Filthy Promises: Chapter 32

We’ve fallen into a pattern.

A dangerous, addictive, catastrophically beautiful pattern.

I tell myself every morning that it needs to stop. I can’t keep doing this. This way lies heartbreak and misery—and, yes, more orgasms than my body can handle—but it’s mostly bad stuff otherwise!

Then night falls. And all my resolve crumbles.

“Focus, Rowan,” Vince’s voice cuts through my thoughts as I sit across from his desk, supposedly taking notes on the firm’s upcoming Hong Kong merger.

“This is me, focusing.”

“Is it? You seem distracted.”

“I’m fine,” I lie.

“Are you?” He stands, circling his desk and coming to stand in front of me. “Because you’ve been staring at my mouth for the past five minutes.”

My breath catches. “We’re at work, Vince.”

“I’m aware.” His eyes go molten. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Vince, someone could walk in⁠—”

“The door is locked. And no one would dare.” He leans closer, mouth inches away from mine. “Were you thinking about the same thing as me? Because I was thinking about last night, when I bent you over the kitchen counter and fucked you so hard you couldn’t speak.”

Just his words send heat flooding between my legs. “I…”

“Or maybe not. I thought perhaps you were still reminiscing about when I pushed you to your knees and came in your mouth.”

“It… That…”

He taps a finger against my lips like a metronome. “Was it the car ride that’s got you so out of sorts? Honestly, two little fingers shouldn’t be enough to throw such a gear in the works.”

“Y… You…”

His grin is wicked, vicious, un-fucking-deniable. “Ah, I know what it is. It’s that you want more.”

The grin disappears. He’s violently present all of the sudden. Every single scrap of his attention is focused on me and me alone. On ripping the answers he wants out of my throat.

“Say it, Rowan. Say you want more.”

I swallow. I never really had a chance here, did I?

“Yes,” I whisper. “I want more.”

His smile is victorious as he reaches for the hem of my skirt. “Stand up.”

I obey without hesitation. We both know I’m powerless to refuse him anything at this point.

“Turn around,” he commands. “Hands on the desk.”

I feel him lift my skirt, his fingers sliding beneath the waistband of my panties to tug them down. They catch around my ankles, trapping me.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, his palm gliding over the curve of my ass. “Such a good girl, always so ready for me.”

I hear his zipper. The crinkle of a condom wrapper.

“We shouldn’t,” I protest weakly, even as I widen my stance in invitation. “Diane could call. Someone could need you.”

“Everyone knows not to disturb me when I’m in meetings with my executive assistant.” His fingers find me, testing how wet I am. “And you’re very, very wet, Ms. St. Clair.”

I bite my lip to stifle a moan as he positions himself behind me.

“Tell me what you need,” he orders.

His voice has that rough edge, the one that makes my insides melt. I can barely think straight with him pressed against me like this.

“You,” I whisper, arching back. “God, Vince, I need you.”

“Not good enough.” He holds back, teasing, tormenting. “Be specific.”

The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Every brush of him against my entrance sends sparks shooting up my spine.

“Please,” I whimper. “I need you inside me. Now.”

He pushes inside me with one powerful thrust, and I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out.

“That’s it,” he growls, setting a punishing pace. “Take all of me. I know it hurts, but there’s pleasure on the other side. If you open wide… if you spread… if you’re a good girl for me… I’ll show you just how nice I can make you feel.”

I try desperately to stay quiet, but it’s impossible. Every thrust sends papers scattering, pens rolling off the edge of the desk. The fact that there are only thin walls to keep the world from knowing what we’re doing in here just makes me clamp around him that much harder.

And fuck, he’s huge. He’s not wrong—I have to spread as wide as I possibly can just to take him into me.

But the stretch comes with everything he promised.

When I come, I bite down on my forearm to muffle my screams.

As always, he’s right behind me. It’s like his body was born to do this to me—but mine was born to do this to him, too. He can’t last much longer after I go.

He ruins my pussy, then pulls away, disposes of the condom, zips up his pants, and boom—he’s perfect again.

I, on the other hand, remain a sopping mess for the rest of the day.

The car is soundproof. The privacy partition is up.

But that doesn’t make this any less insane.

“We’re ten minutes from the meeting,” I gasp as Vince’s hand slides up my thigh. “We can’t⁠—”

“Ten minutes is plenty of time.” He yanks me onto his lap, my back to his chest, my skirt hiked up around my waist.

From this position, we can both see our reflection in the privacy screen. I look wrecked already—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wild with want.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against my ear. “So proper on the outside. Such a filthy girl underneath.”

His fingers slip beneath my underwear, finding me already wet for him, just like he knew he would.

“Vince,” I whimper as he teases my clit. “We’re going to be late.”

“Then you better come quickly.” His other hand moves to my breast, pinching my nipple through my blouse. “Show me how good you can be.”

It’s obscene, watching myself fall apart in his arms. Seeing what he reduces me to with just his hands, his dirty words.

I come with a broken cry, shuddering against him as his fingers stroke me through the aftershocks.

“Good girl,” he praises, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. “Now, straighten your clothes. We have shareholders to impress.”

I return to my seat on shaky legs, quickly fixing my appearance. In five minutes, I’ll be taking notes in a boardroom full of executives who have no idea their CEO just fingered me to orgasm in the backseat of his car.

What is happening to me?

“Do you trust me?” Vince asks, holding up a black silk tie.

We’re in his penthouse. Manhattan looms beyond, as usual. If only all those innocent people down below knew what was happening up here.

I nod, breathless with anticipation. “Yes.”

He moves behind me, wrapping the tie around my eyes. The world goes dark as he knots it securely.

“Hands above your head,” he instructs, guiding me until I’m standing in what feels like the center of the room.

I obey, feeling more exposed than I ever have despite still being fully clothed.

“Don’t move.”

I hear him step away. The sound of ice clinking in glass. Footsteps returning.

Then—cold. Shocking cold against my collarbone as he presses an ice cube to my skin.

I gasp, instinctively trying to pull away.

“I said don’t move.” His voice has that edge I’ve come to crave. “Or would you prefer we stop?”

“No! No,” I breathe. “Please don’t stop.”

The ice traces a wet path down my neck, to the hollow of my throat. Vince follows it with his warm mouth, the contrast making me shiver.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs against my skin. “Jumping at every. little. touch.”

One by one, he removes my clothes, each new patch of exposed skin treated to the contrasting sensations of ice and heat.

By the time I’m naked, I’m trembling with need.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?” He’s circling me, occasionally brushing against me so I never know where he’ll touch next.

“I need more.”

“More what?” The ice returns, this time circling my nipple until it’s almost painful.

“More of you,” I plead. “Your hands. Your mouth. Anything.”

“Anything?” The word holds danger. Promise. “What if I told you I’ve invited someone else to join us?”

My breath catches in my throat. “What?”

His laugh is dark, delighted by my shock. “Would you let me share you, Rowan? Would you let someone else touch what’s mine?”

“N-no!” I stammer, ashamed by how the idea sends a perverse thrill through me. “Just you.”

“Good answer.” His voice is closer now, his breath hot against my ear. “Because I don’t fucking share what belongs to me.”

His hands finally, finally land on my hips, spinning me around and pushing forward until my front presses against cold glass.

The window, I realize.

I’m naked, blindfolded, smashed against a window fifty-seven floors above Manhattan.

“Anyone with a telescope could see you right now,” Vince says casually. I hear him undressing behind me. “See how desperate you are for me.”

He starts to fuck me. It’s slow torture.

He knows I can’t stand when he grinds in and out like this, each inch of his cock lasting a minute or more. It’s enough to drive me mad, but not enough to make me come.

The whole time, he keeps whispering. About how he’d march down to the sidewalks and kill with his own bare hands any man who dared to see me here.

“I’d send their eyeballs to their mothers in a box, Rowan. Because this—you—us—this pussy—all of it is for me and me alone. It’s not the thrill of being seen that has me hard and you wet. It’s the thrill of the violence I’d do to anyone who thinks any part of you is for them. It’s mine. You are all fucking mine.”

I lose track of time, lost in sensation—the cold glass against my palms, the pulse of him inside me, the edge of fear from being so exposed.

I come harder than I’ve ever come before.

The supply closet on the executive floor is barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

He fucks me in it.

The bathroom at Le Bernardin is an architect’s wet dream, gilded, glistening, perfect.

He fucks me in it.

In this car and that one, in the elevator, on his desk and beneath it—everywhere that two bodies can fit together, Vincent Akopov takes me there and shreds my clothes from me and makes me his slut, his princess, his secret, his prize.

I’m burning at all hours with the ghosts of his touches inside and out—and, worse still, the things he says.

Because his touches fade. Bruises go away.

Memories do not.

“Swallow me, Rowan.”

“Ride me, Rowan.”

“What holes of yours haven’t I claimed yet, Rowan? Let’s fix that.”

Underpinning it all is the constant threat that I’m his. If I tried to leave this, if someone heard me, he’d put an end to it or me or them immediately.

I’m his. Not forever, because God knows he can’t promise me that. But for as long as an orgasm can last, I belong to him.

I cling to that, even while I know that this runaway train will leap off the tracks soon enough.

We both know it’ll kill me when it does.

We both know Vince will be just fine.