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It’s a burning, leaking spike while everything else around me goes fuzzy. The need to come vibrates my cells.
“Stop fucking touching yourself,” he growls. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Can’t stop, won’t stop… This is better than cocaine. Way, way better. He’s right. I am fucked up.
He slaps me—a white-hot crack across my face. My cheek lights up with heat, my head lolls, and a noise erupts from my throat that doesn’t sound human. I’m not even sure it was me—it sounded more like a dying animal. Precum spurts from my tip, dribbling over my hand, and I lose my hearing. I’m about to fucking pass out.
Oh fuck, I need to come, I need to come…
He shouts—the sound of pure, frustrated rage. His palm connects with my face again, but suddenly air rushes into my lungs, and a surge of adrenaline shakes me to my fucking core—and I come.
“Ffffuuuckkk…oooohhhh…fffuuuuckk…”
I slide down the wall as my dick explodes with cum. I jerk myself with increasing speed making the orgasm feels endless—like a fucking resurrection. I’m born again. I’m flying.
I’m coming so hard it burns.
I’m still working through it, still milking my cock and riding the rough waves of it when he takes me by the chin and turns my face. Bending down, he spits on me again, but this time, it doesn’t land on my nose and cheek. It lands on my parted lips, and I suck them into my mouth, groaning with the sensation of being alive. I’m a fucking survivor.
I taste him on my tongue. Wintergreen and something darker. All my senses are heightened, allowing me to feel the indentation of his fingerprints on my jaw, hear the air whooshing in and out of his lungs.
“Not so perfect now, are you, sir?” His lips are so close to my ear, his words vibrate my skull.
He shoves my face aside. The slam of the door startles me, and I stare down at myself, splotchy, blue hands and feet, cum-drenched crotch. My dick is still hard and bright red.
It’s possible I’ve been too judgmental about Elodie’s…preferences.
I lie down on my side and shut my eyes, the cool marble floor a balm to everything Drew set on fire. The next thing I know, it’s dark again.
7
DREW
It’s been five days, and I still have a job. Olivier Arnaud has a split cheek and a purple neck, and the same brunette night after night, but I’m still somehow employed.
I’m no closer to solving my financial problems, but at least that hasn’t been what I’ve been thinking about the most these last couple of days. The need to break something simmers beneath my skin like an electric current with no way out. I feel like Edward Norton in Fight Club. This is Jack’s impotent rage. And more than twenty times or so a day, my fist clenches with the urge to unleash that rage again. Feed the roaring beast.
The sight of Olivier coming and going displaying the proof of my violence like it’s fucking Cartier or something gives me a thrill that I feel deep, deep in my core.
Those are my marks.
That’s my bitch.
Sounds unhinged? Like I said, the thread I was hanging on by fully snapped. It’s probably cliché to say it’s nice to have control over one thing. And I’m not claiming I’m in control of The Heir. His strings are pulled by higher powers than me, but in those five minutes when I literally held his billion dollar—and yet totally worthless life—in the palm of my hand. I was a god.
Do I hate him less?
Slightly.
Not enough less to give up a chance to spare his life again, but I have a hair’s breadth worth more respect for him, I guess. Okay, maybe it’s not respect, but I’m not quite as reluctant to push his up button for him and his lady friend.
I enjoy it actually. Gives me a chance to see the bruises up close and remind him what he really is.
Meanwhile, Killian figured out the identity of the brunette. It’s our job to know who’s in the building, and this one is basically the female equivalent of Olivier. Elodie Lafayette. I mean—who the fuck are these people? These names, Jesus Christ. This is Jack’s colossal eye roll.
Look, I’ve never seen the dude bring home the same woman twice. We’re up to four times with Elodie. Something’s up, and I’d bet my left nut it has to do with that TMZ video. He’s—well—toned himself down some.
Other than those fleeting, haughty moments in his penthouse designed to crawl the fuck under my skin, he’s not smirking at me in the lobby anymore. He addresses me as Drew. “Good evening, Drew.” “Thank you, Drew.” “Have a good night, Drew.”
