The Bratva's Heir (Underworld Kings)

“Good girl,” I say again.

Then I press the wand against her cunt.

“Ohhhh Godddd…” Clare moans.

The vibration is intense; at first, it’s too much, and she tries to twist away from it. But I press the wand relentlessly against her clit, rubbing it back and forth in slow strokes. Soon Clare hangs slackly from her bonds, rolling her hips against the vibrator, making a deep, groaning sound unlike anything that’s passed those pretty pink lips before.

I see her pace speeding up. She’s humping the wand, her breath quickening too. Her chest flushes pink, her nipples practically cutting through the thin material of the bra.

I yank the wand away from her.

“No!” she gasps, looking around blindly with her eyes still covered.

“Now tell me the security code to your parents’ house.”

She clamps her mouth shut, shaking her head stubbornly. “No fucking way.”

I grab her right breast, squeezing hard, twisting the nipple.

“Answer me.”

“Ow! Fuck you! No!” she cries.

I slide my hand down the front of her panties, feeling the intense heat of her pussy, how wet and slippery it has become. Her clit is swollen and throbbing, my fingers sliding easily through her folds.

Her knees buckle beneath her, and she leans against my shoulder, gasping and trying not to beg for more.

“Tell me,” I whisper in her ear. “I won’t hurt them. I just want to take a look around his office. He won’t even be home…”

“I can’t,” Clare murmurs.

I rub my fingers back and forth across her clit, feeling her heart hammering against my torso, hearing her desperate panting in my ear.

“Tell me,” I order.

“Promise not to hurt them…”

“I told you. They won’t even be home.”

“4719,” Clare gasps.

“Very good,” I grin.

“Now please… please…” she pants.

“Beg me to let you come.”

“Please, make me come, Constantine!”

I press the vibrator against her again. I massage it in slow circles around her clit, allowing the climax to build and build. Then I press it on just the right spot, until her whole body starts to shake, until she’s screaming herself hoarse, just like I promised her.

I watch the waves of pleasure wrench through her.

Once she collapses, hanging limply from her bonds, I give her a short break. I spend that minute or two admiring the luminescence of her skin, the way it glows faintly pink, like cherry blossoms, in the aftermath of her orgasm.

I yank off her blindfold. “One more question, Clare. You answered it before, but I want you to look me in the eye and answer me now. The full fucking truth.”

Slowly, she raises her head and meets my gaze, her expression dazed and unfocused, drugged with pleasure.

“Who sent you to meet with me?”

“No one,” Clare mumbles. “It was just… they assigned me a stack of inmates. I picked up your file first.”

“Hm,” I say, not letting her see that I actually do believe her.

I press the wand against her clit again, turned all the way up to maximum.

“No!” she gasps. “It’s too much!”

It’s not too much.

She’s already starting to come again, relentlessly and helplessly, her whole body jolting like she’s strapped into an electric chair.

I don’t stop until she’s come three more times, until she’s begging me to stop with tears running down her cheeks.

Only when she’s completely exhausted, limp and helpless as a newborn babe, do I cut her down, and lay her across the bed.

Chapter 8

Clare

I wake from a sex-induced coma. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

The room is darkened, luxurious, imbued with the sweet, seductive smell of sex. It takes me a moment to remember where I am, and when it comes back to me, I jerk upward. I can’t move. My wrists are tied in restraints, my feet cuffed and set apart with a… bar of sorts.

I’ve never been into anything like this. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.

And yet…

I lick my lips and remember the taste of his mouth, the taste of lime-soaked vodka on his lips and mine. I draw in a hoarse breath and try to keep still.

I need to know where my captor is. I need to prepare for what he’ll do to me next.

I take a mental tally of my body.

I’m weak from what he did to me, but I’m not injured. I look down at my body, half-expecting bruises or evidence that he forced himself on me, but no.

I close my eyes and listen. There’s the sound of running water, then Constantine’s thick Russian accent. I look around the room as my eyes adjust to the darkness. A sliver of yellow light peeks from around a doorframe. There’s a small bathroom, the door’s ajar, and he’s filling what looks like a kettle with water.

When he enters the room again, his eyes meet mine. He’s showered, wearing only a towel around his waist. I stare. I’ve never seen a man like him naked up close and personal. Ever.