Page 8 of Filthy Promises

That coronation will take place in the dark. It won’t make any headlines. No news station will breathlessly cover the transition of power. No Wall Street motherfuckerin a Loro Piana suit will speculate about what it means for the company’s stock price.

Because when the Akopov Bratva takes a new king, the only ones who know about it are the ones who matter.

“—Christ, son, how many times do I have to repeat myself?”

I blink back to reality. My father has been yammering in my ear for longer than I realized.

“Had to answer an important message,” I lie to him smoothly. “What was your question?”

I can practically hear his infamous scowl. It used to make weaker men wet themselves.

But I’ve been on the receiving end of Andrei Akopov’s ire plenty of times in my life. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

“The quarterly numbers—they’re good?”

I think of the curve of Rowan’s hip beneath the fabric of her pencil skirt.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. “We can discuss at Sunday dinner.”

He grumbles, “Don’t be late. You and I need to have an important conversation.”

I can’t keep the grin off my face. “I’ll be there.”

After we hang up, I return to Rowan’s file. I lock eyes with her employee headshot for a while, feeling a strange stirring in my gut.

Is she on a subway ride home right now, lost in reminiscing about the moment of that door swinging open? Is she doing what I’m doing—picturing her naked? Picturing her moaning? Picturing her coming again and again until she’s a helpless, writhing, whimpering mess on my desk?

It’s unfair—she has an advantage on me. She’s seen it all and I’ve seen only a peek of her.

But it’s not so hard to do a little daydreaming of my own.

As a matter of fact, it’s all so easy.

It’s easy to picture me dismissing Vanessa coldly and stalking over toward Rowan instead. She’d still be there if the door hadn’t swung shut, captured and starstruck like a deer in headlights.

In my fantasy, I don’t even bother getting dressed again. My cock swings like a dangling sword as I approach.

She notices. Oh, yes, she fucking notices. She can’t take her eyes off it.

Not until I get close enough to touch two fingers to the underside of her chin so she has no choice but to look up at me.

You’re staring,I’d say.Would you like to touch instead?

She’d probably say nothing at first. Too afraid. Too timid.

I’d have to pass my thumb across her lower lip and laugh.Use your words, little doe.

Only then would she gulp and mumble something I don’t hear.

Try again. Louder.

I said, Yes, I’d like that.

I would nod.Good girl.

I’d ask her where she wants it. Right here on the desk? Against the wall? On her knees?

I don’t actually care what her answer is—if there’s one thing I know about women, it’s that they prefer a man who decides things like that for them—but I just want to hear that sweet voice wobble with fear and soaked desire.

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