I find her Instagram and open it. The pictures are more casual here—Mara in jeans and a tank top, her pale shoulders bare, in a casual sundress at a farmer’s market, in yoga pants at an outdoor class. She likes to be outside. More of her photos are in New York or other cities she’s traveled to, eating outdoors, working out, or just exploring. She doesn’t seem to be a homebody, which I can appreciate.
With every picture, my desire for her grows. I reach down, undoing my belt and sliding my zipper down. I slip my fingers through the slit in my boxer briefs, running the tips of my fingers over the straining, silken flesh of my erection, not taking it out quite yet. Once it’s out, I won’t be able to resist picking up the pace, giving myself the release I so desperately need now. And I’m not ready to allow myself to come quite yet.
I can feel the pre-cum gathering at the tip as I scroll through another line of photos, feel a bead rolling down my shaft, making my cock twitch and leap. I hiss through my teeth at the sensation, and then…
There’s a picture of her in a bikini. Tiny scraps of black fabric barely cover her small breasts and the juncture between her thighs, and my entire body roars with heat, my balls tightening as my cock pushes free through the slit of my boxer briefs. The cool air of the office hits my heated flesh, and I groan, grippingthe side of my chair hard as I resist the urge to wrap my hand around myself.
Almost all of her body is on display for me. I scroll up before I can linger a second longer, fighting the urge to stay on that photo, to stroke myself off looking at the object of my lust in almost nothing at all.
But I don’t want her body revealed to me like this, on a site designed for anyone to look at it—a thought that makes me want to find her and personally oversee her deleting every single photo that allows anyone else to look at her like that. I want to see it on my own terms. I want to see her in a setting that’s only for me. To have every inch of her luscious figure revealed when it’smine.
I land on a photo of her in a short sundress, the hem brushing the middle of her thighs, and I can’t wait any longer. The photo was taken in a restaurant, her standing next to a table, and a fantasy tears through my mind as I wrap my hand around my aching shaft and let out a ragged groan.
I picture myself laying one hand on her shoulder, purring to her in Russian as I tell her to bend over, to grip the other side of the table as I push her skirt up her thighs. I start to move my hand over my cock in long, even strokes as I imagine wrapping my hand in her raven hair, gripping the back of her neck as I reach down and tug her silky white thong down her hips, shoving it into my pocket for later use. I can imagine that she’d be wet already, dripping just from the order I’ve given her, from my hand on the back of her neck, as I press my thumb against my cockhead, dragging the thick pre-cum over it and down my shaft.
A curse erupts under my breath, hissed out in Russian as I drag my fist down to my balls and up again, imagining how it would feel to slide my swollen cockhead through her folds,nudging myself against her tight hole. Would she moan for me? Plead for me to give her my cock? Beg for me to stop?
My jaw tightens as my cock throbs, my arousal quickly building to levels that I can’t restrain. I thrust into my fist, picturing the arch of her back as I push my too-thick cock into her, stretching her wide for me, filling her as no other man ever has. I imagine her wet heat around me, how tight she’d be, how she’d beg me to let her come by the end of it. How I’d taunt her, stopping my thrusts, promising her that I’ll make her come if she could bring me to the brink just by squeezing her perfect, tight pussy around my aching length.
Another curse echoes in the confines of my office as I squeeze my shaft, hissing through my teeth. I can imagine what her sweet voice might sound like, how she’d beg for her orgasm, how I’d finally give it to her if she promised to sit through the meal with her pussy still full of my cum, like the good girl I knew she was from the moment I saw her.
“Fuck!”I snarl the word aloud as my cock jerks and throbs, grabbing a handful of tissues just in time to keep from spurting cum all over the mahogany desk. I thrust into my hand, jet after jet of cum erupting into my tissue-filled palm, teeth gritted as I lean my head back and imagine that I’m emptying myself into Mara Winslow’s pussy.
The relief that comes after the release is almost dizzying. I feel drained, exhausted from the force of my orgasm. I can’t remember the last time I came that hard from fucking my own fist.
A knock at the door startles me, and I quickly adjust myself, tucking my softening cock back into my trousers and tossing the tissues into my wastebasket. I call out, “Come in. A moment later, closing out the windows filled with photos and information about the object of my obsession.
Kazimir enters, his bulk filling the doorway. He's a big man, six-foot-six and built like he could break someone in half without much effort—which he can, and has. He leans against the doorjamb, looking like an unwilling messenger. "Svetlana called," he says without preamble. "She wanted to remind you about tonight. I told her I’d pass along the message."
Fuck. Svetlana.
The woman I’m supposed to be squiring around Boston with the intent of proposing marriage is the last person I want to think about right now. Svetlana Morozova is a former ballerina and current model whose father, Mikhail Morozov, has a vested interest in my businesses and a further interest in taking us both to new heights of wealth. Of course, in order to proceed with those discussions, he wants me to marry his daughter.
We both get something we want out of the arrangement. He gets a son-in-law who is thepakhanof the most powerful Bratva on the East Coast, and I get a large bump to my wealth and distribution. Those could make it so that I could expand my territory outside of the East Coast, even have more leverage the next time Ronan O’Malley wants to push back against me.
And Svetlana is not… objectionable. She’s beautiful, accomplished, and intelligent. She hasn’t given in to my attempts to take her to bed yet—either because she’s smart enough to know better than to risk burning out what interest I have in her body or because her father has warned her to keep herself out of my bed until the deal is done. Either way, she’s either very bright or capable of following instructions, both of which are desirable traits.
But right now, she’s not the woman I want to think about. The last thing I feel like doing right now is squiring her to… whatever we were supposed to be doing this evening.
"What time?" I ask, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And what was it I was supposed to be doing with her tonight?”
“You’re meant to pick her up at seven to take her to a gala at the Boston Library. A fundraiser where your presence is expected at. It’s six now,” Kazimir adds, before I can look at the clock.
“Alright.” I turn off my computer, standing up slowly. “Have someone send her a message and tell her I’ll be there.”
Kazimir pauses, looking at me intently. "Everything okay, boss?"
I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m fine. And I don’t pay you to ask personal questions.”
He shrugs. “Just making sure. I’ll see to it Sventlana is informed.”
He leaves, closing the door behind him. I stand there in the silence for a moment, cracking my neck to one side and then the other before I follow him out and head upstairs to get ready.
I take a cold shower, trying to drive the lingering arousal out of my body. The temptation to track Mara down and watch her tonight is strong, but the last thing I need is to get caught lingering around Elio Cattaneo’s brownstone. That would be hell on the current relations between mob families right now.
Instead, I shower as quickly as possible, dry off, and put on a fresh suit. I’m not going to be the best of company tonight, I know that. I’m irritable and on edge because this obsession with Mara Winslow feels like something that’s unraveling out of my control.
I don't like things I can't control.
