Page 1 of Brox Boar

CHAPTER 1

BROX

Waddington & Pierce glints in brass beside the doorway, catching the midday’s light as we step out through the revolving doors. I roll my shoulders once, a slow stretch under my suit jacket, and feel the tension loosen for the first time in weeks.

It was fun watching Waddington’s hands shake as he admitted he couldn’t enforce a single line from Valentino’s will without “reviewing” it with half the firm. We left him sitting behind his desk, clutching a folder he suddenly understood was more threatening to his dead client than it ever was to us.

Rio saunters towards the Corvette, his suit jacket open, and tie already loosened.

He presses the fob, the lights flicker, and he slips into the driver’s seat. I follow, sliding in until the leather molds itself against my back.

Without waiting, he starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, merging into traffic.

“I just want to get home, throw Lana on the sofa, and not move for an hour.” He mumbles as his grip on the wheel tightens. The image is immediate in my head—Lana curled between us, half asleep, messy hair. Fuck. We just can’t get enough of her.

“I never thought we’d be spending a weekend with no guns, no meetings, and no Boarpit. Just us and her.” I say.

“Yeah,” he remembers. “We had her pinned on every surface in the penthouse. She got little rest.”

He laughs once, low. “She complained. Then she begged for more. You heard her.”

My body reacts to the memory instantly. Lana spread on our bed, Lana riding Rio’s cock while I watch from the chair, Lana climbing into my lap in the kitchen at three a.m. just to steal a kiss and my sanity in one go.

“She looks good in my shirt,” I say, then correct myself. “She looks good without it, too.”

A half-remembered grin tugs at my mouth. Oversized, hanging off one shoulder, covering her naked ass. Her bare legs moving across our floor, our girl padding between the kitchen and the sofa with a mug in her hands and her hair pulled into a messy bun on top of her head.

“She’ll be wearing it when we come in,” Rio says. “She’ll pretend she didn’t wait by the door, but you know she does.”

“She doesn’t wait by the door, you idiot.”

“She does in her head.”

I shake my head, but something warm gathers beneath my ribs. It has that same early certainty you feel before a cold takes root, a quiet signal that something has already begun. Only this doesn’t drain. It lights me up.

Somehow we managed to carve two full days out of our schedule, locked the world out, and turned her into the center of it.

“We’re doing it again,” Rio says suddenly.

“Doing what?”

“This. Next weekend.” He glances at me, then back at the road. “No meetings. No shipments. No fire to put out. We put Sol in charge and we take her somewhere. New York. LA. Paris. I don’t care. Just somewhere else.”

“Paris?” I raise a brow. “You trying to be romantic now?”

“Don’t say it like it’s a disease. I can be romantic,” he smirks. “In my own... violent way.”

“Your romantic idea is usually handprints on throats and bruises on hips.”

“And fuck, doesn’t she love it?”

“Yup. She sure does.”

We pull up at a red light. Silence stretches between us, but it’s not empty. It’s full of her. A bus hisses beside us. Some teen presses their face to the glass to stare at the car, then at Rio’s neck tattoos, then at me. I stare back until they flinch and retreat into their hoodie.

Rio taps his fingers on the wheel.

“I’m serious,” he says.