Page 2 of Forbidden Eyes
I walk over to the redhead and drag her into position by the hair, allowing her a chance to fight me. That’d be nice. A slap. A punch. Anything to give me a reason to gain some traction and come because something inspires me, interests me. Neither of these do, though. They’re nervous. Scared. And then, after this shit, they’ll behave like the money grabbers they are, hoping they’ll be the one who captures Carter Wade's heart.
I widen the redhead’s legs and run my hand through her slippery offering, digging my fingers in to see how tight she is. No one captures my heart. The only thing it’s any good for is beating slowly, calmly. Even now, with my body ready to explode the moment I shove my dick into her, my heart rate is barely escalating. Its pace holds true to what I am. Hollow and cold. Callous and inconsiderate. I learnt well from him when he gave me a second chance at life.
She screams and scrabbles away as I try to force a thumb into her ass. I grip tighter, fingers curling to hook her back to me, and then force the thumb where she doesn’t want it. It’ll be my dick in a minute. She’s loose around my fingers, pussy used rather than the snug I’d prefer. I hate loose pussy. I like it tight and tender, preferably bruised.
“Please …” she stutters, begging for a reprieve.
Quaint.
I smile and line my dick up, working my thumb in circles to widen her for me. My thumb slips out, hand withdrawing at the same time, and I ram home, hoping she screams the place down. She does, and the way I grab her hair and yank her head back, projects the sound loud and clear in the room. My hand smothers her mouth and I arch her back to me, her neck visible so I can bite into her flesh when I cum. She struggles in my hold, trying, for whatever reason, to avoid my dick shunting in and out of her ass. I don’t care. I got over giving a fuck about anyone or anything, apart from the men who guided me, a long time ago. What they think matters; that’s it for me. One of them more than the other. The bitch I’m in now means as little to me as the bed she’s kneeling on. She’s a hole, several of them, an inanimate object I’ll use as I see fit until I get off again.
Her hair feels like wire in my hands, her curly locks contradicting a prettiness that isn’t here anymore. Pretty left her when we came in. It always does. I like pretty in the world outside. Pretty makes me interested, but when the clothes slip from my skin and I get into this headspace, I forget about pretty and remember what they're here for, nothing else.
I grunt, hammer into her again, and my hips shunt over and over until I feel the pull in my lower back. Good. I’m coming. My balls tighten, my ass tensing under the pressure, and I lower myself so I can get to that fine, white neck of hers. She screams the second my teeth latch on, muffled and low under my hand. The sound makes me shudder and grunt again, my fingers twisting her neck so I can suck on the spot my teeth have found. Salt attacks my taste buds. Salt and sin. It’s like my life, those two elements—sharp and immoral. There’s nothing else, no law I abide by, no restriction that stands in my way to stop me doing my job. I cut like an angel when necessary, making sure no one knows what I’ve done, or devour like a devil to ensure everyone knows exactly what I’ve done.
That’s who I am.
Calm under pressure.
Ice in my veins.
One last grunt, my ass tensing for the last time, and a low, calm growl sounds out my success. I pull out and wrench her head back towards me, stuffing my dick into the mouth on offer. For the first time I manage to concentrate on her face for a minute, watching as she gags around me. Tears track her face, mascara plastered down her cheeks. She looks like a broken doll, pale and insipid with cracks in her skin. Nothing but a useful hole to empty into.
She sobs as I pull out again and stand to retrieve my clothes. I’m done here now. I pull my suit pants on and knock on the door, letting the guard know he can come in. He does, efficient as always, and heads over to get the two women out of here. They're led away before I can turn around, and I’m given a moment to get myself back together before I have to go back out to my job.
It takes precisely eight minutes to make myself presentable again, and I walk back out through the door to head up the cold back staircase. Tie back in place. Crisp white shirt under a vest. Tailored black suit cut sharply to my frame. It’s my uniform. Has been since he gave me the chance to run some of his business for him, or at least under him. Everything around me is still his, and he makes damn sure the world knows it despite his age, but I run it now. I wield his power.
The noise from the main floor grows louder as I reach the carpeted stairs and the finery starts coming back into view. Gold filigree work along the ceilings. Red walls lined with Cane insignia—the same as that which hovers over the Regent signage. I smile at it all, a nod to how effective they’ve been as a team through the years. I couldn’t have asked for a better man to give me a chance when my dick of a brother screwed up. Why Quinn Cane turned up on my doorstep, I didn't know at the time. He told me my brother was dead, that he’d shot up too much crack this time, and then he crouched and told me I could go live with him if I wanted to. I was scared. Alone. And he was huge. All I can remember is seeing the smartest car I'd ever seen in my life idling behind him as if no one would dare to even try taking it.
They didn't, either.
I break out onto the casino floor and look around the place, counting the number of players at the craps table so I can keep check with Nate’s number running. He’s a clever fuck like that, and he’s made me just as sharp now he’s not here to look after the tables. I nod at one of the side boys, telling him to keep an eye out on table four. The dick with a sweat going isn’t someone I want in this place, no matter how much money he’s spent. He’s too coked up to play sensibly, and that shit doesn't happen in Cane venues under my rule.
I walk to the bar and ask Trixie to pour my usual. She hands me a glass of water, filled to the brim with ice, and I spin to look back out over the room again. I was nine when Quinn turned up that day—nine and waiting in some scum hole of a room, whores to each side. My brother tried to look after me when Pops was killed; I know he did. He tried to keep me hidden away from the scum, but he never seemed to be at home. I nodded at Quinn when he asked me if I wanted to go with him. I nodded and went inside to get anything I had of value. It wasn’t much, but I took what little there was. What the fuck did I know about life back then? I was just a snotty-nosed kid running the streets in the day and hoping to hell my brother came back at night to bring me some food. Sometimes he did. More often than not, he didn’t.
That day I knew he'd never come back again.
It wasn’t until I hit thirteen that Quinn told me the truth about why I was living with them. He’d felt responsible to some degree because he’d been the man who had killed my father years before. And then his team had watched from the side as my brother began fucking up his life, too. There was no overt sense of guilt involved in his plan that I could see, though, only obligation for some reason. Seems odd now I think back on it.
“If you want to stay here with me, you can’t be a Mazarono anymore, kid. You also need to forget I killed your dad and move on. Choose a name and I’ll show you the right way to live your life. Either that, or it’s time for you to leave.”
Those were his words. I knew him well enough by then to know he meant them.
I chose a name, he implemented all the paperwork, and then I forgot life before him.
Carter Wade.
“Carter.”
Fuck. I didn’t know he was here.
I push off the bar and head out into the crowds, hoping he doesn’t follow me. He does, acting like he owns the place. Kinda does, or will do one day, but that doesn’t mean I need to like him. “Pops is coming in.” I turn back to look at Logan, an arch in my brow asking why Quinn wants to come here at all. “Don’t know. He said something about talking to you about Miami.”
I smile and wander off again, enjoying the thought. The very fact that Logan Cane knows so little about his father’s business makes me chuckle frequently. It’s not like he doesn’t know how all this around us came to be, but the dubious side that still goes on occasionally—that’s all mine.
“What’s happening in Miami?” he asks, matching his stride with mine. I stare over at the roulette wheel and sip my drink as we pass it, uninterested in discussing anything with him.
“Business. New Casino.” Also, a fuck tonne of drugs that they're running out from New York. A favour for Vico, he said.