Chapter 6
Magnum
Our alarms both went off at the same time, six hours after I’d turned the lights off and then relaxed with her in my arms, listening to her breathe while I considered how our morning would go before I finally let sleep take me.
And so, seconds after we’d both reached to the table on our side of the bed and silenced our phones, I was on her, pressing my dick into her sore pussy, fucking her hard and fast right off the bat while my fingers worked her clit, and her mouth opened in a silent scream, her head shook back and forth, and I went even faster and deeper.
I got my rocks off in under three minutes, and then I was up and off her, ordering her to hands and knees so I could remove the plug.
It would’ve been easy to take the night-cincher off from there, but completely unsatisfying for both of us.
“Grab the bar, slave.”
Only when she was hanging from my makeshift chin-up bar did I remove it, give her permission to drop, and then ask those all-important words to take us out of high-protocol and give her a measure of her autonomy back.
“Who am I?”
“Magnum, Sir,” she whispered, still trying to catch her breath.
“Exactly right.” I stepped back. “We’re on a tight schedule. What do you need from me? I made breakfast sandwiches we can eat in the car. I assume you want coffee?”
“I do. Thank you.” She took a deep breath.
“Go, do whatever you need to do somewhere else, please. I need a little space to wash my face, fix my hair, make sure I have all the makeup I’ll need in the car, and then get dressed.
” She sighed. “Also, a shirt to wear in the car so I don’t get food or makeup on my clothes. ”
She motioned for me to go, and I grabbed my toiletry bag along with the clothes I’d wear for the day — black dress pants with a black turtleneck — and I left.
We were out the door forty minutes later, and we both drank coffee and ate while I followed Google’s directions to get me out of her city and onto the interstate. She’s literally just right over the river from New Jersey, so we were out of Pennsylvania within ten minutes.
It was a whirlwind of a day, and I only fell more madly in love with her as the day went on, watching her change and transform her look in between high-stress interviews, and then watching her handle professionals with their own hour-long news shows try to get her to answer impossible questions while she made the interviews go the way she wanted.
She was professional and polished while she answered what she chose, redirected what she didn’t, and left them following her structure instead of the other way around.
I’d already known she was good, but watching her live in the studio, so I could feel the heat of the spotlights while I watched her completely control the narrative, especially when the stakes were highest — by the end of the day I was even more in love with her, when I hadn’t thought it possible.
It was a grueling day for me, and I was just following her and acting as support. Thankfully, every green room had tons of food, so we never had to stop for a meal, since we both snacked off and on throughout the day.
After the third appearance, she used a selfie stick to do a live shot in the middle of Times Square, and I stood nearby and made sure she was safe while her attention was solely on the camera, rather than potential pickpockets. Or fucking kidnappers.
The last appearance of the day was a huge fucking deal, where she was sitting in a group of panelists, all of them experts, knowledgeable about the case, and they discussed and debated the legalities from every angle, and where the government and the attorneys were likely to go, moving forward.
Two women and three men on the panel, but this wasn’t about gender, it was about professionals having a public conversation, debating and discussing.
I learned just how dirty and mean the news business can be during the commercial breaks — but my Storm held her own and still looked perfect when they went back on the air.
Her driver was great. Beyond great. He dropped her off at each door, she texted him to let him know when we were on our way back to it, and he was waiting for us all but one time, when he was thirty yards away in traffic, working his way to us when we stepped out of the building.
Still, it was a huge relief when we were finally back to the luxury SUV I’d rented, and I was behind the wheel once again.
She spent twenty minutes online, reading comments on her live shot out loud so I’d know what she was doing, and then dictating responses to her phone when appropriate, fixing the typos, and moving to the next.
“Okay,” she eventually told me, “it seems today was a success. Huge pain in the ass, but I’m going to keep planning these every couple of weeks as long as the big news guys keep wanting me.”
“Do you have an agent or representative who schedules these things for you?”
She shook her head. “Nope. It’s all me.” She turned her phone face down on her thigh and rested her head back against the headrest.
She was silent about five minutes before saying, “We haven’t really talked yet. How is Mason doing?”
“I think he was the exception to the other victims. He thrived in that environment — being told what to do, forced to stay in top shape, and given an outlet for his aggression. He felt bad about having to hurt people, and worse about having to kill them. It isn’t like he enjoyed that part of it, and he’s pissed to have it added to his already problematic karma — I gather there’s a ton of baggage around that, but he’s not doing so well away from the structure. ”
“So then someone needs to give him that,” she pointed out, and I smiled.
“We’re working on it.”
“He was the star of the fights,” she pointed out. “Unbeatable, and there are notes about them making him throw a fight a few weeks before, threatening to hurt the others if he won. Everyone was betting he’d win, so they got a ton of income that weekend, but they only did it once.”
“Right, threatening to hurt the women when he misbehaved was the way they controlled him, since he wasn’t… isn’t… afraid of pain.”
I didn’t mention to her that I got the feeling his sexuality was all fucked up, after being tied down and raped so often, thousands of times. I’d picked it up from hints here and there, along with the odd places his scent would go at the most inexplicable times.
Mason was still fucked up, but he was working for our construction arm, and we’d put him to work with our team that sets up the concrete forms, putting them together and then tearing them down.
It was hard work and long hours, but it kept him busy and active, and gave him a close, well-run team he was part of.
He was living in a tent on our construction yard. We’d offered to put a bed in an office for him, so he could live indoors, but he wanted to be outside. There was a shower and facility for him inside, though, and a place he could go in bad weather, if he chose, though he rarely did.
But I didn’t share all of that with her, just the job he’s doing for us, and the fact that he was actually talking to the fifth therapist we’d put him with. She’s out of Chattanooga and is retired, but she’d agreed to work with him as a favor to Dawg, one of our brothers in Chattanooga.
I had to tell Storm they mostly talk over video calls, but the truth is, this chick can teleport, so she just flashes to Mason when it’s time for their three-times-per-week appointments. And since she knows about supernaturals, he’s free to bring his inner hawk into their talks, too.
“Do you know how John is doing?” she asked.
I blew out a breath. “Not great. He lived with his sister and her family for a few weeks, but then went back to the streets.”
What I couldn’t tell her was that Brooke, the local Master Vampire, had taken an interest in him, and I thought he might end up being okay.
She has a knack for helping people who can’t or won’t fit into society.
For now, he was only visiting her, but I figured it was just a matter of time before he agreed to move into one of her many estates, and do whatever job the two of them decided would be best — landscaper, driver, cook, or whatever other job he’d do between being food for the vampires.
Like just about all Master Vampires, Brooke requires every group of shifters living in her territory to offer tribute on a schedule. Turtles are considered a delicacy, and I’ve been food for a vampire a handful of times, but never for Brooke, thankfully.
Still, it isn’t terrible. They can make their bite feel damned good. Uncomfortably good — and for some drug addicts, it can replace the addiction.
I wanted Storm to fall asleep, but she didn’t. She was wired from her day, so we talked about the victims the entire hour and a half left of our drive.
When we made it back to her place, I took her straight to the shower, where I massaged and cleaned every inch of her, my intent to both soothe and tease.
When we were both clean, I dried my tired little slave-girl, zipped her into the nighttime cincher, and worked a mid-sized plug up her ass while she whimpered — but her hips moved and humped the bed a little.
No shoes this time, since she only had to walk a half-dozen steps to the bed, and she did so on her toes because she really is a good girl, even exhausted. The routine settled something in both of us, and I could scent her relief even as she muttered complaints about being too tired.
I understood completely. My Stormy girl needed the structure more than she needed rest.