Page 28 of Her Viking Lord
“Your wife who disgusts you,” I shot back, the truth of it burning between us. “When was the last time you touched me? A year? More? You don’t want me, but he does. Use that. Use me.”
I saw the calculation begin behind his eyes, that cold pragmatism that had carried him this far. His grip loosened slightly.
“Think about it,” I pressed on. “More traction in the energy sector. Better terms on the pipeline deals. Maybe even a percentage of his Arctic operations. All for something you don’t even want anymore.”
“And if I refuse?” His voice had gone flat, emotionless.
“Then I’ll find a way to give myself to him anyway.” The words came out stronger than I expected. “I need this, Takken. I need to feel owned by someone who actually wants me.”
He released my jaw with a shove that made me stumble back. For a long moment, he just stared at me, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—disgust battling with greed, pride fighting with opportunity. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken calculations.
“You’re serious about this,” he finally said, not a question but a statement of dawning comprehension.
“Completely.” I let the robe slip from my shoulders, standing naked before him. The cool air made my nipples harden instantly, and I saw his gaze flick down despite himself. Not with desire—never that anymore—but with the clinical assessment of a man evaluating an asset.
“If we do this,” he said slowly, “it needs to be convincing. He can’t think it’s a trap.”
“Then tie me up,” I said, the words coming from somewhere deep and primal. “Make it real. Show him you’re offering me like a gift.”
Takken’s jaw worked silently. Then, with movements sharp with barely contained fury, he went to his study and returned with a length of rope from the emergency kit he kept there—always prepared, always calculating.
“On the floor,” he commanded, and despite everything, hearing him take charge sent an unwelcome pulse through me. “Face down.”
I sank to my knees on the expensive Persian rug, then lowered myself until my breasts pressed against the soft fibers. Takken’s hands were efficient but impersonal as he bound my wrists behind my back, then bent my legs up and secured my ankles to my wrists. He turned me on my side, completely helpless in my nakedness.
“The laptop,” he muttered, positioning his computer on the coffee table. I heard him typing, then the distinctive sound of a video call connecting.
“Norquist.” Horakovsky’s voice filled the room, rough and amused. “To what do I owe the unexpected?—”
He stopped mid-sentence. From my position, I couldn’t see the screen, but I could imagine his expression as he took in the scene—the prime minister’s wife, naked and hogtied on the floor like an offering.
“I believe you expressed interest in this slut,” Takken said, his voice carefully neutral.
A long pause, then Horakovsky’s laugh, deep and genuinely delighted. “Are you offering me your pretty little wife, Prime Minister?”
“I’m proposing an arrangement,” Takken replied. “One that could benefit us both.”
“Show me more,” Horakovsky commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I want to see what you’re offering.”
I heard Takken pick up the laptop, and suddenly I could feel the camera’s gaze on me like a physical touch. My face burned with humiliation as he moved around me, capturing every angle of my bound form.
“Spread her,” Horakovsky ordered. “Show me her cunt.”
Takken’s hands were cold as they gripped my thighs, spreading them wider despite the rope’s restrictions. I bit my lip to stifle a whimper as cool air hit my exposed pussy, knowing the camera was capturing every detail of my most intimate flesh, still swollen and sensitive from Aksel’s use.
“Use your fingers,” Horakovsky’s voice commanded through the laptop speakers. “Pull her open so I can see inside.”
I gasped as Takken’s fingers roughly parted my folds, exposing my inner pinkness to the camera. The position, the exposure, the knowledge that Horakovsky was watching—it all combinedto send a shameful pulse of arousal through me. To my horror, I felt myself growing wet, my body responding despite my mind’s protests.
“She’s aroused,” Horakovsky observed with dark satisfaction. “Your frigid wife likes being displayed like meat. Now her ass. Show me that tight little hole.”
Takken’s hands moved to my bottom, spreading my cheeks wide. I pressed my face against the rug, tears of humiliation pricking my eyes as he exposed my most private entrance to the camera’s merciless gaze. The position stretched me open, and I knew Horakovsky could see everything—the tiny pink pucker that Aksel had claimed just hours ago.
“Closer,” the Russian commanded. “I want to see every detail.”
The laptop moved nearer, and I could actually feel its warmth against my exposed flesh. Takken held me spread for long moments while Horakovsky presumably studied me like a piece of merchandise. The shame of it made me clench involuntarily, and I heard a grunt of approval through the speakers.
“Does she take it in the ass?” Horakovsky asked bluntly.
