Filthy Promises

Chapter 3 Episode 3

As soon as Vanessa leaves, I sit at my desk and pull up the company directory on my computer. I didn’t get a good look at the intruder’s badge, but I know she came to deliver quarterly reports. Which places her in marketing or finance, most likely.

I scroll through employee photos, searching for those startled doe eyes.

Rowan St. Clair. Marketing Associate. Five years with Akopov Industries.

“Rowan,” I say aloud, testing the name on my tongue.

I click through to her employee file. Nothing remarkable at first glance. Bachelor’s degree in Marketing and Design from Generic State University. Consistent if unremarkable performance reviews—above-average, but never outstanding enough to fast-track for promotion.

I lean back in my chair, intrigued.

Well, that’s not quite true. I’m intrigued by the fact that, on the surface, this girl is so utterly unintriguing⁠—

—and yet I can’t stop picturing her face.

Oh. f**k, that single syllable she whispered was a more delicious sound than anything Vanessa ever whined or screamed or moaned.

Oh. Like Rowan had never seen someone f**k before.

Oh. Like she wanted to find out how it feels for herself.

“Let’s see what else you’re hiding, Ms. St. Clair.”

Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to access the HR files. But when your last name is on the building, certain rules become… flexible. A few keystrokes later, and I’ve got everything I could ever want splayed out before me.

What I find makes me sit up straighter.

Health insurance claims. Lots of them. Not for Rowan, but for a dependent—her mother.

Student loans still not paid off. A modest apartment in the sleazy part of town where ambition goes to die. No savings to speak of.

I pull up her social media. It’s almost nonexistent. A barely-used i********: with photos of coffee and dog-eared books. No exotic vacations or wild parties.

An image forms in my mind: a woman trapped by circumstance. Working to survive, not to thrive.

I recognize that hunger. It’s what drove my father when he first came to America with nothing but ambition and a suitcase full of dreams.

My phone buzzes. Speak of the devil—it’s Andrei himself.

“Still at the office?” he asks in Russian, his accent drenched with snow and vodka even after thirty years in the States.

I chuckle to myself at the little joke. Vanessa “finished up” three times. Even now, I can see her silhouette through the frosted glass of my office window. She keeps peeking over her shoulder like she’s wondering if I’m as smitten with her as she is with me.

I’m not, of course. I can’t afford to be. In a few short months, my father will step down from his role as the CEO of Akopov Industries.

Then it’ll be my turn at the helm.

That’s all well and good. But it’s not the promotion I’m most excited for.

It’s when Andrei hands me his other crown that I’ll truly be salivating at everything that’s finally mine.

That coronation will take place in the dark. It won’t make any headlines. No news station will breathlessly cover the transition of power. No Wall Street motherfucker in a Loro Piana suit will speculate about what it means for the company’s stock price.

Because when the Akopov Bratva takes a new king, the only ones who know about it are the ones who matter.

“—Christ, son, how many times do I have to repeat myself?”

I blink back to reality. My father has been yammering in my ear for longer than I realized.

“Had to answer an important message,” I lie to him smoothly. “What was your question?”

I can practically hear his infamous scowl. It used to make weaker men wet themselves.

But I’ve been on the receiving end of Andrei Akopov’s ire plenty of times in my life. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

I think of the curve of Rowan’s hip beneath the fabric of her pencil skirt.

“Everything’s fine,” I say. “We can discuss at Sunday dinner.”

He grumbles, “Don’t be late. You and I need to have an important conversation.”

I can’t keep the grin off my face. “I’ll be there.”

After we hang up, I return to Rowan’s file. I lock eyes with her employee headshot for a while, feeling a strange stirring in my gut.

Is she on a subway ride home right now, lost in reminiscing about the moment of that door swinging open? Is she doing what I’m doing—picturing her naked? Picturing her moaning? Picturing her coming again and again until she’s a helpless, writhing, whimpering mess on my desk?

It’s unfair—she has an advantage on me. She’s seen it all and I’ve seen only a peek of her.

But it’s not so hard to do a little daydreaming of my own.

As a matter of fact, it’s all so easy.

It’s easy to picture me dismissing Vanessa coldly and stalking over toward Rowan instead. She’d still be there if the door hadn’t swung shut, captured and starstruck like a deer in headlights.

In my fantasy, I don’t even bother getting dressed again. My c**k swings like a dangling sword as I approach.

She notices. Oh, yes, she f*****g notices. She can’t take her eyes off it.

Not until I get close enough to touch two fingers to the underside of her chin so she has no choice but to look up at me.

You’re staring, I’d say. Would you like to touch instead?

She’d probably say nothing at first. Too afraid. Too timid.

I’d have to pass my thumb across her lower lip and laugh. Use your words, little doe.

Only then would she gulp and mumble something I don’t hear.

I said, Yes, I’d like that.

I would nod. Good girl.

I’d ask her where she wants it. Right here on the desk? Against the wall? On her knees?

I don’t actually care what her answer is—if there’s one thing I know about women, it’s that they prefer a man who decides things like that for them—but I just want to hear that sweet voice wobble with fear and soaked desire.

But her wide eyes tell me she truly doesn’t know. She’s never made these choices before.

That thought only makes me harder—the possibility that she’s untouched. Unclaimed.

I’d inhale her inexperience like the world’s rarest perfume.

I think we’ll start with the desk, I’d tell her, guiding her backward until her ass meets the polished mahogany.

Those shoes would click against the floor as she fidgets in place just before I lift her, set her down, and spread her thighs with my palms. Her skin would flush immediately, blood rushing to the surface wherever I stroke.

I’d tease her skirt up, then run my thumb along the seam of her cheap panties, feeling the heat there, watching her pupils dilate.

I’ve seen you watching me, I’d murmur against her neck. In the cafeteria. At company functions. Did you touch yourself afterward, thinking about something like this?

She’d nod, those curious fingers gripping the edge of the desk.

Say it, I’d demand, tugging her hair to expose her throat.

Yes, Mr. Akopov. I’ve thought about this.

I’d smile against her skin. So prim and proper. Let’s see how long that lasts.

Then I’d hook my finger into her mouth, testing how deep she can take it, watching her eyes water as she tries not to gag. A preview of things to come.

It’s for her own good.

If she can’t take that, she’ll stand no chance of taking all of me.

Eventually, I’d show mercy. I’d withdraw my finger from her mouth, a glistening thread of saliva connecting us for one suspended moment before breaking.

Stand up, I’d command, voice low enough that she’d have to crane closer to hear me. Take off your clothes. But—do it slowly.

Her fingers would tremble against the buttons of her cheap blazer. One by one, though, they’d surrender. She’d surrender. The fabric would part to reveal a plain white blouse beneath.

Perfect for someone who’s spent years trying to disappear.

I would nod. Keep going. All of it.

A flash of panic would cross her face. She wouldn’t stop, though. She wouldn’t dare—the unspent lust would eat her alive.

And if it didn’t, I would finish the job.

So the blouse would come off next, folded neatly—even now, she’d be careful with her things. The frantic discipline of someone who can’t afford replacements. Of someone who has never done this dance before. Not like this, at least.

Her bra wouldn’t match her panties. Nothing coordinated or planned. This wasn’t in her morning calculations.

Her body, finally revealed, would surprise me—curves hidden beneath those boxy, beige, lifeless, corporate-approved clothes. Skin paler than porcelain where the sun never touches.

I’d circle her like a predator. Touching myself because I’d be too f*****g hard to resist. But not touching her. Not yet. Just letting her feel my gaze burning into every inch.

The small of her back.

The constellation of freckles on her shoulder blade.

The goosebumps rising in my wake.

Tell me something, I’d murmur against the nape of her neck. How often have you imagined this?

Her voice would crack when she says, Every day for five years.

I’d seat her back on the desk. I like her there—perched, poised, right where I can see all of her. I’d push those knees wide again.