The sun spilled like a golden carpet, leading the way from bed to shower. My room was vacant of personal touches but reeked in history of past owners. Rococo style dressers, Victorian designed chairs. The wallpaper was embossed maroon leather with gold accents.
The entire space was brooding and temperamental. I would’ve preferred clean lines. White—which was the silence of the colour palette—with stone furniture and metal chairs. I liked to be surrounded by an unfeeling atmosphere but I’d never be permitted to change this area.
It was sacred.
All because it’d been the bedroom of all Hawk men who’d inherited a Weaver woman. Their last breath was taken in this room. It held the ghosts of Nila’s ancestors and would one day absorb hers, too.
The birthday present of new spurs and a heinously wicked whip glinted on the eighteenth century sideboard. At the time, I’d thought it was a piss poor present for turning twenty-nine, but in retrospect I’d have a lot of fun using them on Nila rather than my horse.
The best present was due next year. The true inheritance I’d been waiting for. One much better than a woman or her tears or even the permission to draw her blood. When I turned thirty, I would own it all.
Everything. All mine.
The fantastic ruling of Primogeniture meant as firstborn son, I inherited the lot. My brothers wouldn’t get penny. My sister not a single diamond. They would survive by my charity. Just like my father.
The brotherhood. The mines. The yachts. The cars. Hawksridge. And every property overseas.
Mine.
Bryan Hawk, Cut to those in the Black Diamond brotherhood, would be second to me. The way of our ancestors ensured young authority remained in control of an estate that’d spilled enough blood to fill a moat around our gates.
My father would retire, and I would be king.
I’d upgrade from living in the bachelor wing with its pool room, theatre, office, weaponry, solarium, six bedrooms, and six bathrooms to having the pick of a fifty room, two ballroom, and a dungeon-equipped house to play in.
And by play, I meant make women scream.
That was the only time they were allowed to break my rule of quietness. The only time I enjoyed their begging.
Collecting new clothing from my walk-in wardrobe, I glimpsed myself in the mirror. My lips curled in disgust at the sticky mess on my stomach. I had a good mind to get Nila and make her lick me clean.
That was her fault.
My mind drifted back to her—against my will. She’d not only taken up valuable space in my head, but my day’s structure as well. There would be no hunting today or inspecting the latest diamond shipment.
There’d be no business or travel.
All my energy and focus belonged to the woman who was a waste of my time.
Another daydream of forcing her to her knees stopped me on the outskirts of the bathroom. Would she cry or scream as I fucked her from behind? Perhaps she’d surprise me again and moan in ecstasy. I planned on taking her that way—the animalistic way. After all, she did spend the night with the dogs. It would only be fitting.
Dumping my clothes on the vanity, I strode into the four-headed quartz shower. I had no need to strip. I slept naked.
Always did.
It was part of the rules.
Living at Hawksridge, the grandest and most exclusive motorcycle club compound in all of England, came with strict unbreakable rules. Our brotherhood was different. We were smart, cunning, focused.
Any man found sleeping with clothes on was in for a night of pain. We might have left the dark ages behind but my family upheld strictness.
We made our fortune in the most transferable precious item there was. And we’d learned a lot from past mistakes on how to treat those who tried to steal them.
No clothes at night and random cavity searches by day.
All to protect our legacy. The way we made our money. The way we rose from penniless thieves at the beck and call of the Weavers to gathering a wealth that morphed to obscene a few centuries ago.
Stepping into the shower, I turned on the hot spray. Smiling at the mirrored wall, I cupped my cock, washing the residue of my indiscretion.
The next time I come, I’ll be inside the woman I inherited.
With my cock in my hand, I nodded at my reflection.
I’m a Hawk but blood doesn’t flow in my veins. I’m born of a substance unbeatable by any other—diamonds. I’m a smuggler. I’m a dealer. And I’m about to become…a killer.
NEEDLE&THREAD: I’m warm and in bed. Surprisingly I slept better than I thought I would. Did you have a good night? Did you lie in your bed and picture me pleasuring you? What did I do to you? Tell me, Kite. I want you to transport me from reality and give me a fantasy stronger than my present humdrum life.
Kite007: Forward this morning, aren’t we? You’re that desperate to talk about my cock? Not that I’d ever say no—but I’m rather impressed by your forwardness. Tell me more…beg.
Needle&Thread: Beg? How does one beg for something they need rather than want? Would you prefer me on my knees? Or perhaps on my back ready for whatever you wanted to give me?
Kite007: Fuck. What’s got into you? Beg. Imagine I’m standing over you with my hard cock in my hand. I’m throttling it—my fist working so fucking hard at the thought of you spread-eagled and fingering yourself. Give me a visual. Now. Then I might reward you.
Needle&Thread: I’m exactly as you said. Begging, whimpering, touching myself until my whimpers turn to pants and my begs turn to moans. I’m wet for you. I’m hot for you. Please, Kite. Give me my fantasy. Give me something warm to hold onto.
Kite007: What the fuck is this about? How can I come when you sound fucking weird?
Needle&Thread: Weird? I’m not. I’m giving you what you want in return for what I need.
Kite007: Is that supposed to make sense, ‘cause I don’t understand bullshit code. Fuck, you’re seriously making me do it.
Needle&Thread: Do what?