Page 75 of Destroyer

“Please,” I beg, without a clue what I need.

Caeo's hand frees my chest, his only hold is the tight grip at my throat. His hand releases the string of my pyjamas, letting them drop to my ankles.

“Yes.” My voice is a whisper, secretly asking him for more of something I don't understand. I need to feel.

“I know, baby.” Caeo soothes. His hand circles my hip, moving back to cup my cheek. The first slap vibrates through me, making my cock jump and swell. This man is not a wooden chess piece in this game of life. He is my rock.

Gavriil explained life with poker, until my questions became too complicated. That's when he compared it to chess. I've got no idea what the game is now.

As long as it continues with Caeo spanking my backside, and hopefully ends with his cock inside me. I don't care if the security gets to see or not.

Chapter forty-eight

Caeo

I'mgettingintotheswing of my new routine. It is monotonous, I do the same things each day, but it is anything but boring. Nico thrives on routine and order. It helps limit his flight urges.

It's a Monday, somehow, we both start our day with the busiest routine, but I guess it's playing catch up from the weekend that makes it the busiest.

This morning I checked in on Carter house and the lovely family that rents that property. Gregory put his house in Nico's name rather than selling it, which he called a thank you for Nico getting him back home up north. It's being completely gutted and redecorated before we advertise it for renting. Then I had to check up on Gavriil House. Nico has forgiven me for stealing the body of Paul Newman, after I allowed him to bury the doctor in the foundations instead. He rambled something about it being closure on his past and a goodbye present for Gavriil.

Now I'm finishing up at his shop. There are a few paintings on the wall, including the bright to stormy sky. But this is not an art shop. This is a second-hand hat and bag shop. A boutique, if Nico could say it. He calls it a bouquet, so that is what we called it.

“Is that everything?” Yasmin calls.

She runs the shop full time, making a few sales of our designer labels each week. As all our inventory comes from Mrs Thayer, as long as we cover Yasmin's wages, the rest doesn't matter.

“I think so.” I look around and shrug. “Right. I'll leave you to it. Unless you have any issues, I'll see you Wednesday.

“Sure, thanks, Caeo.”

Heading home doesn't feel like a full day's work, but I'm keen to get back to my boy. As I open the front door, there is a scurry of movement from the back, followed by the whir of my coffee machine. By the time I enter the living room, he's brought my coffee.

“How was your day?” I question.

Nico rests on his knees beside my chair as I lift the diary from beside my coffee. He doesn’t have lessons on Mondays, but the tutor who comes in is proving a useful resource.

“I did go out for coffee with Porter and Mrs F. We went to-” I frown at the next work. His writing wobbles across the page but I can make out most of his letters; however, this word is beyond me.

“Ah. We went in town to place called coloured vegetable. I tried to remember the letters.”

“Was it the Purple Radish?” My suggestion doesn't come from anything legible about the word, but I know the place.

“Ah, yes.” Nico nods keenly.

“I had cuppity - Nico, that is cup of tea, three separate words - with the finger out and tiny sand witches.” Glancing at Nico, with his wide hopeful eyes, I decide to leave the corrections for his tutor. “Then did the amazing thing happen to Mrs F.” I glance up again. “Her name begins with a T.”

“But she wants me to call her Granny, and I know Fayer is not how you say it.”

“OK.” It's bad enough that my boy goes out every Monday with Porter and Knox's mother. “OK, tell me what happened.”

I'd rather listen to broken English in his adorable accent rather than struggle to read it.

“She went into the boo cut.”

Suddenly the scribble on the paper makes sense.

“She went into the bouquet?”

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