Page 9 of Filthy Promises

But her wide eyes tell me she truly doesn’t know. She’s never made these choices before.

That thought only makes me harder—the possibility that she’s untouched. Unclaimed.

I’d inhale her inexperience like the world’s rarest perfume.

I think we’ll start with the desk,I’d tell her, guiding her backward until her ass meets the polished mahogany.

Those shoes would click against the floor as she fidgets in place just before I lift her, set her down, and spread her thighs with my palms. Her skin would flush immediately, blood rushing to the surface wherever I stroke.

I’d tease her skirt up, then run my thumb along the seam of her cheap panties, feeling the heat there, watching her pupils dilate.

I’ve seen you watching me,I’d murmur against her neck.In the cafeteria. At company functions. Did you touch yourself afterward, thinking about something like this?

She’d nod, those curious fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

Say it,I’d demand, tugging her hair to expose her throat.

Yes, Mr. Akopov. I’ve thought about this.

I’d smile against her skin.So prim and proper. Let’s see how long that lasts.

Then I’d hook my finger into her mouth, testing how deep she can take it, watching her eyes water as she tries not to gag. A preview of things to come.

It’s for her own good.

If she can’t take that, she’ll stand no chance of taking all of me.

Eventually, I’d show mercy. I’d withdraw my finger from her mouth, a glistening thread of saliva connecting us for one suspended moment before breaking.

Stand up,I’d command, voice low enough that she’d have to crane closer to hear me.Take off your clothes. But—do it slowly.

Her fingers would tremble against the buttons of her cheap blazer. One by one, though, they’d surrender.She’dsurrender. The fabric would part to reveal a plain white blouse beneath.

Practical. Forgettable.

Perfect for someone who’s spent years trying to disappear.

I would nod.Keep going. All of it.

A flash of panic would cross her face. She wouldn’t stop, though. She wouldn’t dare—the unspent lust would eat her alive.

And if it didn’t,Iwould finish the job.

So the blouse would come off next, folded neatly—even now, she’d be careful with her things. The frantic discipline of someone who can’t afford replacements. Of someone who has never done this dance before. Not like this, at least.

Her bra wouldn’t match her panties. Nothing coordinated or planned. This wasn’t in her morning calculations.

Her body, finally revealed, would surprise me—curves hidden beneath those boxy, beige, lifeless, corporate-approved clothes. Skin paler than porcelain where the sun never touches.

I’d circle her like a predator. Touching myself because I’d be too fucking hard to resist. But not touching her. Not yet. Just letting her feel my gaze burning into every inch.

The small of her back.

The constellation of freckles on her shoulder blade.

The goosebumps rising in my wake.

Tell me something,I’d murmur against the nape of her neck.How often have you imagined this?

---