Chapter 46

“That’s it,” he growls, setting a punishing pace. “Take all of me. I know it hurts, but there’s pleasure on the other side. If you open wide… if you spread… if you’re a good girl for me… I’ll show you just how nice I can make you feel.”

I try desperately to stay quiet, but it’s impossible. Every thrust sends papers scattering, pens rolling off the edge of the desk. The fact that there are only thin walls to keep the world from knowing what we’re doing in here just makes me clamp around him that much harder.

And fuck, he’s huge. He’s not wrong—I have to spread as wide as I possibly can just to take him into me.

But the stretch comes with everything he promised.

When I come, I bite down on my forearm to muffle my screams.

As always, he’s right behind me. It’s like his body was born to do this to me—but mine was born to do this to him, too. He can’t last much longer after I go.

He ruins my pussy, then pulls away, disposes of the condom, zips up his pants, and boom—he’s perfect again.

I, on the other hand, remain a sopping mess for the rest of the day.

The car is soundproof. The privacy partition is up.

But that doesn’t make this any less insane.

“We’re ten minutes from the meeting,” I gasp as Vince’s hand slides up my thigh. “We can’t⁠—”

“Ten minutes is plenty of time.” He yanks me onto his lap, my back to his chest, my skirt hiked up around my waist.

From this position, we can both see our reflection in the privacy screen. I look wrecked already—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wild with want.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against my ear. “So proper on the outside. Such a filthy girl underneath.”

His fingers slip beneath my underwear, finding me already wet for him, just like he knew he would.

“Vince,” I whimper as he teases my clit. “We’re going to be late.”

“Then you better come quickly.” His other hand moves to my breast, pinching my nipple through my blouse. “Show me how good you can be.”

It’s obscene, watching myself fall apart in his arms. Seeing what he reduces me to with just his hands, his dirty words.

I come with a broken cry, shuddering against him as his fingers stroke me through the aftershocks.

“Good girl,” he praises, wiping his hand on his handkerchief. “Now, straighten your clothes. We have shareholders to impress.”

I return to my seat on shaky legs, quickly fixing my appearance. In five minutes, I’ll be taking notes in a boardroom full of executives who have no idea their CEO just fingered me to orgasm in the backseat of his car.

What is happening to me?

“Do you trust me?” Vince asks, holding up a black silk tie.

We’re in his penthouse. Manhattan looms beyond, as usual. If only all those innocent people down below knew what was happening up here.

I nod, breathless with anticipation. “Yes.”

He moves behind me, wrapping the tie around my eyes. The world goes dark as he knots it securely.

“Hands above your head,” he instructs, guiding me until I’m standing in what feels like the center of the room.

I obey, feeling more exposed than I ever have despite still being fully clothed.

“Don’t move.”

I hear him step away. The sound of ice clinking in glass. Footsteps returning.

Then—cold. Shocking cold against my collarbone as he presses an ice cube to my skin.

I gasp, instinctively trying to pull away.

“I said don’t move.” His voice has that edge I’ve come to crave. “Or would you prefer we stop?”

“No! No,” I breathe. “Please don’t stop.”

The ice traces a wet path down my neck, to the hollow of my throat. Vince follows it with his warm mouth, the contrast making me shiver.

“You’re so sensitive,” he murmurs against my skin. “Jumping at every. little. touch.”

One by one, he removes my clothes, each new patch of exposed skin treated to the contrasting sensations of ice and heat.

By the time I’m naked, I’m trembling with need.

“Please,” I whisper.

“Please what?” He’s circling me, occasionally brushing against me so I never know where he’ll touch next.

“I need more.”

“More what?” The ice returns, this time circling my nipple until it’s almost painful.

“More of you,” I plead. “Your hands. Your mouth. Anything.”

“Anything?” The word holds danger. Promise. “What if I told you I’ve invited someone else to join us?”

My breath catches in my throat. “What?”

His laugh is dark, delighted by my shock. “Would you let me share you, Rowan? Would you let someone else touch what’s mine?”

“N-no!” I stammer, ashamed by how the idea sends a perverse thrill through me. “Just you.”

“Good answer.” His voice is closer now, his breath hot against my ear. “Because I don’t fucking share what belongs to me.”

His hands finally, finally land on my hips, spinning me around and pushing forward until my front presses against cold glass.

The window, I realize.

I’m naked, blindfolded, smashed against a window fifty-seven floors above Manhattan.

“Anyone with a telescope could see you right now,” Vince says casually. I hear him undressing behind me. “See how desperate you are for me.”

He starts to fuck me. It’s slow torture.

He knows I can’t stand when he grinds in and out like this, each inch of his cock lasting a minute or more. It’s enough to drive me mad, but not enough to make me come.

The whole time, he keeps whispering. About how he’d march down to the sidewalks and kill with his own bare hands any man who dared to see me here.

“I’d send their eyeballs to their mothers in a box, Rowan. Because this—you—us—this pussy—all of it is for me and me alone. It’s not the thrill of being seen that has me hard and you wet. It’s the thrill of the violence I’d do to anyone who thinks any part of you is for them. It’s mine. You are all fucking mine.”

I lose track of time, lost in sensation—the cold glass against my palms, the pulse of him inside me, the edge of fear from being so exposed.

I come harder than I’ve ever come before.

The supply closet on the executive floor is barely big enough for one person, let alone two.

He fucks me in it.

The bathroom at Le Bernardin is an architect’s wet dream, gilded, glistening, perfect.

He fucks me in it.

In this car and that one, in the elevator, on his desk and beneath it—everywhere that two bodies can fit together, Vincent Akopov takes me there and shreds my clothes from me and makes me his slut, his princess, his secret, his prize.

I’m burning at all hours with the ghosts of his touches inside and out—and, worse still, the things he says.

Because his touches fade. Bruises go away.

Memories do not.

“Swallow me, Rowan.”

“Ride me, Rowan.”

“What holes of yours haven’t I claimed yet, Rowan? Let’s fix that.”

Underpinning it all is the constant threat that I’m his. If I tried to leave this, if someone heard me, he’d put an end to it or me or them immediately.

I’m his. Not forever, because God knows he can’t promise me that. But for as long as an orgasm can last, I belong to him.

I cling to that, even while I know that this runaway train will leap off the tracks soon enough.

We both know it’ll kill me when it does.

We both know Vince will be just fine.