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She obeys. She’s never disappointed me. But as her body comes down from the shuddering pleasure this time, her eyes drift closed and she sinks into the mattress, boneless and clearly exhausted.
She murmurs something unintelligible, and I press a chaste kiss against the corner of her mouth, a deep ache in my balls. I ignore it, just like I ignore the throbbing urgency in my cock, painfully hard where it’s trapped in the confines of my pants.
I’ve taken so much pleasure from Riley’s body tonight that the denial of my own is almost like a masochistic kind of fulfillment of its own. Or maybe it’s simply that I’m satisfied on a different level now.
One I didn’t know existed before her.
“Riley,” I whisper quietly, gently tracing the delicate blue veins in her closed eyelids with the tip of my finger. “Wildcat.”
Her only response is a soft exhale.
She’s asleep. I’ve worn her out. And she’s no longer in pain.
Warmth blooms in my chest, a deeply satisfied sense of pride at what I’ve accomplished here, and I carefully roll off the bed, then rearrange her body in a more comfortable position for sleep, tucking the blankets around her.
I’ve done what I came to, and there’s no further reason for me to stay, and yet I stand next to her, watching her, for longer than I can justify.
There’s no sense to it. I could access the same view from the cameras, back in the comfort of my room. It’s what I’ve always preferred in the past, but I no longer have any desire to keep her at a distance.
Finally, though, I press a kiss to her hair, carefully smoothing it back from her face, and leave.
24
MADDOC
“Shit, Madd,”Dante says under his breath, rolling his shoulders back as he adopts a lazy-looking smile and chin nods at the representatives of the 17th Street Gang as they head toward us. “Not often we have so many outsiders this deep.”
I grunt softly in reply, knowing the comment is just his way of relieving some nerves. Neither Logan nor Dante likes my decision to invite so many other gang leaders this deeply into our territory, but they do understand it.
Our perimeter is at risk. Just like we predicted, McKenna’s been picking away at it every fucking day. We’ve done what we can to protect our people and our resources as we continue to give up ground, but now we need allies. We need a goddamn alliance to stand against him, and the only way to convince other gangs that we need it, and more importantly, that we’ll honor it, is with a face-to-face meeting.
And as much as it pisses me off to admit, the only place I truly feel confident we can get that done without risking an attack from West Point that would disrupt these talks before they even get started is right here, in the heart of Reaper territory.
I nod at the familiar faces of the other gang leaders as they array themselves around us. Besides the 17th Street Gang, which we’ve always had a solid relationship with, we’ve invited the Cobalt Crew, who we definitely haven’t, and a few other low-level players; organizations whose borders either touch ours or touch West Point’s.
Gattrock, from the south side of the city. The Kraits, whose tiny-ass territory is crammed between the warehouse district and the neutral zone downtown that The Six enforce. The Stonebrew gang, led by an upstart who’s too fucking bloodthirsty, in my opinion, but knows how to get shit done.
It’s no surprise that he’s the one who speaks up first. “What’s this about, Maddoc?”
The cocky smirk he usually wears nowhere in sight as he shifts his weight uneasily, obviously no happier to be in the heart of our territory than we are to have him here.
Before I answer, I scan each group carefully, giving my gut one last chance to pick up on any potential treachery. On any reason not to share the information we have with them.
I don’t find it.
Everyone we’ve brought together is clearly wary of each other and wondering why I brought them together, but none of them are outright enemies. Other than the 17th Street Gang, I wouldn’t say any of them are actually allies, either—not with us, and not with each other—but I do know they’ve all made deals with each other before.
It’s a start.
“You’re all here because we have a common enemy,” I finally say. “West Point.”
That gets me a variety of reactions, from skeptical muttering to verging on disrespectful.
Victor Ruiz, the leader of the 17th Street Gang, is the only one who has the balls to respond directly.
“It's no secret that we're not on good terms with McKenna,” he says carefully. “But I’m not sure I’d call him an enemy of 17th Street.”
“And I’m sure you’ll feel differently once I explain the situation. McKenna has recently expanded his gang’s financial resources exponentially.”
