Deceitful Vows (Marital Privileges #2)

24. Zoya

24

ZOYA

N erves tap dance in my stomach when I veer my borrowed ride down a paved driveway that stretches for over a mile. We’re only forty miles west of Myasnikov, but I had no clue their wealth extended this far. Mansions are dotted on pristinely maintained acres, and several of them have helipads and Olympic-sized swimming pools as one of their many features.

When the tension gets the better of me, I check the address the employment broker wrote down with the one cited on the GPS. It is a match.

The knowledge does little to settle my unease.

It feels like I’m driving toward a tornado instead of away from it. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention, despite the wetness of my nape, and a peculiar sensation is making my stomach a swishy mess.

My jitters are understandable when you learn of my past. I’ve yet to meet a pleasant rich person. Still, I usually portray an aura of confidence. I haven’t been this nervous since I showed up at Aleena’s twelfth birthday with ripped jeans and a handmade card.

I breathe out a handful of butterflies in my stomach when a message from Nikita pops up on the screen of my ride’s fancy navigation system.

Keet:

Chin up. Chest out. You’ve got this.

I picture her eye roll while speaking my reply to Siri.

Me:

It’s a PA position for a man overcompensating for his peanut cock with a massive mansion. I’ve totally got this.

After slowing the roll of the tires, I snap a picture of the huge country estate coming up over the horizon and attach it to my outgoing message before continuing down the winding driveway.

A reply from Nikita pops up on the dashboard screen two seconds later.

Keet:

Holy marshmallow. Is that a palace?

Her inability to swear reminds me of how I got a last-minute placement on an interview schedule finalized before I had submitted an application.

The resident of this huge stately manor is a friend of Mikhail’s. He said she usually replaces her rotation of personal assistants with a temp agency, but with a move in the works requiring new contacts, she branched out to the employment agency I’ve been seeking guidance from for the past fourteen months.

As a long line of garages comes into sight, I convey my requests to Siri.

“Hey Siri, send a message to Mikhail.”

If Siri didn’t work the same in every country, I’d struggle to understand her reply. “ Что бы вы хотели сказать?”

“What field does KADOK Industries specialize in?”

Siri repeats my message before asking if I want to send it.

I answer yes.

“Done.”

While waiting for Mikhail’s reply, I summarize my own response.

The gardeners maintaining the impeccable lawns are wearing sun-safe long-sleeved shirts and pants as expected. The man jogging toward me to park my car is more casually dressed than showy. His dress shirt is ironed and tucked in, but his ensemble is minus the jacket and tie most old-money staff have. It announces the owner of KADOK Industries grew his wealth himself or his family’s wealth is relatively new—say the last century or less.

As I arrive at the front of a large rotunda-style entryway, a valet opens the door of my borrowed ride. “Interviews are being held in the state room in the east wing.”

He chuckles when I request to be directed to the north so I can work out which quarter of this architectural wonder may be the east wing.

I settle on brand-new money when he places his hands on my shoulders to twist me to face north. Touching is a big no with old money—even when they pay for precisely that.

After sending a quick message to Nikita advising I will buzz her once my interview is over, I toss my phone and purse into the glove compartment before heading in the direction another half a dozen women are walking.

I grimace when I recall how badly I bombed during my last group interview. I don’t do well in group situations. I’m usually too busy watching for the knife that is forever directed at my back when the competition realizes my Es are natural instead of paying attention to the interviewer’s questions.

As I enter a set of French doors on the heels of a brunette with long legs and a gorgeous designer skirt, I adjust my bra straps before rolling my shoulders forward.

I really need this job, so if I must act like I was gifted a flat chest from my mother, I’ll work it like a pro.

I’m greeted in the foyer of the east wing by a lady with a bright smile and a thick wad of papers weighing down a flimsy plastic clipboard.

“I don’t see your name on my interview schedule, but if you’re prepared, we can slot you in with these candidates.” After pinning my recently updated resumé to the top of her stack, she peers up at me to check my response.

“Prepared for…?” I’m lost, and my low tone proves it. “My employment agency forwarded my resumé earlier this week. That one is the most up to date.” I point to the lonely sheet of paper she didn’t even glance at during the “that” part of my reply. “Was there something more I was meant to do?”

She smiles at me as if I am daft.

For once, I feel as if her judgment is accurate.

“Most applicants prepare a routine.”

My bewilderment continues. “On how fast they can type?”

She throws her head back and laughs. It is as refined as her glamour portrays. She is a beautiful woman, but miraculously, she doesn’t appear snooty.

After saying she’ll hire me no matter how uncoordinated I am, she guides me through another pair of French doors. The clothing of the applicants I followed moments ago is more risqué now than earlier, and a handful are doing stretches that make my groin ache.

“What exactly does KADOK Industries stand for?” I ask after watching one applicant strip down to a sequined pair of panties.

That’s it.

That is all she’s wearing.

“KADOK?” The blonde’s eyes widen before she rushes me out of the room now filled with more naked bodies than clothed ones. “You’re meant to be in the west wing. This is… ah… auditions for a new cabaret club.” She summons a man with a cut jaw and tattooed neck to her side with a flick of her wrist before she instructs him to take me to the west wing.

“If you’re busy, I can find my own way. I’m an hour early, so I have plenty of time to… mingle.” I mentally smack myself for the lack of confidence in my tone before admitting the real reason I want to stay. “If that doesn’t work out”—I hook my thumb to the west—“how much does this position pay?” I point to the floor.

My head slings to the side when a deep, gravelly voice says, “Not enough for you to even consider.”

A brick lodges in my throat when I come face-to-face with Andrik. He’s dressed similarly to the last time he bombarded me. His scowl is even sexier than his designer suit, and don’t get me started on the rest of him.

My memories must have been courteous by only reminding me of ten percent of his sexiness.

This man is fine, and he knows it. His smirk when he catches my admiring stare announces this, not to mention the flattening of the ironed creases in the crotch of his pricy trousers.

“What are you doing here, Zoya? This is private property. You have no right to be here.” From his tone alone, it is easy to decipher that “private property” stands for “my wife’s home.”

With words evading me, the blonde jumps in. “That’s my fault.” The rake of her nails over his chest boils my veins with jealousy. They appear friendly— very friendly.

Oh. My. God. Is she the wife?

“I told the valet to send all the busty girls my way.” Andrik’s eyes follow hers down my body. “I forgot other interviews were being conducted today.” I don’t know if it is envy or suspicion blazing in her eyes. “She’s too pretty to be a secretary.”

“She is,” Andrik agrees, stupidly falling into her trap. I don’t care how cocky you are, never compliment another woman in front of your wife. “But that doesn’t answer my question.” He moves away from the blonde, his stalk both dropping her hand from his chest and doubling my heart rate. “Why are you here, at my family’s estate, today of all days?”

“I’m here for a?—”

“No,” Andrik denies before I can give him an excuse.

“My employment agen?—”

“No,” he mutters again, his jaw ticking as rapidly as my anger rises.

He’s acting like I’m the adulterous half of our duo, and it shreds my last nerve.

I act out when railroaded.

“Mikhail invited me here.” He’s already folding from my metaphoric punch to the stomach, so I double his bend. “He wanted to show me his old stomping ground. Something about wanting to recreate the first place he ever got…”

I make a gesture with my tongue and the inside of my cheek no woman over the age of seventeen should use. It makes the blonde’s smile blinding enough to pay only the slightest bit of attention to the fierce red coloring of Andrik’s face.

“So I guess I better get a wiggle on. I’d hate to be late for our…”—I tap my finger against my lips and arch a brow—“ sixth date in the past month.”

I run in heels. My getaway isn’t pretty or fast, but it is effective.

I almost make it back to Mikhail’s car parked behind a long line of sports cars before my inability to act my age catches up to me.

I’m flattened to the door of my borrowed ride by a big steaming Russian. My lungs strive to fill with air half a second before Andrik’s hot breaths bead condensation on my nape.

“Think very hard before speaking because your antics have gained you the eyes of over a dozen men I will kill when I am forced to respond to your lie with more than words.” When he slants his head to align our eyes, anger is there, but that isn’t all they display. They also show jealousy he has no right to have. “Why are you here?”

He doesn’t deserve an explanation, but if I don’t say something, my panties aren’t the only thing about to be massacred. Our argument has gained us many eyes, and there was nothing but utmost certainty in Andrik’s tone when he snarled his threat.

“Mikhail—”

Men scatter in all directions when Andrik pulls away from me with a growl. He tugs me to the hood of Mikhail’s car and arches me over it.

I don’t register him pulling up the hem of the business skirt I only ever wear to interviews until the cool breeze floating over my backside offers an immense amount of relief to the burn of his first spank.

He spanks me as if I am a disobedient child, and I love every damn minute of it.

Regretfully.

Tingles race across my skin as throaty, dirty moans form low in my throat. It takes everything I have not to release them, but I attempt to hold some of my pride.

After a dozen swats, the hand turning my backside red switches from punishing to soothing. Andrik rubs my stinging globes, his fingers lowering with every gentle stroke.

“Fuck, милая.” His husky words float over my back when his fingertips brush past the opening of my pussy.

I’m wet.

Ashamedly.

“N-not for you,” I stammer, fighting with the last morsel of rebellion I have.

After angling his body so I’m blocked from the main residence by his brooding frame and awarding me a smirk that announces I’m five seconds from being spanked again, Andrik slides his hand under the damp material clinging to my pussy and circles his thumb over my clit.

“You like being punished by me .”

He isn’t asking a question—he’s stating a fact. But I still rear up, fighting like hell to prove him wrong. “As much as I’d love having my wisdom teeth extracted.”

His laugh makes me hot all over, and when he places even more pressure on the nervy bud stealing my smarts, my willpower bends.

“Your clit is so hard that one flick of my tongue over it would have you screaming my name loud enough for Myasnikov residents to hear.”

“Y-you wish.”

He acts as if I never spoke.

“You’re drenched for me .” When he uses his spare hand to force eye contact, my thighs press together. Gone is the menacing madman hell-bent on vengeance. Replaced with a man with his head stuck in a lust cloud. “Aren’t you, милая ?”

He makes sure I can’t reply by dedicating a heap of attention to my clit. He sweeps his thumb over it while maintaining eye contact.

His heated watch is almost too much. Too explosive. Too untamed. It courses desire through my body so uncontrollably that the only objections I manage are the ones warning my head that I will never forgive myself if it ends this now.

I should hate how good he makes my body feel.

Guilt should be my strongest emotion.

Regretfully, it isn’t.

It is taking everything I have not to come, and I’m not the only one noticing.

Andrik slides his fingers through the folds of my pussy, doubling the sticky residue coating his palm, before he asks, “Who owns this cunt, милая ?”

He flicks my clit harder when I remain quiet. He bends my will by sliding two fingers inside me. His growl when my pussy sucks around them makes me whimper. He takes them deep, bruising me with his touch as much as he claims me with it.

“The word you’re seeking is ‘you,’ милая .”

“Fuck you.”

I feel his smile more than I see it.

You can’t miss the heat of arrogance, and I can no longer maintain eye contact. It is too intense and primal and has me the most conflicted I’ve ever felt.

“It’ll be my pleasure, милая .” Andrik pushes into me so deeply the imprint of his cock will be embedded in my ass for eternity. “But first, I need you wet enough to take me.”

“That isn’t what I meant. I don’t want th-this.”

My stuttered response has him seeing straight through my lie, much less the sound of my arousal as he pumps in and out of me.

He toys with my clit while finger fucking me at a slow, leisurely pace like he has all the time in the world. He knows every button to push, and within minutes, I roll my hips in rhythm to the frantic pulse of my clit.

I’m wet enough for signs of an imminent climax to be unmissable and to make a mess on the front of Andrik’s pants, yet his pace doesn’t hasten in the slightest. He takes his time, not needing a worded confirmation that he owns both me and my pussy.

He drives me to the brink until stars form and his name sits breathlessly on the tip of my tongue, and then he teases me with an underhanded promise I shouldn’t crave but desperately want.

“Do you want me to make you come now, милая , or once my dick is buried deep inside you?”

“Now,” I beg, arching up on my tippy-toes. “Please.”

“Please, who?”

I grit my teeth, hating how fast his name almost whips out of my mouth.

This isn’t how I envisioned our reunion. He’s meant to be huddled over, gripping his crotch, not cupping mine. He’s the enemy. The monster. A cheater. He isn’t supposed to have the ability to turn my brain to mush.

“St-stop.”

Andrik impedes my wish to flee by pressing down on the middle of my back with his spare hand before he shifts the sole focus of his thumb to my clit. My thighs shake as rapidly as my pulse surges through my veins. I snap my eyes shut and bite my lower lip, hopeful a snippet of pain will slow the freight train of desire racing through my veins.

My hands ball so I don’t scratch the pricy paintwork of Mikhail’s car when Andrik grinds his thick cock against the seam of my ass. I can feel its throbs and the wetness pooled at the end. I can feel every perfect inch.

Pleasure courses through me as I thrust my head back and whimper. My climax is right there. Within grasp. Then Andrik freezes, and the only tumble I endure is the brutal fumble of my morals.

“No. Please.”

The surge of my pulse when he arches over me almost drowns out his repeated question. “Please, who ?”

“Andrik! Please, Andrik .”

My womb spasms when he growls out in a gravelly tone, “There’s my good girl.”

With his chest swollen with smugness, he pushes two fingers back inside me. Wetness coats his palm when the greedy rock of my hips forces him to pick up speed. He fucks me with his fingers while moaning in approval of my impatience.

I’m on the edge of hysteria, racing for the finish line again in no time. Then, without warning, Andrik once again removes his fingers from my pussy. This time, he doesn’t keep them teasingly close. He pulls his hand out of my panties before taking a giant step back, unpinning me from the hood.

My first thought is hope. Andrik has the skills to bring me to climax with just his fingers, but his cock deserves its own unique category. It is the stuff of magic, and I’m dying to feel the stretch of its brilliance again. But my optimism soon slithers to despair when Andrik tugs down my skirt while grunting that my application to work at KADOK Industries has been declined.

“What…?” I spin to face him, horrified my legs aren’t in the process of buckling out from beneath me. “You can’t… I did as you asked… Why?”

My questions are barely decipherable, but they are answered in the most horrifying way—with the same mask Andrik wore in the elevator when I learned he was no longer filing for an annulment.

It proves our exchange isn’t about untapped desire hotter than the sun.

It is about punishment and authority.

Power and conviction.

He’s reminding me that although I will never own him, he will forever own me.

“Fuck you, Andrik…”

I hate myself even more than I already do when I can’t add his surname to my scold. I don’t Skype, Snapchat, or FaceTime. I don’t even have an Instagram account, for crying out loud. I keep my imprint on social media minimal so I don’t have to worry about the ghosts of my past finding their way back to me via their invisible footsteps.

“Fuck you and your brother and your stupid-ass power trip.”

I push him away from me before tossing open the driver’s side door of Mikhail’s suddenly less-appealing ride to retrieve my belongings. It is only a charging cable, an outdated phone, and a purse with minimal funds, but I own them, so I refuse to leave without them.

“The closest town is twelve miles away,” Andrik announces in a low, thigh-quaking tone when I hotfoot it toward his long, winding driveway.

I don’t spin around to see his response when I flip him the bird a second after I commence aerating his pristine lawn with the four-inch heels of my stilettos. I don’t need to. The heat of his snarl will keep me warm during the long trek home, not to mention the absolute fury that blackens my veins when disappointment is my first response for his lack of retribution.