The knock came soft but deliberate against the bedroom door.
Alexander didn't stop. His grip tightened on the brunette's hip, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin as he thrust deeper, his cock sliding in and out with relentless rhythm. The man beneath him arched, exhaling a broken moan into the pillow, his body clenching around Alexander's length, hot and tight, every push eliciting slick, obscene sounds that filled the room.
"Sir." Vincent's voice filtered through the door, measured as always. "There's a call. A Vivian Harrington. She says it's urgent."
"Leave it," Alexander growled, hips snapping forward harder, burying himself fully in the brunette's ass, grinding against him as pleasure coiled tight in his gut.
Silence. Then the phone began to ring-not Vincent's line, but Alexander's private number. The one almost no one had.
He slowed despite himself, breaths ragged, still sheathed inside the quivering heat.
It rang again. And again. Each tone pulling at something he hadn't examined in years.
The brunette turned his head, breath unsteady, hole fluttering around Alexander's throbbing shaft. "Alex-"
"Don't." But Alexander was already reaching for the nightstand. He picked up on the fifth ring, pressing the phone to his ear without a word, even as he reluctantly pulled out, leaving the brunette gasping.
"Alexander." The voice on the other end was barely a whisper. Frayed at the edges, like fabric worn too thin. "I'm dying."
He went still.
The brunette shifted beneath him, murmuring something soft and confused. Alexander pulled away without ceremony, sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees.
"Vivian," he said quietly.
"I need to see you. Tonight." A wet cough broke her sentence in half. "I have someone to give you. A debt. You owe me this much."
Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow was falling over Manhattan in slow, indifferent curtains.
He almost said no. The word sat ready on his tongue, familiar and easy.
"Where?" he said instead.
"The restaurant. Chinatown. Same place as always."
The line went dead.
Alexander set the phone down and reached for his shirt. Behind him, the brunette sat up against the headboard, sheet gathered at his waist, watching him with something cautious in his eyes.
"Will I-" He stopped. Started again. "Will I see you again?"
Alexander didn't look back. He pulled out his checkbook from the nightstand drawer, wrote a number, and tore the page free. One thousand dollars. He set it beside the lamp.
"Don't wait by the phone."
The snow was coming down hard by the time they reached Chinatown. Alexander sat in the back of the black Escalade, watching the neon signs blur through the windshield. Vincent drove while Marcus checked messages on his phone.