Relicbound – CH.1

CHAPTER ONE: THE ARTIFACT AND THE ASS

WEST OF THE VALLEY OF KINGS – EGYPT

When you're the premier authority on all things ancient and occult, you tend to develop a following—and as chair of the anthology department at Trinity College, I'd learned that lesson well. My students sometimes went the extra mile to catch my attention, lingering after lectures with questions that had little to do with Sumerian texts or medieval grimoires. In fact, my classes were almost exclusively female for years, a parade of eager faces and carefully chosen outfits, until word got around that I'd rather take it up the ass.

Then, somehow, the following semester brought an influx of male students.

Go figure.

Why am I thinking about that though? I mean, after all, there is a gun pressed against my head.

"Dr. Kessler, give me the amulet," the man says, his voice flat and businesslike.

"Darius, you could just ask. This whole gun thing is a little over the top, don't you think?"

Darius Okafor used to be your regular run-of-the-mill fence—the kind of guy who'd move stolen goods without asking too many questions, keeping his head down and his profits modest. But those days are long gone. Now he's gone bad in a big way, and I mean big. These days, he runs one of the largest criminal enterprises in the world, with operations spanning continents and connections that reach into the highest echelons of society.

Only Darius doesn't deal in drugs or weapons like most crime lords. He works almost exclusively in the shadowy underworld of arts, relics, and priceless artifacts—the kind of treasures that museums would kill for and collectors would bankrupt themselves to own. Well, they tend to start off priceless, anyway. But Darius and his old man Solomon have a particular talent, a way of putting a price tag on just about anything, no matter how irreplaceable it's supposed to be.

"Miles! Just hand me the fucking amulet," he snaps.

I'm still not sure how he found me at what could easily be described as the most remote exit from this godforsaken tomb. The entrance—if you could call it that—is little more than a crack in the limestone cliff face, half-hidden by scrub brush and centuries of accumulated sand. I reach inside my satchel, my fingers closing around the cool metal, and pull the ankh free. The gold glints in the harsh desert sun, catching the light like it's showing off. It's been less than an hour since I liberated it from a sarcophagus that exploded mere seconds after I removed it, and if that wasn't bad enough, a fucking mummy—or at least something that looked like a mummy—tried to fucking kill me. And now here he is, mugging me for the damn thing after I did all the work. Typical.

"Ya know, if I were you, I wouldn't get too attached to that. I'm just gonna steal it back."

"Why are you so fucking arrogant?" he asks, though there's something almost amused in his tone.

"Why didn't you ask me that last night when you were fucking my brains out?"

Yeah, you heard me right. I like the bad boys, and he's as bad as they come—at least in the world I operate in. I mean, who else can pull off leather in the middle of the Sahara Desert? Fucking stud. The way that jacket clings to his shoulders, the sheen of sweat on his neck catching the brutal sun—it's obscene how good he looks. My mouth goes dry just watching him move, all confidence and raw masculinity in a landscape that would break lesser men. If the circumstances were just a tad different, I'd be on my knees right now with my lips wrapped around that huge cock of his, tasting the salt of his skin and feeling him throb against my tongue.

He smiles. He has a great smile—the kind that makes you forget, just for a second, that he's pointing a gun at you—and it's the last thing I see before the butt of the Glock connects with my temple and knocks me unconscious.

TRINITY COLLEGE – BOSTON, MA – 36 HOURS EARLIER

"Okay gang," I say, raising my voice slightly to cut through the pre-class chatter. "It's important that you understand this stuff—it's gonna be on the midterm."

A hand shoots up in the back of the room. The afternoon sun streaming through the windows makes it hard to make out who it is. I acknowledge him with a point.

"Dr. Kessler, are you taking any students with you to Egypt?"

I pause, letting out a short breath. "Um, hard pass," I say dismissively, turning back toward the whiteboard.

"Seriously?" The student's voice carries a note of genuine disappointment. "My brother took this class a few years ago and he said students got to go in the field!"

I turn back around, crossing my arms. "Was he one of the ones that went missing?" I retort.

The room goes quiet for a beat, then another student mumbles something under their breath, and before I know it they've all devolved into complaints and protests.

"Oh my god, you could just go to Egypt yourself—it might be cheaper than three credit hours," someone calls out.

More grunts and groans ripple through the classroom. But the thing is, they're not wrong. I did take students into the field, back when things were different. But in recent years the climate has made trips to Egypt for the express purpose of procuring priceless artifacts extremely dangerous. The risks simply outweigh the educational benefits now.

"Listen," I say, holding up a hand to quiet them down. "There's no class next week. You have ample time to study for your midterm. I expect all As. You're dismissed."

Begrudgingly they all file out, some still muttering their grievances as they shoulder their backpacks and head for the door. The quiet barely has time to settle before the door swings open again. I look up to see Maggie Winters, Dean of Students, followed by two other people who tend to follow her around like loyal shadows—and someone I haven't seen in a really long time.

"Dean Winters," I say as I go back to packing my things, making a point of not meeting her eyes, "to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"What happened to Maggie?" she asks, referring to the numerous times she's told me to call her by her first name, as if we're friends.

"Oh, nothing. I just wanted to remind you that you're the dean of a prestigious university and you're associating yourself with a criminal," I say, finally looking up and acknowledging Darius and his father Solomon with a pointed stare.

"Dr. Kessler, the Okafors have been generous to this university. Very generous." Her tone carries a warning edge.

The men stand behind her, Darius wearing a wry smile across his face that makes my skin crawl.

"I suppose every endowment needs a little blood money."

All of their expressions change in an instant. Maggie turns around with her hands out, showing deference to the criminals standing in my classroom.

"My gosh, I sincerely apologize," she rambles. Solomon cuts her off with a raised hand.

"It's fine. We respect Dr. Kessler's views."

Maggie turns back to me, her professional mask firmly in place. "Dr. Kessler, the Okafors need a find in Egypt authenticated. They've agreed to have Trinity College complete the authentication."

"Tomb raiding is illegal," I say flatly.

"I assure you, we have all the necessary permits with the Luxor Governorate," Solomon replies smoothly.

"I think I'll pass," I say, throwing my bag over my shoulder.

I move past them but don't reach the door.

"I don't think I need to remind you what your contract says, Dr. Kessler."

Usually I can say no to these assignments, but she's right. I signed away my soul when I took this job. My department would be given unlimited funding and first opportunity at new research grants, and in exchange I would work with international institutions, foreign governments, or whoever the university saw fit to get in bed with to retrieve and authenticate museum-quality pieces whenever the university deemed it necessary.

When they told me to clear my schedule, I assumed it would be for some tedious faculty meeting or departmental review, not for tomb raiding in Egypt with criminals in tow. Fuck me.

"I think you just did," I say with a fake smile.

"Good, your flight leaves in two hours."

LUXOR INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT – EGYPT

The flight was okay, though I'm fairly certain Maggie was being petty when she had me booked in coach. If you're going to send someone globe-trotting, the least you can do is spring for decent air travel. But I'm here now, and that's what matters.

My driver meets me out front, right on schedule. His name is Khalid, and he and I have been paired together on just about every trip I've taken to Egypt over the years. Most of the time I stay with his family—his wife Layla and his son Amir have always been so welcoming, treating me less like a guest and more like extended family. As much as I want some of Layla's home cooking right now, that'll have to wait for another time. Tonight, he takes me to a hotel which is less than twenty minutes from the airport.

"I'll be back first thing," he says, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile. He's clearly happy to see me.

"Sounds good, Khalid," I say, returning the smile as I exit the vehicle.

"It is good to see you, old friend," he says warmly.

I shake his hand firmly, feeling the familiar calluses of his palm, and walk inside the hotel.

The lobby hits me like a wall of aggressive air-conditioning. After hours in the desert heat, the contrast is almost violent—my skin prickles as the cold air hits the sweat still clinging to me from the drive. The temperature must be set to arctic levels, the kind of overcorrection that only happens in five-star establishments trying to prove something.

The interior is all polished marble and chrome, the kind of aggressively modern aesthetic that could belong to any hotel in any city on Earth. Recessed lighting casts everything in a cool, clinical glow. There's a security desk near the entrance—more prominent than your average hotel—with two men in dark suits who nod at me with professional courtesy as I pass. The lobby is quiet, almost eerily so, with only the soft hum of climate control and the occasional murmur of voices from deeper within the building.

I approach the front desk, where a young man with slicked-back hair and an immaculate uniform greets me with a smile that's been practiced to perfection.

"Welcome," he says smoothly. "Dr. Kessler, yes? We've been expecting you."

Of course they have. I provide my identification and he processes everything with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. The key card slides across the marble countertop—plastic, no actual key, naturally—and he directs me toward the restaurant with the kind of helpfulness that suggests it's been arranged.

The dining room is all soft amber lighting and dark wood, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the desert beyond the city lights. A handful of other guests are scattered throughout—a couple in their sixties, a businessman on his phone, a woman reading alone—but it's quiet enough that I can hear the gentle clink of silverware and the murmur of low conversation.

I'm seated at a corner table by a server who appears almost immediately with water and warm bread studded with sesame seeds. The butter is salted, real, the kind that tastes like it came from somewhere with actual care behind it. I tear into the bread without pretense.

The menu is a mix of traditional Egyptian fare and international options. I order koshari—that beautiful, chaotic mess of lentils, rice, pasta, and spiced tomato sauce—and a glass of white wine that's probably overpriced but smells promising.

When it arrives, the koshari is perfect. The flavors are bright and complex, the textures satisfying in that way only comfort food can be. The lentils are tender, the rice fluffy, the pasta al dente. The tomato sauce is rich with spices—cumin, coriander, something warm and savory that makes me close my eyes for a moment. I eat slowly, methodically, letting the wine and the food do their work. The ambient noise of the restaurant—the soft clink of silverware, the low murmur of conversation, the occasional laugh—creates a cocoon of normalcy around me.

By the time I finish, the wine glass is empty and the plate is clean. I set down my fork and lean back in my chair, feeling the first real moment of ease since I landed.

When I get to my room, I pull the key card from my pocket, but just before I stick it in the slot, I notice the door is already ajar. I glance down both sides of the hallway—nothing. No housekeeping cart, no other guests. I reach into my satchel and realize the pistols are in my luggage, which had already been delivered to my room while I ate dinner downstairs.

I push the door open slowly and peek inside. Still nothing—just shadows and the faint scent of hotel soap. I press the door shut behind me, and the quiet hiss of the lock clicks into place. My luggage sits next to the bed, exactly where I expected it. I walk over and quietly unzip the main compartment, my fingers searching for the familiar weight of metal.

"Let me guess, you're looking for those ratty-ass pistols," a voice says from behind me.

I smile and stand up slowly, my heart rate barely elevated. I know that voice.

"Darius Okafor," I say, turning around.

And to my surprise, he's naked—and wet.

"Did you just use my shower?" I ask, unable to keep the amusement out of my voice.

Water runs off his body in tiny rivulets, catching the lamplight. His arms are broad, his deep brown skin smooth and glistening. I let my eyes travel down his chest, taking in every perfectly chiseled contour. Each pec looks like it comes with its own area code. Damn, what a man.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, though the smirk on his face tells me he knows exactly what.

"You think you're gonna come out here with that dick swinging into my personal space and I'm not gonna say anything?"

He smiles wider, showing teeth.

"So what are you gonna do about it?"

"Darius, why are you following your dad?" I ask, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism even as my body responds to his proximity.

"Maybe I want to?" he says, stepping closer to me. Water drips onto the carpet between us. "And you're really gonna talk shop right now?"

He's right. Shop can wait for another time.

I walk up to him, peeling my shirt back over my head, and kiss him hard. He kisses me back with equal hunger, and we fall back onto the bed together, the mattress giving beneath our combined weight.

"You miss me?" he asks against my lips.

"Why do you ask questions you don't want answers to?"

"So why haven't you kicked me out yet?"

"Because I want your cock to stretch my hole out."

I reach down and stroke his cock a few times. It's thick and heavy and warm in my hand. He moans in response. When he gets on top of me, he flattens his body against mine—his chest against my chest, his nipples brushing against mine, his cock rubbing against mine—and I almost lose it.

Motherfucker—he feels so fucking good.

"Fuck—you're so hot," I say, more out of exasperation than anything.

He laughs, that low, dangerous sound that makes my stomach clench. "You're one to talk."

His hips move in a slow, deliberate grind against mine, and I bite down on his shoulder to keep from making embarrassing noises. The friction is exquisite—his cock sliding against mine, still slick from the shower, the water on his skin making everything slippery and urgent. I dig my fingers into his back, feeling the muscles shift beneath his skin as he moves.

"Tease," I mutter against his collarbone.

"Says the thief who stole an artifact from under my nose."

"That was business."

"This is business too," he says, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes heavy with want. "Just a different kind."

He reaches down between us, wrapping his hand around both our cocks, stroking slowly. The sensation is almost too much—his hand, his body pressing down on mine, the weight of him. I thrust up into his grip, chasing the friction, and he hisses out a breath.

"Impatient," he observes.

"Shut up."

Instead of shutting up, he kisses me again, deep and thorough, while his hand keeps working us both. His thumb brushes over the head of my cock and I break the kiss to gasp. He takes the opportunity to kiss down my neck, his mouth hot against my skin, and I'm acutely aware of every point of contact—his lips, his teeth, his tongue, the press of his body.

I flip us over, pinning him to the mattress, and he goes willingly, his hands finding my hips. I rock against him, controlling the pace now, watching his face as pleasure flickers across his features. His jaw clenches. His eyes close for a moment before snapping back open to find mine.

"You're enjoying this," he says, his voice rough.

"Immensely."

I lean down and kiss him again, slow and deep, while I continue the maddening grind of our bodies. His hands tighten on my hips, urging me faster, but I keep the pace deliberately measured. The tension is building between us like a live wire, and I'm in no rush to break it.

Not yet.

"You want me to speed up?" I ask, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. "Beg for it."

He laughs—a low, dangerous sound that vibrates through his chest. "Fuck you."

"That's the plan, isn't it?" I grind down harder, and his breath catches. I feel his cock twitch against mine, already leaking. "But first you're gonna tell me how much you want this. How much you want me."

"You're a goddamn tease," he growls, but his hips thrust up to meet mine anyway, desperate for more friction.

I slow down even further, just barely moving, letting the anticipation build between us like a pressure cooker. His fingers dig into my hips hard enough to leave marks—marks I'll wear like a badge tomorrow.

"Come on, Darius," I murmur against his ear. "Use your words. Tell me what you want."

"I want your mouth on my cock," he says, his voice strained. "I want to feel you swallow me down while I'm buried in your throat."

The image alone makes my own cock throb. I kiss him hard, tasting the salt of his skin, and then I'm sliding down his body, my lips trailing across his chest, his abdomen, the sharp line of his hip bone. His breathing gets heavier with each kiss.

"Patience," I whisper, and then I'm wrapping my hand around the base of his cock, stroking slowly while I kiss the inside of his thigh. He's so hard now, the head flushed dark and glistening. I can feel him trembling beneath me.

"Miles—" he starts, but I cut him off by taking him into my mouth, just the tip, just enough to make him lose his train of thought. I work him slowly, deliberately, my tongue teasing the sensitive underside while my hand strokes what I can't fit. His hips buck up involuntarily, and I pull back just enough to make him feel the loss.

"Fuck, you're killing me," he breathes.

"Good," I say, grinning up at him. "That's exactly what I'm going for."

I climb up on top of him, spit on my hand, and stroke his cock until it's slick and ready. I lick the tips of my fingers and run them across my hole, teasing myself. The anticipation builds with every touch. I'm so fucking horny, I feel myself coming apart at the seams, my body trembling with need.

"Fuck, yeah," he says, his voice rough with desire.

I massage my hole for another minute, working myself open, savoring the buildup. When I can't wait any longer, I pull his cock to meet my entrance and push the tip inside, feeling that first stretch.

"Mmhm," I moan as the tip passes through, the sensation sending sparks up my spine.

Once the head is inside, I slide all the way down his length, taking him inch by inch until he's buried deep. Damn. It feels so good—that perfect fullness, that delicious pressure. Darius and I have this back and forth relationship, always competing, always pushing each other's buttons, but somehow despite all the tension between us, we still find time to fuck each other senseless. And his cock—damn, it's at least nine, maybe ten inches and girthy as fuck, stretching me in all the right ways.

I pause for a moment, letting my body adjust to the stretch, feeling him throb inside me. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise.

"You good?" he asks, and there's something almost tender in the question before his expression hardens again. "Or are you just trying to figure out how to steal this from me too?"

I laugh—a breathless, genuine sound—and start to move. Slow at first, rolling my hips in a way that makes him hiss through his teeth. "Please. Your cock is the only thing you've got that I actually want."

"Liar," he growls, but he's smiling, that dangerous smile that makes my stomach flip. His hips thrust up to meet mine, and I have to brace my hands on his chest to keep my balance.

I pick up the pace, riding him harder now, feeling the friction build with every stroke. The angle is perfect—he hits that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and I can't help the sounds that come out of my mouth. Moans, gasps, his name whispered like a curse.

"That's it," he murmurs, watching me with dark, hungry eyes. "Ride my cock. Show me how much you want it."

I lean forward, my hands still planted on his chest, and grind down against him, changing the angle so I can feel him deeper. The new position lets me control the pace, and I use it, moving faster, harder, chasing that building pressure.

"You're so fucking tight," he says, his voice strained. "Every time I think I remember what this feels like, you prove me wrong."

"Shut up and let me concentrate," I gasp, but I'm grinning. My thighs are burning, my body slick with sweat, and I'm so close to the edge I can taste it. But I'm not ready to fall yet. Not when he's looking at me like that, like he wants to devour me.

I slow down deliberately, making him groan in frustration.

"You better fucking not!" he warns, his hands tightening on my hips.

"What are you gonna do about it?" I ask, breathless and defiant. I'm barely moving now, just small, teasing circles that make him twitch inside me. "You're the one pinned underneath me."

He laughs—a low, dangerous sound—and suddenly he's thrusting up hard, taking control, fucking up into me with a rhythm that steals my breath. I cry out, my nails raking across his chest, and he doesn't slow down. If anything, he goes harder, deeper, his hips snapping against mine with relentless intensity.

"How's that feel?" he asks, his voice rough and smug. "Still think you're in charge?"

I can't answer. I can barely think. All I can do is hold on and take it, my body responding to every thrust, every deliberate stroke. The pressure builds and builds, coiling tight in my core, and I'm right there, right on the edge of something explosive.

"Ahh—fuck, Darius," I moan, my head falling back. "Don't stop. Fuck! Please don't stop."

"Bet," he says, and there's something almost possessive in his tone as he continues to drive into me, relentless and perfect and absolutely maddening.

I look back over my shoulder and watch Darius's cock slam into my ass. The impact sends ripples through my flesh, waves that radiate outward from where our bodies meet. Each powerful slam creates another jiggle, my body responding to his rhythm with involuntary tremors that I can see and feel in equal measure.

So. Fucking. Hot.

I don't have to touch myself to feel it—the way it coils low in my stomach, tightening like a fist. The way my muscles betray me, clenching and releasing without my permission, responding to every thrust with a will of their own. And I chase it, I chase that building pressure on Darius' dick like my life depends on it. I chase it like it's the last thing I'll ever do, and I ride his cock—hard!

My thighs burn as I lift and drop, lift and drop, taking him deeper each time. The angle shifts with every movement, and I feel him dragging against that spot inside me that makes my vision blur. The friction is maddening, perfect, and I ride it until the steady leaking from my cock turns into something more urgent, more desperate. Then it hits—the pleasure crests and breaks, and cum is squirting from me in thick warm ropes, painting my stomach and chest. Fuck, it feels so good!

The pleasure crashes through me in waves, each one more intense than the last, and I clench my hole around Darius' cock, milking him, squeezing him with every pulse of my release. He's right there with me, right behind me, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough to bruise, holding me in place as I shake apart on top of him.

"Shit! Fuck! I'm cumm—fuck! I'm cumming!"

His words are broken, ragged as they escape his lips, hot breath against my neck.

"Fuuuucckkkk!!!"

And a moment later he's exploding inside me. I can feel one burst after the next, warm, milky, and thick, filling me completely. The sensation sends another shudder through my body, aftershocks of pleasure rippling outward from where we're joined. Fuck!

I collapse on top of him, exhausted, our chests heaving in sync. His cock is still buried inside me, softening gradually as we catch our breath. The air conditioning hums in the background, cooling the sweat on our skin.

"So you excited about tomorrow?" he asks after a long moment, his voice still rough from exertion.

I shift slightly, feeling him slip out of me, and roll onto my side. "I guess. Nothing like standing in the sun making sure a bunch of criminals don't run off with priceless artifacts," I say, unable to keep the sarcasm from my voice.

"You really think my dad's motley crew uncovered the Amulet of Osiris after all these years?" There's something in his tone—pride, maybe, or disbelief.

"The Amulet of Osiris?" I ask, more incredulous than anything else. I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him. "No one told me that's why I was here."

"You don't really think—"

"The Amulet of Osiris hasn't been seen or heard from since Seti the First," I say, sitting back up fully now. My mind is already racing through the implications. "Darius, if your father actually found it..."

"Well, I'm sure it'll look nice in the dining room," he says, nonchalant, like we're discussing a souvenir from a gift shop.

"Your dining room?" I stare at him. "Are you serious right now?"

"What?"

"Darius, if that amulet is there, it's going to the GEM," I say firmly, referring to the newly minted Grand Egyptian Museum.

"Bullshit, it's our dig." His jaw sets in that stubborn way I've come to recognize.

"Darius, it's an Egyptian artifact. You have no claim to anything you find there. That's not how this works."

"Fuck you!" he yells, his inflection changing sharply.

I can't help it—I laugh.

"Sorry, dude. You've got incredible dick, but if I find an amulet, I'm obligated to turn it over to Egyptian authorities. That's literally my job."

"Goodie two shoes," he says. "Go to sleep."

And it doens't take long. My body has already been pushed past the point of staying awake. The weight of travel, the exertion, the lingering warmth of his body beside me—it all combines into a pull I can't resist. Sleep claims me faster than I expect, dragging me under into darkness.

I wake up and my arm is sore, throbbing with a dull, persistent ache that radiates from my shoulder down to my elbow. It takes me a moment to realize where I am and what happened last night. My eyes adjust slowly to the unfamiliar surroundings—the pale morning light filtering through curtains I don't recognize, the strange shadows on an unfamiliar ceiling. I blink a few times, trying to piece together the fragmented memories that feel just out of reach, like trying to grab smoke. The soreness in my arm triggers flashes of recollection, but they're hazy, incomplete.

When I open my eyes, I realize my arm is twisted around me—or I'm twisted around it. The angle is all wrong, uncomfortable in a way that pulls me fully awake. I try to right myself, to shift into a more natural position, but something stops me cold. Metal bites into my wrist.

I strain to look around, my neck protesting the awkward angle, and then I see it. Something shiny catches the morning light filtering through the curtains.

What the fuck.

Handcuffs. That fucker handcuffed me to the headboard. I jerk my arm a few times, testing the restraints, but the cuffs are on tight—professionally tight, actually. He knew what he was doing.

"Shit," I mutter to the empty room.

That's when I notice the piece of paper on the side table, just within reach if I stretch. It's a note, folded once. I grab it and strain my eyes to read the scrawled handwriting.

"Needed a head start. Catch the next flight home and I'll make it worth your while. D."

As soon as I read that last letter, my mind immediately goes to his dick. Yeah, it's great and all, but right now I'm cuffed to a headboard, and not in a good way.

TO BE CONTINUED...