Page 5 of Bound Vows
Maya takes me deep, working her tongue against my sensitive head while her bound hands clench into fists behind her. She’s aggressive even in submission, biting gently before soothing the sting with velvet strokes. When I try to pull away, she follows, determined to finish what she started.
My breathing grows ragged as the fantasy evolves. Maya’s mouth is hot and perfect, and the contrast between her reluctant submission and eager participation drives me toward the edge. She watches me through impossibly divine eyelashes, cataloging every reaction like the predator she is.
And then, the image transforms, and now, Maya straddles my lap in the very chair where I’m currently sitting. Her wrists are free, and she uses that freedom to rake her nails down my chest while she positions herself above my cock. The marks she leaves burn in the best possible way.
She sinks slowly, taking me inch by inch as her head falls back in pleasure. The sight of Maya impaled on my cock, her body stretched to accommodate my size, nearly undoes me. She’s tight and hot and absolutely perfect.
In the fantasy, Maya sets the pace. She rides me with the same controlled violence she brought to tonight’s killing, using my body for her pleasure while I hold her hips and try not to come too soon. Every movement is intentional and devastating.
I imagine burying my face against the curve of her neck, tasting salt and perfume while she moves above me. Her breath becomes shorter and more desperate, small gasps that gradually transform into moans she can’t suppress.
When Maya throws her head back, her curls frame her face like a dark halo. She’s beautiful and deadly and all mine in this moment, her body clenching around me as she approaches her release.
The fantasy reaches its peak as Maya’s movements become erratic. She’s close; I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble against mine, see it in the flush that spreads across her chest.When she finally breaks apart, my name tears from her throat as she admits she belongs to me and only me.
Reality crashes back as my orgasm hits with devastating force. I come with Maya’s name on my lips and her image burned into my retinas, and my seed spills across my fingers while pleasure wracks through my body.
For a moment, the study fades away, and nothing exists except the phantom sensation of Maya’s skin against mine. The fantasy felt so real that I almost expect to find her collapsed against my chest, panting in the aftermath.
Instead, I’m alone with cooling cum on my hand and the knowledge that fantasy will never be enough. I need the real thing, and I need it soon.
I clean myself with the handkerchief from my jacket pocket and then button my pants while studying Maya’s face on the central monitor. Soon, that defiant smile will be directed at me instead of security cameras.
“Alexei,” I call, knowing my lieutenant monitors all communications from his station down the hall.
The door opens within seconds, and Alexei Petrov enters silently. My second-in-command stands just under six feet tall, with the kind of lean build that comes from surviving Moscow’s streets before joining my organization. Scars cross his knuckles and disappear beneath his sleeves—souvenirs from the same massacre that orphaned us both.
Alexei is the only person alive who remembers the Volkov family before they became corpses, which makes him invaluable and dangerous. His loyalty has never wavered, but I sometimes catchhim watching me with the same concerned expression he wore when we were teenagers planning our escape from captivity.
The years have hardened us both, but Alexei retained more of his humanity than I managed to preserve. He questions my more extreme decisions, though he’s never directly challenged my authority. Tonight might test that dynamic.
“You’ve been busy tonight, Andrei,” Alexei observes. His accent is still thick despite years in America. “The restaurant footage was illuminating.”
“Maya Mastroni just became our primary target,” I tell him while pulling up her surveillance files. “I want everything: family connections, personal habits, psychological profiles, and security weaknesses. Leave nothing to chance.”
Alexei approaches the monitors and studies Maya’s image. His face reveals nothing, but I know him well enough to recognize the subtle signs of concern. The way his forehead wrinkles and how his hands clasp behind his back in a defensive posture.
“She’s dangerous,” he finally declares. “Perhaps more dangerous than initially assessed.”
“Which makes her perfect for what I have in mind.”
“And what do you have in mind?”
I smile while minimizing the footage and pulling up architectural plans for various Manhattan locations. “Marriage.”
Alexei’s face remains impassive, though I catch a slight tightening around his eyes that betrays his true feelings. In our world, marriage serves strategic purposes, but I suspect he understands this situation involves more than politics.
“Marriage requires the bride’s consent,” he points out. “Something tells me Maya Mastroni won’t be enthusiastic about the proposal.”
“Marriage only requires proximity and opportunity. Consent is negotiable.”
“She just killed three trained operatives without blinking. Capturing her alive won’t be simple.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is.” I stand and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a panoramic view of Central Park. Somewhere in this city, Maya Mastroni is cleaning blood from under her fingernails and planning her next move. “Begin with her daily routines. Where does she shop, exercise, socialize? I want to know her schedule better than she does.”
“Understood,” he replies with a scowl and a curt nod. He’ll do what I ask, even if he doesn’t like it. “What about the Mastroni family’s response? They will expect retaliation after tonight.”
“Let them expect it. Fear makes people careless, and careless people make mistakes.” I turn back to face Alexei, who continues eyeing Maya’s photograph with the expression of a man calculating impossible odds. “Focus on the woman, not the family. Everything else is secondary.”
