at Phoenix, with that creepy-as-fuck thousand yard gaze of his. It’s especially creepy when accompanied by knife play.
He will take one of the girls back to his bedroom eventually. Maybe. She’ll leave in the morning, her eyes haunted. His girls never say a word, just run out of the door, never to be heard from again.
His brand of degradation, I understand, even if I don’t share it.
Although the women are never heard from again, and they never return to the casino, as far as I know, no one has ever complained. No one has tried to press charges. There has been absolutely no fallout from whatever it is he does when they’re alone.
So we leave it alone.
The woman in my lap must finally think that her giant tits have done their job. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I’m not looking at her, that I’m staring instead at Phoenix in the mirror. She slides down my body, unzips my fly, takes out my hard cock, and sucks.
Her mouth is hot and wet, and the pull is just right, practiced. If I close my eyes, I can almost feel something.
But it’s not real. She’s not Phoenix. She doesn’t taste like pain and victory. She doesn’t smell like whiskey and sin.
And yet, I don't stop her. Because I want Phoenix to see it. I want her to squirm.
I can’t stop looking at her. At the way her gaze flits around, never settling but lighting briefly on me getting head, the women Maverick is playing poker with, and then between Atticus and Storm. She twists her fingers together, clearly uncomfortable .
Good.
It’s more than discomfort, though.
I see the way her teeth sink into that lush bottom lip and remember that my little Phoenix likes to watch.
I wonder if it does more for her to watch the blonde suck my cock like a pro, or Maverick reaching over and tweaking the nipple of the girl he’s playing with.
I’ll find out soon enough.
There’ll be plenty of times where she’s going to watch shit like this happen. Soon enough, she’s going to watch it while I touch her. I’ll get to know firsthand what does and doesn’t do it for our little babysitter.
I want her squirming while I touch her. I want her wide-eyed while I make someone else come. And when I finally let her fall apart, she’s going to wonder if I’m punishing her or rewarding her.
The answer will be yes.
“Um,” Phoenix looks around, a dirty duffle bag slung over her shoulder as she takes a tentative step forward like she’s going to ask us a question .
Storm’s knife flies and embeds itself in the drywall just on the other side of Phoenix’s head.
Her eyes go wide. Her lips part and close a few times.
I can see her shake as she backs up to the wall and then slides down to sit with her knees clasped tightly in front of her.
Good girl.
The smile on my lips broadens. Phoenix just might survive the four of us, after all.
The thing is…I’m not worried about her surviving us.
I’m worried I might not survive her .