Page 82 of The Enslaved Duet

“Well, I’ve heard a rumor that you’re hoping to acquire NF News. I wanted to talk to you about using Winston to sweeten the deal.”

“No.”

“Don’t be so hasty. Mr. Winston might be a new affiliate of the Order, but he is still a brother, and as such, he gets priority in these kinds of situations.”

“No,” Alexander repeated coldly. “I’ve told you countless times before, and I am not a fan of repeating myself, Benedict. I will not pad my portfolio with dirty Order money and politics, I do quite well enough without them and I’d rather not have the headache.”

“I don’t care whether or not you ‘don’t want the headache,’” Sherwood seethed quietly. “You are a part of this Order and this is how things are done.”

“If membership could be rescinded, you know I’d be gone.”

There was a deep, ugly silence like a festering wound.

“Think about your priorities, Thornton,” Sherwood advised in his silken tones that even I knew signified a threat. “You wouldn’t want to end up like your dear old mum, dead before you time.”

The air around the table turned electric, and I was sure, for one terrifying second, that Alexander would strike down the man where he stood.

Instead, his voice was dry ice as he said, “The next time you mention my mother or threaten me, make sure you have a gun in your hand to back it up with immediately because I’ll come for you. And you won’t like what happens when I catch you.”

He stood back from his chair and offered me his hand so I could get to my feet in my towering heels.

“We’re leaving,” he growled softly just to me as we began to weave through the tables.

A few men called out to Alexander, but he ignored them.

I was happy to leave that place and particularly those people, but a small part of me was sad we wouldn’t be able to have our scene.

“Don’t worry,topolina,” he whispered into my ear as he held the door open for me and then swatted my ass when I moved by. “I’ll fuck your sweet arse the moment we get home.”

I squeezed my hand firmly over the thick, veiny length of Alexander’s cock until a pearl of precum beaded at the tip. It was my favourite game, teasing him and playing with his gorgeous cock using only my hands so that I could lick off every drop of moisture as it pooled at the head.

It tasted divine, communion from a sacred church.

“Hands behind your head.”

Before I could even consciously compute the words, my hands were linked at the back of my scalp. Alexander slid his hands through the gaps in my bent arms and wove our fingers together in my hair.

Then he began to slowly, firmly fuck my throat.

He used me at his own pace, dragging the weight of his cock out of my throat and over my tongue so gradually I couldn’t help but gag and swallow around him. On each inward thrust, he ground his hips into me, my nose against the coarse brown hairs over his pubic bone as he forced me to take him to the very root even though I could barely breathe.

It was methodical torture.

I never could have known how sensitive my mouth could be, how each rasp of his head over the crown of my mouth could feel sublime, and how every time he sank in my throat, I’d feel so resplendently full.

The place between my legs was a wetland.

I could feel how wet I was as I rubbed my thighs together, desperate for friction.

“Get that cock nice and wet and ready to take your arse,” Alexander ordered in his perfect, upper-crust tones.

I sucked hard, desperate to hear him groan.

His hands tightened in my hair painfully in response, and he hissed as I flicked my tongue over him before he pulled completely out of my mouth.

His face was a mask of pure lust as he rubbed his thumb over my swollen, damp, and red lips. “Go to the window.”

I was surprised because we were in the bedroom next to a colossal bed with posts only Alexander could find so many ways to utilize, but I followed his orders. The window was huge, stretching from one side of the wall to another. It was one of the many modern architectural details in his otherwise very traditional Mayfair home that made it incredibly beautiful.