Chapter 10
NIKOLAI
The sight of her kneeling there—my cum glistening on her swollen lips, tears tracking down her flushed cheeks—is so fucking hot. My cock twitches in my pants, already trying to get hard again despite just coming harder than I have in years.
I want to push her down on this concrete floor and fuck her until she’s dripping with me.
Want to fill her cunt over and over until there’s no question who she belongs to.
The image flashes through my mind with startling clarity: Jenna’s belly swollen with my child, breasts heavy with milk, still taking my cock whenever I demand it.
What the fuck?
My hands clench into fists at my sides. I don’t want children. Never have. The very thought of creating life, of being responsible for another human being that way, has always made my stomach turn. The program made sure of that—we’re weapons, not fathers. Broken things don’t make whole ones.
But looking at her now, all I can think about is breeding her like she’s mine to keep. Watching my cum drip out of her used pussy only to push it back in, making sure it takes. Keeping her barefoot and pregnant, a prized bitch to mount whenever the urge strikes.
The thoughts feel alien in my skull, like another version of me is thinking them. This isn’t who I am. I acquire targets for clients. I don’t keep them. I definitely don’t fantasize about knocking them up and playing house in some sick parody of normalcy.
She shifts slightly, wincing at the pressure on her knees, and even that small movement draws my focus like a laser sight. Her throat works as she swallows, trying to clear the taste of me. She won’t quite meet my eyes but won’t look away either.
I need to leave and get away from her before I do something that can’t be undone. Before these insane thoughts become actions and I ruin everything we’ve built here.
But I can’t move. Can’t stop staring at her mouth.
I grab her arm and haul her to her feet, her legs unsteady from kneeling on the concrete. She stumbles, and I catch her waist, lifting her onto the narrow cot. The thin mattress creaks under her weight.
“Spread your legs.”
She hesitates for half a second before obeying, her thighs falling open. I shove my hand between them, finding her jeans soaked through. The denim is warm and wet against my palm.
“Fuck.” The word escapes before I can stop it. “You got this wet just from choking on my cock?”
I work open her jeans, yanking them down just enough to expose her. She’s barely contained by a skimpy little thong. My fingers push it aside and slide through her folds, and she’s absolutely drenched, her arousal coating my fingers instantly.
“Look at you.” I push two fingers inside her without warning. She’s tight, clenching around me immediately. “Your cunt is fucking dripping for me.”
Her hips buck when I curl my fingers, finding that spot that makes her whole body tense. I press my thumb to her clit, circling roughly. She bites her lip, trying to stay quiet, but a whimper escapes.
“That’s it.” I pump my fingers faster, feeling her walls flutter. “Show me how much you need this.”
The mask feels suffocating. I want to taste her, to bury my face between her thighs and drink her down until she screams. Want to feel her come on my tongue, against my lips. But I can’t take it off. Can’t let her see me.
So I work her with my hands instead, three fingers stretching her now while my thumb maintains pressure on her clit. Her chest works for air, heaving. She’s close—I can feel her muscles tighten, and I notice her thighs start to shake.
“You’re going to come for me.” Not a question. A statement of fact. “Going to come on my fingers like the desperate little thing you are.”
She makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, her hands fisting in the thin sheets. Her cunt clenches rhythmically around my fingers, and I know she’s right on the edge.
“Fuck, baby, that’s it. Come for me.”
The desperate words spill out before I can stop them. She clenches hard around my fingers, her whole body going rigid as the orgasm crashes through her. I watch her face contort with pleasure, feel her pulse around me.
Baby?
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t call anyone baby, don’t use pet names or endearments. That’s not who I am. I’m The Hunter. I acquire targets. I don’t—
She’s still shaking, aftershocks making her twitch around my fingers. The sight of her sprawled on the cot, jeans shoved down, thighs spread wide and glistening with her own arousal—it’s doing things to me I can’t control.
My cock is rock hard again, straining against its confines. Every instinct screams to mount her right now, to sink into that wet heat and claim her properly. To fill her up until she’s dripping with me, until there’s no question who owns her.
I pull my fingers out slowly, watching her sensitive flesh clench at the loss. She makes a soft sound, almost disappointed, and I have to physically stop myself from giving her what we both want.
“Eat.” The word comes out barely human. I gesture at the tray I brought earlier, now cold and forgotten on the floor. “You need food.”
She’s still catching her breath, looking at me with those gray-green eyes that see too much. I can’t be here anymore. Can’t trust myself not to do something irreversible.
I turn and stride to the door, slamming my hand into the pannel with fingers that still glisten with her. The lock disengages, and I’m through it in seconds, slamming it shut behind me.
The moment I’m alone in the corridor, I rip the mask off. The cool air hits my face, but does nothing to calm the fire under my skin. Without thinking, I bring my fingers to my mouth.
Her taste explodes across my tongue—musky and sweet and perfect. I suck each finger clean like a starving animal, groaning at her flavor. My other hand presses against the wall for support as I lick between my knuckles, chasing every drop of her.
This is insanity. I’m coming apart at the seams, and it’s only been three days since I took her.
The bass thrums through Infinity’s walls like a heartbeat, vibrating up through the Italian marble floors and into my bones. Our club. Our domain. The one place in Chicago where we can drop the masks—metaphorically, at least—and just exist.
I lean against the mahogany bar, watching Theon explain molecular structures to Dominic while a brunette in lingerie works his cock with her mouth. He doesn’t even pause his explanation, one hand gesturing at the air while the other threads through her hair.
“The binding affinity increases exponentially when you add the methyl group here—” He breaks off with a grunt as she does something with her tongue. “Fuck. As I was saying, it creates a more stable compound that—Jesus Christ, use your throat—that metabolizes slower.”
Dominic takes notes on a napkin. “And the detection window?”
“Nonexistent if you—” Theon’s hips jerk. “If you time the doses right.”
From the poker room, Darius’s voice carries over the music. “That’s literally the worst bluff I’ve ever seen, Damon. Your eye is twitching.”
“My eye doesn’t twitch.”
“It’s twitching right now!”
“That’s concentration.”
Ezra’s dry voice cuts through their bickering. “Statistically, Damon has tells on forty-three percent of his hands. Darius has tells on sixty-eight percent. Neither of you should play poker.”
“Then why do you keep losing?” Damon asks.
“Because you’re both cheating. Badly.”
I move to the billiards area where Lucien lines up a shot, a redhead draped over his shoulder, her hands wandering under his shirt. Marcus watches from across the table, his own companion—a muscled dancer in tear-away pants—grinding against him.
“Hundred says you miss,” Marcus challenges.
“Make it five.” Lucien doesn’t even blink as the woman bites his neck.
“Deal.”
The cue ball cracks against the eight, sending it spinning toward the corner pocket. It drops clean.
“Motherfucker.” Marcus peels bills from his wallet while his dancer laughs.
“Your sensory shit doesn’t help with winning billiards,” Lucien grins, pocketing the cash.
“Speaking of sensory,” Marcus straightens, all business despite the half-naked man attached to his hip. “Got a ping from one of my sources. Financial investigators started asking questions about shell companies that trace back to our interests.”
My phone screen glows in my peripheral vision. Camera four shows Jenna curled on the cot, knees drawn to her chest. I swipe to camera two which shows a different angle, same position. She hasn’t moved in twenty-three minutes.
“Another round?” Raphael appears at my elbow, bottle of Macallan in hand.
“Yeah.” I hold out my glass without looking up.
“Fascinating stuff on that screen.” His voice carries that particular tone—the one that sounds casual but isn’t. “Must be important.”
I pocket the phone. “Just checking operations.”
“Operations.” He pours two fingers of scotch. “Right.”
Across the room, Darius catches my eye and grins. That’s never good. He whispers something to the blonde on his lap, who giggles and slides off. He strides over with that particular swagger that means he’s about to be Darius.
“Nik! Perfect timing. We’re doing body shots.” He grabs my arm. “Come on, you look like you need to loosen up.”
“I’m good here.”
“Bullshit. You’re wound tighter than Ezra during tax season.”
Ezra speaks without looking up from his cards. “Statistically speaking, sexual frustration increases cortisol levels by—”
“Nobody asked for math, Ez.” Darius tugs my arm again. “Come on. That brunette’s been eyeing you for weeks.”
My phone buzzes. I glance down—motion detected, camera one. My thumb hovers over the screen.
“Or maybe you’re too busy with your special project?” Darius’s grin sharpens. “Must be exhausting, all that… surveillance.”
Theon snorts from the couch. “Leave him alone, D. Some of us actually work instead of working out all day.”
“This is work.” Darius gestures at his shirtless torso. “Maintaining assets requires dedication.”
“Your abs aren’t assets,” Dominic says, dealing cards to Lucien. “They’re vanity.”
“Says the man with what, sixty percent ink coverage?”
“Sixty-seven,” Dominic corrects. “And mine serves a purpose.”
“Intimidation isn’t a purpose,” Marcus cuts in.
My phone buzzes again. I resist checking it for four seconds before caving. Jenna’s sitting up now, staring directly at camera two like she knows I’m watching.
“Jesus, Nik.” Darius plants himself in front of me. “Whatever you’re monitoring can wait five minutes. Have a drink. Get your dick sucked. Remember what fun is.”
“I know what fun is.”
“Do you?” Darius snatches my phone. “Because this—” He waves it above his head as I try to grab for it. “This is not fun.”
“Give it back.”
“Make me.” He tosses it to Damon, who catches it without looking up from his cards.
“Real mature.”
“We’re criminals, not mature adults,” Damon says, sliding my phone into his pocket.
Lucien lines up another shot. “Remember when Nik used to be fun? Before he got all broody and mysterious?”
“He was never fun,” Marcus says. “He was just better at faking it.”
“I’m plenty of fun.” The words sound defensive and I inwardly cringe.
“Name one fun thing you’ve done this month,” Theon challenges, finally pushing the brunette off his lap. She pouts but moves to the bar.
“I acquired targets.”
“Work doesn’t count,” Ezra says.
“I went to that club opening with—”
“Also work,” Dominic interrupts. “You were following that scientist for the architects.”
“The point stands.” Darius sprawls across a leather chair like he owns it. Which technically he does. We all do. “Our fearless leader has forgotten how to play.”
“Maybe because someone has to keep you assholes alive,” I counter.
“Protective Daddy Nik,” Raphael drawls. “So responsible. So boring.”
“I seem to remember pulling your ass out of that situation in Detroit last month,” I counter.
Raphael grins. “You used to enjoy the chaos. Now you just… manage it.”
“Someone has to be an adult.”
“Why?” Damon finally looks up from his cards. “We’re all killers here. Might as well have fun while doing it.”
“Except Nik’s too busy with his special project,” Darius sing-songs. “Can’t have fun when you’re babysitting.”
“Drop it.”
“What’s her name again? Janet? Jenna?” His grin widens as my jaw tightens. “Oh, I touched a nerve. Definitely Jenna then.”
“You know,” Lucien says conversationally, sinking another ball, “statistically speaking, the more Nik denies being whipped, the more whipped he probably is.”
“That’s not how statistics work,” Ezra protests.
“Can it, Ez, we’re having fun,” Marcus adds.
“You’re all idiots.” But I’m fighting a smile now. These assholes. My assholes.
“Better than being boring,” Theon counters. “When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Not for work, not for planning, just… because?”
The moment I took Jenna, because she isn’t an acquisition for a buyer—she’s mine.
And I can’t bring myself to tell them that just over three hours ago I did exactly what I wanted—shoved my cock down Jenna’s throat until she gagged, watched tears streak down her face while she struggled to breathe around me.
Can’t explain how I came harder than I had in years, or how the sound she made when I finally let her breathe is burned into my memory.
Can’t mention how I made her spread her legs after finding her soaked through her panties like some part of her wanted what I did to her. How I worked her with my fingers until she shattered, her back arching off that shitty cot while she tried not to make noise.
“See?” Darius waves a hand in front of my face. “He’s doing it again. That thousand-yard stare thing.”
“Probably calculating how to murder us all,” Raphael suggests.
“Or thinking about his girlfriend,” Damon adds.
“She’s not my—” I catch myself because I can’t exactly explain what she is. My captive. The woman I can’t stop thinking about fucking.
“Not your what?” Darius leans forward. “Come on, share with the class.”
My phone buzzes in Damon’s pocket. He doesn’t move to give it back.
“You know what your problem is?” Marcus sets down his pool cue. “You’ve forgotten you’re allowed to want things. We’re all guilty of it at times.”
“I want plenty.”
“Name one thing,” Theon challenges. “One thing you want that isn’t about hunting down names on a list.”
I want to fuck Jenna until she screams. Want to mark her, own her, keep her.
“Silence speaks volumes,” Ezra observes.
“Maybe he wants us to shut up,” Lucien suggests.
“Maybe he wants his phone back to check on his girlfriend,” Darius grins.
They’re getting too close to the truth. These assholes know me too well, and can read the tension in my shoulders.
“You’re all drunk,” I deflect.
“Not drunk enough,” Dominic counters. “Neither are you.”
“Here.” Raphael slides a fresh glass across the bar. “Doctor’s orders.”
I take it because it’s easier than arguing. The scotch burns, but not enough to wash away the memory of Jenna on her knees, looking up at me.