Page 35 of Double Down
"Tired?" I ask.
She nods, murmuring a low hum. "And my feet are killing me. Whoever invented stilettos is a fucking sadist."
"Since when are you afraid of a little pain?" I tease, and a smile pulls at her lips. “They make your ass look stunning, by the way.”
"Different kind of pain," she mutters, pressing her cheek against my lapel.
"I don't think she slept much this morning," Conrad says, arms crossing as he gives her a disappointed look. Atticus puts a finger to his lips, his gaze flicking upward.
Mine follows to land on a black glass bubble watching from the ceiling, and I nod.
Not safe to talk here.
We nod and let the tension settle over the box, spacious for an elevator but cramped with all of us in it. The illuminated floor numbers climb, too slowly for comfort, as we all stand quietly and watch them ticking by.
I can't help wondering who's watching us—and why. What amusement could we possibly offer?
When we reach the penthouse, I scoop Phoenix into my arms before anyone else can claim the privilege and carry her to my room. She's asleep before I get there.
Atticus slants a look at me as I brush past him. “We need to work out a schedule,” he mutters.
“Knock yourself out,” I return. “She’s mine tonight.”
“Get her settled and then come back. We need to talk about a few things.”
I flick on the tiny bedside lamp but leave the rest of the room in shadow. Beyond the open drapes, Savannah’s lights scatter across the grid like glittering lightning bugs. The river runs darkthrough the middle, a wide black ribbon swallowing the shore’s reflections. I always loved the look of the river at night.
The void in the flickers of light...it felt relatable.
I set Phoenix on the edge of the bed and lean her against my chest, then ease the beaded dress over her head and drape it on the chair—just in case she likes it.
It’s a pretty dress. It would look better if it were a heap of rags that I’d cut off her body, but she’s asleep and there’s bullshit to handle.
Careful not to wake her, I work one of my T-shirts over her head and then slide her beneath the covers.
I already know that I’m greedy when it comes to Phoenix. Claiming her. Keeping her in my bed most nights. But I honestly don’t care because I already know she belongs with us.
In the low bedside light, her hairsprayed updo gleams, and the makeup sits too heavily on her face. I frown, fetch a warm washcloth and the makeup remover that I know she likes, and wipe gently until her freckles come back and her mouth softens without the lipstick's garish red.
Sleeping, her face should be clean, angelic.
I try to be gentle as I wipe it away. My hand looks too big and…strong…against the delicate bone structure of her face. My moves are slow and with a surgeon's precision.
I loosen her hair, combing my fingers through the strands until it spills across the pillow like spun honey.
Finally satisfied, I step back.
She's a goddess in anything, but I prefer her like this. Her beauty doesn't need help. And there's something about her in my T-shirt that's so fucking satisfying. If it were up to me, she would wear only my shirts or nothing at all. But the others may take issue with that.
I want more than anything to stretch out beside her, pull her in, bury my face in her hair, and sleep. Then wake up in a few hours and feast on her pretty pussy, making her scream my name as I taste nirvana between her legs. But I can't.
The other Titans are waiting.
"Sleep tight, angel. I'll be back soon. Then that pussy is mine."
Her eyes don't open, but she hums in the back of her throat.
I leave her there, chest aching with a strange tightness as I close the door. I draw in a deep breath and put my shoulders back, then walk into the dining room where the others wait, their coats off, ties undone, the table our war room again.
