Xavier
The shrill, insistent ring of my phone cut through the heavy silence of the bedroom like a shard of glass. It was an annoying sound, a violation of the profound stillness that had settled over the room. I groaned, a low sound of pure annoyance, and fumbled for the device on the nightstand. The screen glowed, blinding in the darkness. Enzo. Fuck.
I swiped my thumb across the screen, declining the call before it could ring a third time, and tossed the phone back onto the wood. It clattered loudly, the sound echoing the irritation thrumming in my skull. I started to sit up, my mind already shifting to whatever crisis Enzo had undoubtedly manufactured, but a strange, powerful force pulled me back down.
It was sleepiness.
But this wasn't the usual, razor-edged exhaustion I was accustomed to. This was a heavy, suffocating blanket, a profound, bone-deep weariness that made my limbs feel like they were filled with lead. My eyelids were leaden weights, and the thought of moving was almost physically painful. This was... wrong. Unnatural.
My insomnia is a constant, clawing companion, a familiar demon that perches on my chest night after night. It takes a chemical cocktail—three, sometimes five, of the strongest sleeping pills I can get my hands on—to grant me a measly four hours of restless, dreamless oblivion. And even then, I wake up feeling like I've been run over by a truck.
And yet... here I was. No pills. No alcohol. Just a strange, potent inactivity that was pulling me back under, down into a deep, dark abyss.
My gaze drifted to the side, to the still form lying beside me. Naomi.
The heavy grey curtains I'd had installed blocked out almost all of the morning light, but a few slivers managed to pierce the gloom, painting pale stripes across the bed. In that dim light, I could see her face. It was pale, almost translucent, and her dark lashes lay like tiny, fragile fans against her cheeks. She was still out cold, her chest rising and falling with a soft, even rhythm. Peaceful.
And that's when it clicked. This... this tranquility. It was because of her. Because she was here. Because she was finally, completely still. The constant thrum of her defiance, the fire in her eyes, the sharp edge of her tongue—all of it was gone. In its place was this quiet. This utter, absolute submission.
A dark, contented hum vibrated in my chest. The fight was over. She was mine. And in her utter defeat, I could finally rest. It was a fucked-up, twisted logic, but it was the only one that made sense. Her brokenness was my lullaby.
I rolled over, turning my back to her, and let the powerful, unfamiliar pull of sleep take me under. It was the most restful I'd felt in years.
Hours later, my eyes snapped open. There was no sleepy transition, no slow drift to consciousness. I was simply… awake. And I felt something I hadn't felt in years: refreshed.
A profound, bone-deep stillness had settled over me, the usual static of my mind silent for once. It was unnerving.
The duvet was pooled on my lap, like a convenient tent hiding my morning wood. I reached for my phone, the screen blindingly bright in the dim room. 10:45 AM. Fuck. It was late. Unacceptably late. I threw the covers off and stood, stretching my arms over my head, my muscles feeling loose. I glanced back at the bed. Naomi was still out cold, a lump under the duvet, her breathing soft and even. Good. A faint smirk touched my lips. The lesson had been thorough.
I walked into the bathroom, the marble cold under my feet. I turned the shower on, twisting the dial all the way to cold. The icy spray was a shock against my heated skin, but it did nothing to kill the fire in my groin. My dick, already thick and heavy with need, twitched against my stomach. I leaned a forearm against the cool tiled wall, the water cascading down my back, and grabbed it.
"Fuck," I growled, wrapping my hand around the thick cock. The skin was already slick, not just from the water, but from the bead of precum glistening on the tip. I started with slow, firm strokes, squeezing just under the head.
And then it hit me. A flash image, so vivid it was like I was back there. Naomi, thrashing in my grip, her terrified eyes wide in the moonlight. The feel of her soft body struggling against my hard chest, the sound of her muffled sobs. My dick twitched harder, a jolt of pure power shooting through me.
"Fuck," I growled again, my voice rougher this time. My hand moved faster, chasing that feeling. The memory of her pinned beneath me, of taking what was mine, of her helpless whimpers… it was the most potent fucking aphrodisiac I'd ever known. "That's it," I grunted, my eyes squeezing shut. "Fucking take it."
My strokes became brutal, almost punishing. My hips started to rock, fucking my own fist. All I could see was her face, contorted in pain and fear. It was perfect. Beautiful. This was what she was for. This was her fucking purpose—to be the object of my rage, the vessel for my pleasure.
"Mine," I snarled, the word a harsh echo in the tiled shower. My balls drew up tight, a familiar, delicious pressure building at the base of my spine. I was so close. The image of her spread out on the bed, marked and covered in my cum, flashed through my mind.
With a hoarse, husky groan that was torn from the depths of my chest, my orgasm ripped through me. My body went rigid, and I pumped my cock furiously as thick, white ropes of cum shot out, splattering against the tiled wall and washing away under the cold spray. The release was shattering, a wave of absolute, primal satisfaction that left me breathless and shaking.
I stayed there for a long moment, my forehead pressed against the cool tile, my hand still gripping my softening dick. The world was back in order. And I was in complete control.
**
The cold water did its job, shocking Xavier's system into a state of sharp, alert clarity. He finished his shower, shutting off the water with a decisive twist of the wrist. Steam billowed out as he stepped onto the heated marble floor, grabbing a thick, black towel from the warmer. He wrapped it securely around his waist, the fabric sitting low on his hips, water still clinging in droplets to the hard planes of his chest and abdomen.
He moved with an unhurried, predatory grace back into the bedroom, his eyes briefly flicking to the still form on the bed. Naomi hadn't moved. A faint, almost unnoticeable sense of satisfaction settled in his chest. He crossed the vast expanse of the room to a pair of double doors and pushed them open, revealing a cavernous closet that was more like a high-end boutique. Ranks of suits were arranged by color and fabric, ties hung in neat, ordered rows, and a collection of watches gleamed from velvet-lined drawers.
He selected a suit from the vast, climate-controlled closet—a beautiful midnight blue wool, the color of a deep twilight, impeccably tailored to his powerful frame. He dressed methodically: the crisp white shirt, the suit trousers, the jacket. He stood before a full-length mirror, adjusting his silk tie until it was a perfect, sharp knot against his collar. As he did, his gaze drifted past his own reflection to the bed behind him. In the mirror's image, Naomi was a still, pale lump under the duvet, a stark contrast to his sharp, imposing figure. A small, cruel smirk grew on his face, a private acknowledgment of his work. He turned and left the room without a backward glance, the door clicking shut with a soft, final sound.
He made his way downstairs, his steps silent on the grand sweep of the marble staircase. At the bottom, a guard stood ramrod straight, his face a mask of deference. As Xavier reached the last step, the guard gave a slight, formal bow.
"Sir, Mr. Enzo is here for you. He's in your office, sir," the guard announced, his voice precise and devoid of emotion.
Xavier offered a flick of his wrist, a dismissive, almost bored gesture. He didn't break his stride, heading straight down the hallway toward his study. The heavy, dark oak door was unlocked. He pushed it open and stepped inside.
The room was a masculine sanctuary of dark wood and leather. And there, leaning casually against the massive mahogany desk, was Enzo. He was sharply dressed in a designer jacket over an open-collared shirt, his posture relaxed but radiating a coiled, impatient energy. He looked up as Xavier entered, his expression unreadable. The air in the room crackled with unspoken words, the tension between the two men a tangible force.
Enzo pushed himself off the desk, his casual demeanor evaporating into a raw, frustrated energy. "Jesus Christ, man," he began, his voice tight with impatience. "I've called you like twenty times. I've been here for hours. Where the hell have you been?"
Xavier didn't even look up as he moved around the large desk and sank into his high-backed leather chair. He steepled his fingers, his expression one of utter calm. "I don't answer to you, Enzo," he said, his voice nonchalant, almost bored. "If you may have forgotten, you work for me. Not the other way around."
"Bullshit," Enzo shot back, taking a step closer to the desk. He wasn't intimidated by the office or the title. "Where the fuck were you?"
Xavier's eyes finally lifted, a flicker of cold annoyance in their depths. "Sleeping," he replied, the word a single, sharp icicle.
Enzo stared at him for a moment, genuinely taken aback. A short disbelieving laugh escaped his lips. "Like hell you were. You don't fucking sleep. Where the fuck were you?" he pushed on, his voice dropping to a more serious, demanding tone.
"I was sleeping, for fuck's sake!" Xavier spat out, his calm finally fracturing. The words were laced with a venomous irritation that made the air in the room crackle. He leaned forward slightly, a clear warning.
Enzo held his gaze for a second longer, then seemed to realize he was treading on dangerous ground. He was one of the few people who could push Xavier, but he also knew the limits. He let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing as he strategically changed the subject. "I'm informed there was a situation last night," he said, his tone all business now. "Is everything okay, boss?"
Xavier leaned back in his chair, the mask of composure sliding back into place. He picked up a silver letter opener from his desk, turning it over in his fingers, his gaze distant. "It's taken care of," he replied, his voice flat and final. The conversation was over.
But Enzo wasn't having it. He took another step forward, placing his hands flat on the polished surface of the desk, leaning in with an intensity that brooked no dismissal. "What was the problem, boss?" he asked, his voice low and insistent.
Xavier let out a loud, theatrical sigh that was pure annoyance. He swiveled in his chair and pulled open a drawer in the mahogany cabinet behind him, retrieving a thick manila folder. He tossed it onto the desk; it slid, stopping just short of Enzo's fingers. "One of the shitbags you got to guard my wife is defective," Xavier said, his voice dripping with contempt.
"No way," Enzo said, his disbelief genuine. He straightened up, picking up the folder. "What are you talking about?"
"He was a double agent, Enzo. For crying out loud," Xavier said, leaning back and steepling his fingers again, watching Enzo's reaction with a cold, analytical gaze. "The man was sent to protect and help my wife escape."