Page 111 of Filthy Promises

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.Youare 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.

33

ROWAN

It’s a Tuesday morning when I wake up feeling like death warmed over.

My head pounds. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed glass. Every muscle aches. But I drag myself to work anyway, because I can’t afford to miss a day. Mom’s medical bills don’t pay themselves.

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