Page 215 of Filthy Promises

My vision whites out as pleasure radiates from my core to my fingertips. The gag barely buries my scream as my inner walls clamp down on him, pulling him deeper.

That does the trick. I drag him down into the abyss with me. Vince buries his face in my neck to stifle his own groan as he empties himself inside me.

I could stay like this forever. I’m owned by him inside and out, stuffed full, still vibrating with orgasms and cum and love.

Finally, he withdraws, carefully turning me to face him. He removes the gag with gentle fingers, his eyes searching mine.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod, still too breathless for words. He helps straighten my dress, then looks at my thoroughly damp panties in his hand.

“I’m keeping these,” he says with a wicked grin as he tucks them into his pocket. “A reminder of what happens when you impress me.”

“You’re impossible,” I finally manage, but there’s no heat in my words. I’m too busy wondering if we have time to go for round two.

He kisses my forehead. “Perhaps,” he agrees. “But I’m yours.”

62

ROWAN

Many things in my life have changed.

My feelings toward cocktail parties are not one of them.

The awkward small talk, the uncomfortable shoes, the constant fear that I’ll say something idiotic to someone important—it’s a particular kind of hell for a hormonal blimp with legs who’d much rather be home on the couch in sweatpants.

But here I am anyway, almost eight months pregnant and navigating the glittering ballroom of the Plaza Hotel in a shimmering red maternity gown that makes me feel like the Kool-Aid Man grew boobs.

“You’re doing amazing,” Vince murmurs, his hand warm against the small of my back as he guides me toward yet another group of potential investors.

“I’ve smiled so much my face hurts,” I whisper back. “Is that normal?”

“Welcome to my world.” His lips twitch in amusement. “Just thirty more minutes, then we can leave.”

I nod in gratitude. My feet are killing me, and Baby Akopov is going Cobra Kai against my bladder.

But this event matters—it’s the first public showcase of our legitimization efforts, a carefully orchestrated dance to introduce Akopov Industries as a respectable corporate entity to New York’s business elite.

Vince and I have been working toward this for weeks, and I’ll be damned if my swollen ankles are going to ruin it.

“Mr. Akopov,” calls a shiny-headed man in an impeccable suit. “That was quite a presentation on your shipping infrastructure expansion.”

“Thank you, Senator,” Vince replies, seamlessly slipping into his charming businessman persona. “We believe modernizing the eastern seaboard’s shipping capabilities is not just good business—it’s good for America.”

I suppress a smile. The thinly-veiled patriotic angle was my suggestion. Americans love to hear how private enterprise benefits the country, especially when said Americans control federal funding.

As Vince engages the senator in conversation about tax incentives and job creation, I take the opportunity to survey the room.

The event is a success by any measure—nearly two hundred of New York’s most influential people sipping champagne and eagerly discussing partnership opportunities with former Bratva captains who now wear the titles of Vice President and Chief Operating Officer.

If anyone suspects these polished executives were breaking kneecaps six weeks ago, they certainly aren’t showing it.

“I need to visit the ladies’ room,” I whisper to Vince when there’s a break in his conversation.

He nods, though his hand lingers on my hip. “Don’t be long. The mayor’s wife has been looking for an introduction.”

“I’ll hurry,” I promise, already making my way through the crowd.

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