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“If I was there I would fill your cunt,” he growled. “Feel you tighten around my cock. You’re always so fucking hot and wet, fucking begging to be taken.” Frankie groaned long and slow at his words, and Anteros stroked himself faster to the sound, gripping the blade handle with the other. His dick was so hard it could punch through a wall. “Are you ready to be fucked, Frankie? Ready to take my cock like a good girl?”
“Yes,” she responded, the word disappearing in her gasp.
“I wouldn’t be gentle. I’d fuck you until your throat was sore from screaming. Until my cock bottomed out in your tight pussy and you lost your words because the pleasure was too fucking intense.”
“Anteros I’m—I’m—” She couldn’t finish, words seized by a sweet, breathless cry as she came. It had him shooting his load into his hand like a fucking teenager. Even after he’d finished, hands sticky and wet, Anteros didn’t move. He listened to Frankie’s heavy sighs as she came down, imagining her glazed expression and flushed face—the way she got when she was utterly sated.
Then he reached for a tissue from his desk and wiped himself up as he growled, “Put your fingers in your cunt right now.”
“Okay,” she said in that lilting, submissive tone she got after he’d thoroughly fucked her.
“Now put them in your mouth and tell me how you taste.”
“A little salty,” she said. “Kind of…sweet.” Anteros groaned, all at once turned on and pissed that he couldn’t taste her.
“Will you send me a picture?” Frankie asked. “Please, Anteros. If you can’t be inside me I want to see you.” Anteros focused a minute on taking a good picture—not some shitty downward angle popping out of his jeans cock shot—then sent it. It was maybe a few minutes before Frankie said anything, and Anteros wondered if the connection had died.
“Frankie?”
“I miss you,” she said. The lust in her voice was gone, seized by a hollow sadness. The way she wobbled when she spoke wasn’t because she was trying to contain her desire, but because she was trying to hold back her tears. Anteros had been telling himself it was still just games between them, that the war didn’t matter, but hearing her choked voice exposed the lie. He couldn’t hold her or comfort her. There were no words t
o assuage the distance between them. He was powerless.
He fucking hated being powerless.
Anteros quickly shoved his cock back into his pants and, with a cough, changed the subject.
“Who helped you escape?” Silence met him on the other line. Up until then, Anteros and Frankie had been keeping their worlds separate. She lived with Lucia, wanted her as family, while Anteros was determined to destroy her and Lucia was determined to do the same to him. Once they opened up that line of communication there was no going back.
“Answer me, Frankie.” Anteros could hear her breathing on the line, like wind through an old house.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“How did you escape the hotel?” he pressed, ignoring her lie.
“Why are you asking me now?” she whispered. Anteros wasn’t sure what to say. Opening up—sharing his fucking feelings—wouldn’t change a goddamn thing. They would still be at war.
“Typical,” Frankie sighed on the other line. “You want everything from me but if I want something in return, you stonewall. What if I asked you to tell me why you killed Dubois? Why you sent that box to Lucia?”
“That was for you and you fucking know that,” he snarled. “But he’s dead because he betrayed me, and if someone betrays me, they die. Simple.” Silence followed. Breathing. He placed a hand over half his face, rubbing his closed eye, cheek, jaw…waiting for her response.
What the fuck was taking so long?
“I can’t,” Frankie eventually said. She sounded so pained that Anteros sat up in his chair, dropped the hand from his face. A few seconds later she amended, “I just…I mean…it was someone I don’t know. Lucia sent him.”
“What did he look like?” Anteros asked.
“I guess…long black hair. I met him at the party.” Anteros remembered the “journalist” he’d met that night. Something had been off about him; he’d been too lethal. It made sense.
Leaning back into his chair, Anteros asked, “Was that so hard?”
Frankie laughed. “Fuck you.”
“When I see you again you’re going to regret speaking to me as you have.” He actually loved the changes he saw in Frankie. She was showing him the truth she’d kept hidden at the penthouse. Her clothing, her unabashed swearing and sarcasm, it was what he’d been wanting—to get deeper, to burrow into her soul. He wasn’t driven to break her as he’d originally thought. He wanted her mind the way it was—sharp, lethal, cutting. He wanted her unbroken, only broken to him.
“Who says you’re going to see me again? Maybe I’ve moved on. You’d probably like him. He’s called Monster and has an unnatural fetish for tank tops in winter.”
A smile came to his face and just as Anteros was going to say something in response to her insolence, the door to his office burst open. With cool ease, Anteros hung up the phone without another word. Everyone—the Wolves, Levi—stood in the doorway.
