The Ox Who Got the Cream Ch. 03

Layla sat on the wide, cushioned windowsill, staring wonderingly through the tall glass at the vast rockface outside. The room was a comfortable temperature, but she could see the outside was chilly, the shining exterior both beautiful and unique. Light poured from an opening above; they were deep underground.

The night had been tumultuous, frustrating, exciting and self-indulgent. The new day came with fresh realisations that Layla struggled with in the wake of it all. Her eyes slid to the large, sleeping man in the big luxuriant bed, knowing he'd wake immediately if she left the room.

Romantic preoccupations aside, Layla hadn't decided what to do about The Poker, known more casually as 'Zole'. She'd seen plenty of him on TV, a toxic soul concealed in the shell of an attractive man. The contrast between his nature and appearance fascinated the public; his charming smile, tidy blonde hair, a polite, British accent. Normally dressed in a pin-striped suit and carrying an ominous cane with a knife end.

Layla's refocused to perceive her reflection in the glass. Her long, blonde hair had been roughly raked to the side, wide green eyes, often described as cat-like, which pleased her. She was fresh-faced, her lips artfully curved and delectably pink, the same pale tinge as her nipples.

People considered her elegant, graceful and finely educated; a daughter to be proud of. Not witty or practical. Certainly not kick-ass.

Layla glanced to the bed and started when she locked eyes with Truce, watching her on his side, his head resting on one palm.

"Pretty as a picture," he smiled gently, his dark eyes smouldering.

Layla looked away. No longer distracted by adrenaline and her sex drive, rationality crept in, and she accepted there was a silent understanding between them. She had nowhere to run, or means to escape, and they both knew it. Truce would be a dutiful host, as long as she proved herself a genteel guest.

It was, ironically, a temporary truce.

Truce cleared his throat. "What have you decided?"

Layla didn't bother pretending not to know what he referred to. "Is there a thirty-day guarantee for change of mind?" she replied, still looking out the window.

"Wow," Truce laughed. "You are your father's daughter."

Layla kept her steady gaze on the glistening rockface, soothed by the streams of water running down it, the consistent flecks of moisture raining from above. She heard the sheets shift as Truce left the bed to sit behind her, his delicious warmth made Layla feel that she'd been cold before then. Truce carelessly draped an arm across her front to ease her snugly against his bare chest.

"Would it be such a terrible thing to be mine?" He murmured by her temple.

"I'm not interested in leaving one cage for another," Layla said firmly, still staring out the window. "I won't settle."

"We grow as we live, Layla," Truce chuckled. "Goals don't just drop into your lap, especially a dream as big as yours. You could consider me a stepping-stone."

"And then what?" Layla said cynically, her eyes hardening at the view. "You'd let me leave, if I wanted?"

"If that's what you wanted, yes."

At his serious tone, Layla glanced back with surprise. Truce solemnly stared back. Registering her astonishment, amusement crept into his eyes. "What?" he smirked.

"I expected you to say something more...aggravating," Layla said, and noticing his attention zero in on her mouth, quickly turned back to the window.

"You should see me as an opportunity, not a dream-crusher. I know what it's like," Truce said distantly. "To grow up privileged and have your future dictated to you."

Layla made a derisive sound, but Truce went on before she could contradict him.

"I didn't inherit this lifestyle, Layla. Before my parents died, my father told me I was to take over the business. That my talents were in stocks and finance and investment. I wanted to be a vet." He paused, and Layla felt his body tense behind her. "I was belted for even mentioning it. After a while, I learned to stop saying it aloud."

Layla sensed the shift in the air; his childhood sorrow. Her parents were controlling, but dotingly so. Her father would never raise a hand to her.

Truce coughed to clear his throat. "When they died, I couldn't abandon the business. I know my father only wanted what he thought was best for me. So, I created two lives. I kept the business running in a way that would make him proud. But outside of that..." he broke off with a chuckle. "I decided to pursue something fucking outrageous that would have delighted my mother."

"Oh," Layla said, unsure how else to reply.

"I recognised it in you, the basis of your resentment toward me," Truce grinned, kissing her hair. "It didn't excuse your behaviour, approaching me like you did. You were fucking asking for it, you little brat."

Layla cringed, remembering indulging in too many champagnes at a party she didn't want to attend. She found him alone and unguarded, surveying a newly acquired painting from abroad. A searing, alcohol-fuelled anger possessed her just from looking at him. In the moment, Truce was despicable.

It wasn't fair. He was so relaxed, tall and handsome; carefree in beige slacks and a black shirt, the world at his feet. His expression was serene, his complexion ridiculously healthy; no stress lines or signs of exhausting all-nighters. At the very least he could have appeared a little worn and bitter.

Unabashed, she'd stormed right up to Truce, taking some satisfaction from his bewilderment when she dared initiate rude unpleasantries. But not ten seconds passed before his bemusement shifted from a surprised politeness to an almost savage interest.

He'd bantered right back, shouldered every sarcastic barb with delight, leaving Layla feeling impotent and irritated. Before she could make a scene that might draw the attention of other party guests, her father noticed Truce's wicked grin and guessed the content of Layla's conversation.

Rightfully alarmed, George hastily intervened and herded his daughter away from the town's most powerful man. When Layla turned to cast a last glare of contempt at Truce, she was startled that he was still staring at her, with an unnerving glint in his eyes that made her knees weak.

"I was drunk," Layla muttered in lame defence.

"And I'm eternally grateful for it," Truce replied, his other arm wrapping about her. "So? Will you give me a try?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Presently, no," he teased, nibbling her ear, his groin tightening when she shivered. "But you will, when it matters. When you experience a life that only I can provide for you, I highly doubt you'll want to abandon it."

Layla's retort morphed into a gasp when Truce smoothly adjusted position and managed to stand with her in his arms. The movement was swift, and next thing Layla tumbled onto on the bed facedown, Truce's hard chest flush against her back.

"Fuck! You can't just fuck me whenever you want!" she complained, uselessly wriggling against his erection poking her buttock.

"What if you want it, too?" Truce cheerfully countered, his hand smoothing down her thigh and up between her legs. "I'm all about mutual pleasure Layla, you should know that by now."

Layla bit her lip, but a small moan slipped out when his fingertips traced her wet folds.

"Now, why are you so wet, kitty?" he whispered against her neck.

The heat flaring up her body was sudden; Layla tried not to sound breathless and failed. "It's from last night," she hoarsely lied.

"Mm-hmm," Truce said, feeling her slightly arch as he slipped two fingers into her. "Tight and wet. I really love how you respond to me. It's so fucking hot, it's almost toxic."

Layla grit her teeth but couldn't trust herself to speak with dignity.

"I'm not going to fuck you, until you ask," Truce announced.

Layla opened her mouth to berate him but cried out instead when he thrust into her balls-deep and stayed there.

"O...Oh, my God..." Layla uttered, trembling against the cushioning mattress.

"Oh, Layla, fuck. You're perfect for me," Truce groaned, tense at her back.

Layla tried to push back, but she was literally pinned to the bed. Truce's shaft was thick and fulfilling, stretching her pussy and stimulating her clit.

"T-Truce?" she breathed, her heart fluttering like crazy.

"Yeah?" he panted, reaching down to squeeze her ass. "God, your butt is perfect. Tell me what you want, Layla."

"I want sex," she sullenly admitted, then buried her face in the bedding.

Nothing happened, except her pussy began to needily ache, and there was no way Truce wouldn't feel her walls urgently pulsing around his shaft. She tried to arch, but he allowed her no movement. "Truce?"

"What else?" he groaned, his other hand sliding up to cup her breast and squeeze, his thumb flicking a silky, stiff nipple. "What about my offer?"

"I-I..." Layla stuttered, overcome with an need that was building with every second. "Please?"

"Say 'yes', Layla."

"Yes! Oh, Yes!" Layla gasped, when he withdrew an inch and thrust in again. "Yes!"

"Good girl," Truce purred, drawing out two inches and pausing. "Say you'll marry me, Layla."

"I'll marry you!" Layla said shrilly and was rewarded with another deep thrust. "Fuck!"

"Tell me," he ground out, slowly withdrawing, the restraint exquisite agony. "Tell me you're mine. Say it, and I'll make you see stars."

"I'm yours, Truce!" Layla panted, moaning when he began to draw out and push in, fucking her.

She squealed with delight when his fingers found her clit, gently teasing the swollen nub and creating a pleasure that felt too much for her body to contain. She was shaking uncontrollably between Truce and the bed, it was embarrassing but there was nothing she could do about it, except beg for more. Had she known sex could be this good, she might not have evaded him for so long.

"I'll marry you!" she desperately promised when his attentions slowed at her verbal delay. She was fuelling him with words, trading for sex, and her mind was utterly blank with a desire to say anything for him to continue. "Fuck me, Truce, please!"

Truce's warm hand caressed her breast, rolling her nipple, tugging whilst the other pressed her clit in a tantalising way. He grunted, losing the last of his control, too empowered by her submission. He fucked harder, delighting in the act of taking the only woman he'd ever wanted.

Layla stiffened, whimpered then cried out, struggling against the flow of simmering pleasure engulfing her. Truce's hand left her breast to turn her jaw and claim her mouth in a hard kiss, at the same time her slick walls clenched around his cock, heightening his own orgasm.

Still shuddering from the force of her climax, Layla gazed into Truce's eyes, giddily pleased that he at least appeared as vulnerably, hopelessly dazed as she was. With a last satisfied groan, Truce pulled out and fell back to the mattress, taking Layla with him.

For a while they lay together, both out of breath.

"I'm glad we're finally in agreement," Truce eventually panted, trailing his finger down Layla's flushed cheek. "After breakfast I'll show you around."

Considering the day ahead, Truce scowled. "I have some work things to discuss with your father tonight, so I'll be out for part of the evening. But I'll leave before the meeting. I only need to advise him of our upcoming nuptials. Somehow, I doubt he'll refuse his permission."

"Pffft," Layla mumbled ungraciously, too exhausted and ridiculously comfortable in the afterglow to offer anything snarky.

***

Layla slowly stretched her arms upward, where they hovered uncertainly before dropping to her sides.

"Well?" Felix inquired; eyebrow quizzically arched.

Felix was the architect behind Truce's gadgets and armour. With dyed, spiky brown hair and stern features, Felix was on the short side, but nicely proportioned. His manner was analytical, robotic even, and only those closest to him would ever know he had a sense of humour.

Whether fussing in his lab, sitting at Truce's breakfast table after an all-nighter or inspecting Layla's costume as currently tasked, Felix always wore a suit.

Layla moved in an awkward side-step to accommodate the pull in the crotch of her outfit. "Parts of it are kinda heavy and...it's a bit tight between the legs," she muttered awkwardly.

"Snug is safe," Felix pointedly replied, his eyes rapidly running over Layla's shapely figure.

Layla pouted in silence, shooting Truce a resentful glare. Comfortably dressed in an olive track-suit, he lazily smiled back.

"Move around," Felix instructed, ignoring the rankling chemistry between Layla and Truce. "Step forward and back, side to side. You need to have full range of movement."

With a heavy sigh Layla moved about, and Truce continued to innocently scrutinise her motions. Except his eyes were distinctly mischievous.

"Is that ok?" Layla asked impatiently with a last brisk twirl. "It's flexible enough."

Felix opened his mouth, but Truce spoke first.

"You skipped an important position, Layla," he frowned. "Can you spread your legs and touch your toes?"

"Cain," Felix warned, before looking to Layla. "Try a side kick." He tilted his head as Layla obliged. "Does the crotch still pinch?"

Truce bit his lip, warding off laughter. "She does like a nibble there."

"Truce!" Both Layla and Felix chastised him at once.

After a hard stare at Truce, Felix turned to Layla. "If I alter the crotch section, you'll have to forfeit the heat cape."

"H-Heat cape?" Layla blinked, abruptly bending to inspect the crotch and tentatively touch the padded area before jerking upright when Truce laughed.

Felix sighed. "A cloth that expands and adjusts to bring your body to a healthy temperature. You know, if you get locked in a freezer or caught in the snow." He cleared this throat. "I won't lie, this suit is excessively protective-"

"And I won't back down on that," Truce interjected, suddenly serious, glancing Layla's way when she snorted.

"Compromise, Layla," he proposed, his sexy business face on. "You keep this one, and I'll also refurbish your original Foxsuit. But you have to promise that if you go anywhere dangerously cold, you'll wear the cunt-pincher-"

"CAIN!" Felix exclaimed, moving to cover his ears on instinct. "What has gotten into you?"

"Layla," Truce darkly replied, his lips curved to a lustful smile as he stroked Layla's cheek. It hadn't taken long to discover Layla was extremely susceptible to his more charming self. "Please?"

Layla smugly nodded, her mind reeling with excitement. She was getting two suits and...

Her thoughts dissipated because Truce was suddenly kissing her, ignoring the impatient tapping of Felix's shoe. Clearly preoccupied with taking things further, Truce slowly walked Layla backward toward the exit, their lips still locked.

"I suppose I'll get to work then!" Felix snapped after them, rolling his eyes when Truce gave him a thumb up without breaking the kiss.

***

Truce's scheduled dinner progressed according to plan, until the end. As anticipated, Layla's father received the news of their engagement as nothing short of a fantasy come to life.

George ecstatically signalled a waiter. "Your best champagne!"

"A bit much, George," Truce chuckled into his whiskey.

"Pish!" George beamed, nodding enthusiastically when the waiter returned to pour glasses. "I had high hopes for my girl, but no parent really dares hope-"

"She's special as she is, George. I'm pitiably in love with her," Truce smiled, laughing when George tossed back the entire glass and requested another. "You might want to slow down if you're dialling into that meeting."

"Well, you can correct me if I slur my words."

Truces froze and his smile vanished. "Pardon?"

George looked surprised. "Layla mentioned you were staying for the meeting."

"Did she just?" Truce said silkily, the easy-going warmth in his eyes turned stone-cold.

"Well, Truce, I think she was right that there's little point in you hanging about for a girls' night," George said hesitantly. "I didn't realise you were in the dark about it."

Truce checked his watch. "George, I have to go."

"What? Right now?" George lightly shook his head, fighting the effects of the champagne. "Is something wrong?"

"Not yet." Truce abruptly stood and eased into his suit jacket. "That little fool," he angrily muttered, too quietly for George to hear.

"Truce, should I be worried about Layla?" George demanded, concerned by the look on Truce's face.

"Only when I get my hands on her." Truce forced himself to relax. "I'm joking, George. There's no danger, just a communication issue."

"But-?"

"Call me 'love-addled'," Truce elaborated with a disarming chuckle, "but I'm not willing to forfeit my evening with Layla to the girls. Email me any updates and I'll respond."

They shook hands, and Truce strolled to the door. Once through the exit, he broke into a sprint, swearing viciously all the way to his car and lamenting the fact he was in complete civilian mode without the Oxmobile, his fight-suit or weaponry.

In hindsight, he should have known. There was something distinctly wicked in Layla's farewell kiss, which he presumed had something to do with sex. Talk about wishful thinking.

Truce started the car and angrily stepped on the accelerator. There was only one reason Layla would want him out of the way that evening, and it wasn't to go after the Tickler.

***

On a quiet wharf, Zole, The Poker, stood with his arms crossed, one hand gripping the dreaded cane that many unfortunates found themselves facing the bad end of.

He was flanked by his top henchmen; Bork and Reggie.

Bork was an Italian who'd left the Mob for a more lucrative arrangement with The Poker. The position was a refreshing change from the predictable Mafia dealings of cash, drugs, breaking legs and threatening petty criminals. With wavy light brown hair and hazel eyes, he looked much younger than his forty years. He was average height with a very strong build from years of transporting bulky items; drugs, cash, weapons, bodies.

The Poker recruited Reggie fresh out of the Asylum. There was actually nothing wrong with Reggie's mental faculties. At a tender age he'd been committed in error, against his will, and once free of the abusive institution, was more than happy to take part in any revenge against the town who'd unjustly turned its back on him.

Reggie was young for his deadly occupation; twenty-two, tall and lean with black hair and a sombre demeanour. Since Oxman represented Gothic City and rigorously defended it from peril, yet entirely failed him, Reggie's hatred for Oxman was very, very personal. The Poker found it delightful.

Though The Poker often criticised Bork for having less maturity than Reggie, Bork was loyal and generally good at getting shit done. Reggie had also proved himself many times over, and The Poker relished in discussing murderous plots with an entirely sane man with tragically skewed life objectives.

It was technically The Poker's night off, so he wasn't dressed for dramatic effect. With his clean-cut appearance, dressed in an expensive black tracksuit, one could be forgiven for mistaking him for a sports star; a sports star holding a cane that was also a spear whilst casually observing the transfer of cocaine-filled furniture from the wharf to an old fishing boat.

Layla spied the proceedings from the top of an adjacent building. She knew Truce would be livid if he ever found out she'd stolen intel to pinpoint The Poker that evening. But the upcoming mission was a big one, and she had to prove herself worthy of accompanying him.

An infatuation risk wasn't good enough to keep her home when lives were at stake. Maybe she would find something useful that would make their win easier. Or perhaps in hindsight Truce might be impressed by her stealth espionage.