Chapter 91 One month with the Mafia boss: Day four
2:17am
The city is a glittering carpet seventy-one floors below, but inside the boardroom the only light comes from the long neon strip above the table and the cold blue glow of the holographic map hovering over the glass surface.
Twelve of Kazimir’s highest-ranking men sit around it in perfect silence, black suits, no ties, guns barely concealed.
They are discussing a shipment route through the Black Sea that could make or lose them half a billion dollars.
Kazimir sits at the head, sleeves rolled high, the wolf on his forearm flexing every time he moves a marker on the map.
His voice is calm, lethal, pure business in Russian.
Under the table, Nyra is on her knees.
She is naked except for the thin platinum collar and a pair of diamond nipple clamps that catch the neon every time she breathes.
Her wrists are bound behind her back with his silk tie Armani, midnight blue, now ruined with her saliva.
The carpet is soft, but her knees still ache from the last forty minutes of slow, torturous sucking.
Kazimir never stopped talking.
He has been using her mouth like a stress toy while negotiating in clipped, icy Russian.
When someone argues a route is too hot, he pushes deeper down her throat until she gags quietly and the man shuts up.
When someone agrees too eagerly, he pulls out, lets her gasp for two seconds, then feeds her his cock again, slow and deliberate, like he’s rewarding her for existing.
Now the room smells of gun oil, expensive cologne, and her own arousal dripping steadily onto the carpet between her spread thighs.
Kazimir leans back slightly in the chair, one hand casually dropping below the table to fist her hair.
He drags her forward until her nose is pressed against his open zipper, then holds her there while he finishes a sentence about Albanian patrols.
“…and if the coast guard intercepts, we burn the boats and the crews with them. Clear?”
A murmur of da, Boss around the table.
Only then does he look down at her. His gray eyes are molten.
“Up,” he says, so softly only she hears.
Nyra rises on shaky legs. The clamps tug with every movement, sending sparks straight to her clit.
He spins his chair, pulls her forward until she’s straddling his lap, facing the table facing all twelve men.
Her back to his chest. His cock, slick from her throat, nudges insistently at her entrance.
Kazimir wraps one arm around her waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world and lifts her just enough to sink her down onto him in one slow, punishing glide.
Nyra bites her lip bloody to stay quiet. He is thick, scalding, filling her so perfectly she wants to scream.
Instead she trembles, hands still bound, as he sits her fully on his cock and holds her there.
The holographic map flickers across her bare breasts.
Twelve pairs of eyes flick up, then lock on her, some shocked, some hungry, all disciplined enough not to move.
Kazimir’s voice doesn’t waver.
“Continue, Viktor.”
Viktor clears his throat, tries to focus on the map while Kazimir’s hand slides up Nyra’s torso, flicks one diamond clamp hard enough that she jerks, cunt clenching around him.
A low, involuntary moan escapes her.
Kazimir’s lips brush her ear, barely audible. “Quiet, kotyonok. Or I stop.”
He begins to move tiny, shallow thrusts that grind his piercing against her front wall without giving her the friction she’s dying for.
Every time someone speaks, he rewards her silence with a deeper roll of his hips.
Every time she whimpers, he stills completely, letting her feel the ache of denial.
Ten minutes of this.
Twenty.
The meeting drags on routes, bribes, body counts, and all the while he’s inside her, owning her, using her like furniture.
Nyra is shaking, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of her eyes.
Her thighs are soaked; every subtle shift makes obscene wet sounds that the whole table can hear.
Finally Kazimir leans forward, elbows on the glass, still buried balls-deep inside her.
“The meeting is adjourned,” he says.
Chairs scrape.
Men stand, careful not to look too long.
The door closes behind the last one with a soft click.
The second they’re alone, Kazimir’s control snaps.
He shoves everything off the table, and bends her forward over the cold glass.
Her clamped nipples drag across the surface; she screams into her own reflection as he slams into her from behind with months of pent-up violence.
“Those men just watched me own this cunt,” he snarls, one hand in her hair, yanking her head back so she’s forced to watch the city lights blur through her tears.
“They heard every wet sound you made, but they’ll never fucking touch you.”
He reaches beneath her, rips the clamps off in one brutal motion.
Blood rushes back into her nipples; the pain detonates into an orgasm so intense her vision whites out.
She comes screaming, squirting over his cock and the priceless glass table, body convulsing so hard he has to hold her down to keep fucking her.
Kazimir follows seconds later, slamming deep and spilling inside her with a guttural curse in Russian.
He stays buried, grinding, emptying every drop.
When he finally pulls out, come drips from her swollen pussy onto the table in thick ropes.
He turns her, lifts her onto the edge, spreads her legs wide so he can watch it leak out.
Then he drops to his knees and licks her clean, slow, filthy, possessive swipes of his tongue that make her come again just from the humiliation of it.
When he’s done, he stands, fixes his cuffs, and lifts her trembling body into his arms.
“Four down,” he murmurs against her temple, carrying her toward the private elevator.
“Twenty-six more nights of ruining you in places those men will never forget.”
Nyra can only cling to him, wrecked and dripping and already aching for tomorrow.