Page 33 of Undisputed Player
I stared at the lineup of automotive perfection surrounding Adrian's piece-of-shit surveillance SUV. The classic Rolls-Royce my father had gifted me, the limited-edition McLaren…
The contrast was laughable. The car was a junkyard refugee squatting among gods, just like me tonight—a man worth more than small countries, reduced to stalking the woman who'd become my entire world through grimy windows and security feeds.
The things my princess made me do.
I left the keys dangling in the ignition. Adrian could collect his surveillance chariot whenever he wanted. I had more important things to think about than his collection of criminal accessories.
The house welcomed me back with the whispered luxury that only generations of wealth could buy.
Windows framed the ocean, abstract masterpieces worth morethan homes adorned the walls, and the indoor fountain bubbled with the pretentious persistence of old money.
Being back here, surrounded by money, was a relief. I could breathe without cringing and touch every surface without worry.
Yet, even with all of this, none of it meant shit without her.
This was my father's world—the world I'd been born into, raised in, and groomed to inherit. A universe where an Easton could have anything, anyone, and never once be told no.
I'd grown up surrounded by the parties, the women, the endless parade of beautiful people with empty souls and designer everything.
My father was a legend—handsome, smooth, always with a glass in his hand and two or three models draped over his arms. I'd inherited his charm, his appetite for pleasure, and his ability to make people want things they couldn't have.
But none of it prepared me for wanting someone who didn't want me back.
I moved through the house on autopilot, past the grand staircase with its imported Italian marble, past the oil portraits of dead relatives who'd built this empire.
My father's voice echoed in my memory as I climbed toward the master suite:"Real money whispers, son. It doesn't shout, it doesn't beg, it doesn't chase. It simply exists, and everything else comes to it."
I'd learned to whisper, to glide through the world with practiced charm and calculated magnetism. But tonight I felt raw and exposed, desperate for the woman who looked at my whispers and heard nothing but noise.
Estelle didn't give a fuck about my money.
The master bathroom was a temple to excess—marble, a rainfall shower system with jets positioned at perfect angles, heated floors that never felt cold against bare skin. I cranked the water to scalding and stepped under the spray, letting heat pour over muscles still tense from hours of watching, wanting, planning.
Steam curled around my head like incense, and I closed eyes that still burned with the image of her. Estelle, framed by that patheticexcuse for a window, grading papers until exhaustion made her shoulders curl inward like she was trying to disappear from the weight of the world.
So delicate I was afraid she'd shatter if I touched her wrong, yet so fucking tough she'd survived things that would have broken stronger people.
She fought so hard for so little. She deserved everything, yet had nothing.
I'd never seen anyone battle against odds so stacked, never witnessed such fierce protection of something precious. It made me want to wrap her in silk and gold and never let the world touch her again.
It made me want to own every breath, every heartbeat, every thought that passed through her beautiful head.
My hand found my cock without conscious thought, already hard from hours of watching her move through that cramped apartment.
The heat of the water, the steam filling my lungs, the memory of her silhouette against cheap blinds, it all crashed together in a wave of need so intense it bordered on violence.
I was built for this, my father's words echoing in my head:"You're a thoroughbred, Jax. Built to breed, built to please, built to take what you want. Never forget what you are."
I hadn't forgotten. Every woman I'd ever touched had confirmed it with the way they gasped when they saw me naked, the way they trembled under my hands, the way they begged for more even when they couldn't take it.
I knew exactly what I was capable of, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with all that capability.
I wanted to use every inch of this body to worship hers alone.
"Estelle," I growled, my grip rough and demanding around my shaft. Steam and the memory of honey-brown eyes filled my head as I imagined her on her knees in front of me.
Not submissive, not yet, but defiant. Those beautiful eyes glaringup at me through wet lashes as she learned what it meant to be treasured by someone worthy to treasure her properly.
