Filthy Promises: Chapter 63

I need a moment to collect myself, so I duck into a small alcove behind a massive floral arrangement. My hands are shaking, but not from fear—from a strange, intoxicating sense of power I’ve never experienced before.

It’s the feeling of protecting what’s mine.

Because that’s what Vince is now. Mine. My husband. My child’s father. My partner in this complicated, dangerous, exhilarating life we’re building together.

God, when did that happen? When did I stop seeing myself as a victim of circumstances and start seeing myself as a willing participant? As someone with agency and power and stakes in this game?

“There you are.” I look up to find Vince standing before me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “Just needed a minute to catch my breath.”

His eyes narrow. “What happened?”

“Not here,” I say quietly. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

He hesitates, then nods, respecting my need for privacy. “The car is waiting whenever you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” I tell him. “I’ve had enough socializing for one evening.”

“Thank God,” he mutters. “I was about to fake a medical emergency to get us out of here.”

I laugh, slipping my arm through his as we make our excuses and head for the exit. In the back of the car, I finally allow myself to relax, leaning against Vince’s solid presence beside me.

“So,” he says once we’re safely ensconced in privacy, “what happened back there?”

I replay my encounter with Kevin, not sparing any details. As I speak, Vince’s expression darkens, but he remains silent until I finish.

“I’m sorry,” I conclude. “I probably overreacted. I just—I got so angry when he threatened you. Us.”

For a long moment, Vince says nothing. Then, to my surprise, he takes my hand and brings it to his lips.

“You continue to amaze me, little doe.”

“You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset that my wife defended our family?” He shakes his head, something like wonder in his eyes. “Do you realize what you did? You identified a threat, assessed it, and neutralized it without violence or exposure.”

“I threatened him,” I admit. “I implied you would⁠—”

“You protected what’s yours,” he interrupts. “I’ve never been prouder.”

“I surprised myself,” I say. “It was like someone else took over—someone who knew exactly what to say, how to stand, where to push.”

“Not someone else,” Vince counters. “You. The real you. The one who’s always been there, beneath the nice girl façade.”

My exhale whistles past my parted lips. “I’m not pretending anymore, am I?”

“No.” His smile is slow, appreciative. “You’re not. And I, for one, have never been more turned-on by it.”

The car pulls into the circular driveway of our estate, but neither of us moves to exit. Instead, Vince leans across the seat to capture my lips in a kiss that steals my breath—tender and possessive and grateful all at once.

“Vasily,” he growls up toward the partition, “leave the keys in the ignition and go inside.”

With a single grunt, Vasily does exactly as he’s told. The door slams, and we’re alone.

“Shouldn’t we go inside?” I ask, feeling suddenly flushed despite the car’s air conditioning. “I’m pretty sure pregnant women aren’t supposed to have sex in the backseat of cars.”

Vince’s eyes darken as he shifts to face me more fully. “Pretty sure there’s no rule book for this particular situation.”

“There’s definitely a rule book for pregnancy,” I counter. “And I’m pretty sure ‘don’t get railed in a Bentley’ is in there somewhere.”

His laugh is low and appreciative. “Who said anything about you getting railed?” His hand slides up my thigh, pushing the red fabric higher. “After that display back there, I think it’s time you took what you want.”

“What I want?” I echo.

“Show me,” he challenges softly. “Show me what the real Rowan St. Clair wants.”

I glance around the spacious backseat of the car. The privacy partition is up. The windows are tinted. We’re parked in our own driveway, safe from prying eyes.

The world is my oyster.

“I want you,” I say, my voice firmer than I expected. “But not like this.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

In answer, I shift forward and begin working at his belt. “I want you laid out for me. I want to sit on your face until your beard is soaked. And then I want to ride you until I can’t remember my own name.”

The words come out in a rush, shocking even me with their boldness.

But God, do I mean them.

Vince’s breath catches. His pupils dilate until his eyes are almost black. But the grin that spreads across his face a moment later is positively indecent.

“Well then… Who am I to deny my wife what she wants?”

With surprising agility for a woman in her third trimester, I maneuver myself until I’m straddling his lap, my belly huge between us.

“Help me with this,” I command, tugging at the fabric of my dress.

Vince’s hands immediately find the hidden zipper. With a few deft movements, he has the top portion loosened enough that I can pull it down, freeing my swollen breasts.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands coming up to cup them reverently. “Even more perfect now.”

My pregnancy has made my breasts impossibly sensitive, and the gentlest brush of his thumbs across my nipples sends sparks shooting straight to my core. I arch into his touch and grind my hips against the hardness straining beneath his tuxedo pants.

“I need more,” I gasp.

Without a word, Vince reclines across the seat, positioning himself so his head rests against the door. The improvised positioning gives me just enough room to move up his body.

“Come here,” he growls, his hands guiding my thighs to either side of his head.

I brace myself against the roof of the car as he uses both hands to hike my dress up around my waist. My panties are soaked through already—embarrassingly so—but Vince’s groan of appreciation as he pulls them aside washes away any self-consciousness.

“Fucking dripping,” he snarls as he rakes a thumb through my pussy and then sucks on it. “And so fucking sweet.”

I grab his jaw. “Stop talking and put that mouth to better use, big shot.”

His eyes flash with approval as he pulls me down onto his face. The first swipe of his tongue has me gasping, my free hand clutching at the headrest for support. The second, third, and fourth dissolve me into pure sensation.

He’s insatiable. Relentless. I blur and come apart and melt in every direction.

I rock against him shamelessly, grinding my hips how I want, how I need. It’s dirty and desperate and so far from anything we’ve done before.

And I’m the one in control.

“That’s it,” Vince encourages between licks. “Take what you need. Use me. Soak me, Rowan.”

His words push me higher, closer to the edge. My thighs begin to shake as he focuses his attention on my clit, circling it with the flat of his tongue before sucking it between his lips.

“Oh, God—Vince—” I’m careening toward orgasm, my body tightening, coiling like a spring.

When he slides two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that perfect spot within, I shatter. Wave after wave of pleasure washes over me, and I cry out his name, not caring if anyone might hear.

But it’s not enough. I want more. Need more.

Before I’ve fully recovered, I’m moving down his body, fumbling with his zipper, desperate to feel him inside me. Vince helps, lifting his hips to work his pants down just enough to free his erection.

“Condom?” I ask automatically, then remember, with a breathless laugh, that’s how we got here in the first place.

“I think that ship has sailed,” Vince chuckles.

I position myself over him, one hand braced on his chest for balance. The head of his cock nudges against my entrance, and I close my eyes at the sensation.

“Look at me,” Vince commands softly.

I do, our gazes locking as I sink down onto him inch by exquisite inch. The stretch is divine, my body still sensitive from my first orgasm.

“So perfect,” he groans, his hands finding my hips. “You’re fucking perfect, Rowan.”

Once he’s fully seated inside me, I pause to adjust to the fullness, to the awkwardness of my pregnant belly between us. But Vince’s reverent expression—like I’m a goddamn fertility goddess rather than a sweaty mess—gives me the confidence to move.

I start slowly. My palms press against his chest, feeling the thunder of his heart beneath my fingers.

“You feel so good,” I tell him, picking up speed. “So deep like this.”

“That’s it,” he encourages. “That’s my good little slut. Take your pleasure. Show me what you need.”

I shift around until he’s hitting exactly where I need him with every thrust. “Right there,” I gasp. “Don’t stop.”

“Never.” His hips rise to crash against mine. “I’m yours, Rowan. All yours.”

“I’m close,” I pant, my rhythm faltering as the pressure builds. “Vince, I’m so close⁠—”

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice tight with his own restraint. “Let me see you fall apart.”

His thumb finds my clit, circling it in time with my movements, and that’s all it takes. My second orgasm crashes over me, more intense than the first, my inner walls clamping down on him as I drool and twitch and spasm.

I watch his face contort with that beautiful agony only pleasure can bring. His jaw clenched tight, veins standing out along his neck. He’s close—so fucking close—but fighting it, because Vincent Akopov never surrenders control easily.

Not even to me.

Not even now.

“Stop!” I cry out.

I wrench myself off him, even though every cell in my body screams in protest.

His eyes snap open, feral and confused. “What—? Are you⁠—”

“I want to see you come,” I pant, my voice guttural and unrecognizable even to my own ears. “Not in me. On me.”

Understanding darkens his expression to something primal. Something that makes my already-sensitive pussy clench around nothing.

“Where?” he growls, one hand already wrapping around his cock, slick and shining with my arousal.

I sink back on my heels and arch my spine to thrust my swollen breasts forward. “Here.”

“Fuck, Rowan,” he hisses. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

I slide my fingers between my legs, circling my clit with deliberate pressure, putting on a show for him. “Is that what you like? Watching your pregnant wife touch herself while you jerk off?”

His pupils blow wide, devouring the blue of his irises. “You know it is.”

“Tell me,” I demand, my free hand massaging my breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to make myself moan. “Tell me exactly what you like.”

“I like watching you discover how fucking filthy you really are,” he snarls, his fist pumping faster as he strokes himself. “I like that you’ve stopped pretending to be good. That you’ve embraced what you are.”

“And what am I?”

“Mine,” he grunts. “A queen. A warrior.” His breathing grows ragged, his rhythm faltering. “The mother of my child. The only woman who’s ever made me feel like I’m not alone in this fucking wasteland.”

Something shifts in my chest—a tectonic rupture that splits me open. This isn’t just lust. This is something deeper, darker, more dangerous.

This is love in its rawest, most elemental form.

I lean forward, gripping his wrist to slow his movements. “Let me.”

He releases his cock, surrendering to my touch. I wrap my fingers around him. It’s perfect—the velvet hardness, the desperate pulse of his need. The power I have over him in this moment is intoxicating.

“You’re mine, too,” I whisper, pumping him with slow, deliberate strokes. “Every inch. Every scar. Every sin.”

His hips buck into my grip. “Rowan⁠—”

“I want it,” I tell him, my voice dropping to a feral purr. “I want you to mark me. Show me who I belong to.”

I pick up speed, twisting my wrist at the upstroke just how he likes it, watching his breathing grow shallow, his muscles tense. His hands ball up at his sides, knuckles white with restraint.

“Look at me,” I command, echoing his earlier words.

His eyes lock with mine, blue flame burning into my green, and I see the exact moment he surrenders. His back bends, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as hot spurts paint my breasts in long, pearlescent stripes.

I milk him through it, coaxing every last drop, mesmerized by the raw vulnerability on his face. When he’s spent, I release him. But I don’t look away as I drag my fingers through the mess on my skin and bring them to my lips to lick them clean.

The taste of him is salt and sin and salvation.

“Jesus Christ, woman,” he croaks, watching me with dazed reverence. “You’re going to fucking ruin me.”

I smile, drunk on power and pleasure and the tangled web we’ve woven together. “That’s the plan.”

He pulls me to him, heedless of the sticky mess between us, and kisses me like a drowning man finding air. When we break apart, he presses his forehead to mine.

“We should go inside,” he murmurs. “Get you cleaned up.”

“In a minute,” I whisper.

I’m not ready to leave this moment, this car, this version of us—messy and exposed and perfect in our imperfection.

His hand cups my lower belly. “I’ll keep you safe, you know, Rowan. Both of you. Always.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I trust you.”

The strangest part is that I do.