Begged me to touch her, to ruin her. And no matter how much I wanted it to be punishment, it turned into something darker. She got herself so worked up from pleasuring me that when she came, it was explosive. Messy. Beautiful. I nearly lost control all over again just from watching.
This morning, as she stood there—bare, flushed, and humiliated—I fed myself the lie that it was about power. That I made her strip to put her back in her place, to push her away forgood. But I knew better. If last night didn’t drive her off, nothing would.I just wanted an excuse to look at her again.
And fuck, she gave me a show.
The cold did nothing to dull the heat radiating off her skin. Her nipples begged to be sucked, her cunt pink and glistening—she looked like she was about to slap me or drop to her knees. Either way, I would’ve let her.
The road meant nothing. All I saw was her—exposed, furious, tossing my clothes at me with venom in her eyes and fire in her bones.
She’s dangerous.
She fucked with my head worse than any drug.
Fuck, Malaya.
I’ve got a hit to plan, and you’re in my fucking bloodstream.
I shoved the thoughts away, dragging my focus back to the job ahead—or at least I tried to. Pakhan had given me a new assignment—one that couldn’t afford distractions. A high-profile judge had started poking his nose where it didn’t belong, threatening shipments and pulling at strings he shouldn’t see. The man clearly didn’t understand who he was dealing with. Or worse, he did—and didn’t give a shit.
Why these types always had a stick up their ass about drugs and weapons was beyond me. Like they didn’t know the whole world ran on that shit already. Like they thought morality could save them from reality.
But this one was slippery.
Guarded day and night. Routes changed weekly. Public appearances staggered and brief. Too high-profile for a one-man job, at least at the start. I needed someone to help track patterns. Set the stage. And unfortunately, that meant working with a partner.
I hated working with others. They talked too much, fucked things up, tried to bond. But I’d at least had the choice. And I picked the one man who barely said two words in a day.
Sashko.
Mid-twenties. Broad-shouldered but quieter than a shadow. He wasn’t as big as me, but still carried weight. A type of guy who looked like he belonged on a construction site, not in contract killing. Kind eyes, oddly enough. The kind that didn’t match the gun tucked under his coat.
He had a family. A wife, I’d heard. A toddler.
I couldn’t imagine doing this job with something to lose. But I understood why he did it. This was the work that paid. That bought school fees, kept heat in the house, put food on the table. The work that bled your soul out but left your kids fed.
I didn’t care who he was, as long as he followed orders and kept his mouth shut. And so far, he had.
We started the surveillance immediately. Two weeks of tailing, switching shifts, overlapping on key moments in case one of us needed to take a piss or breathe. Couldn’t miss a second. The judge’s schedule was a nightmare—tight, and constantly changing. He went to different places on different days, never following a fixed routine. That made him harder to pin, harder to plan for.
When he was at work, we stayed close by. Parked nearby. Took turns sitting in the car. We switched vehicles every day or two as well—different plates, different colors—so the guards or building security wouldn’t start recognizing the same car lingering around.
While we were waiting around for hours, Sashko developed what could only be described as a love affair with McDonald’s. He swore it was the only institution more loyal than his wife. “They never forget my fries,” he’d say, like it was a fucking virtue.I couldn’t stomach that American shit. Sashko ate enough for both of us anyway.
Days passed like this until we finally found something interesting.
Twice a week, without fail, he made the same quiet pilgrimage to a dacha nestled on the outskirts of the city. It was a modest summer home, tucked away among the trees, far enough from civilization to feel forgotten. The air out there carried the thick smell of pine sap and damp earth. Gravel crunched under tires long before the house came into view, the sound sharp in the otherwise empty stretch of road. Wind moved lazily through the trees, branches whispering against one another like they were keeping his secrets. The place was remote—no neighbors, no curious foot traffic, no sign of life beyond the birds and rustling leaves.
Each visit was the same: no detours, no variation, no additional vehicles beyond his small, disciplined convoy.
And a woman.
Not his wife.
That fucker wasn’t just cheating—he was playing the full role of the devoted sugar daddy. Bought her a house, no less. Kept her tucked away like a prized possession while his wife stayed home, probably wondering why he suddenly loved Tuesdays and Thursdays so much. And she? She didn’t seem to mind. She had the house, the quiet, the perks. So much for the noble judge. So much for all his courtroom speeches about integrity and honor.
It took extra planning. We couldn’t follow by car—it would be too obvious. So we rotated out. Scoped the woods on foot. Found hiding spots near the road. Used binoculars and a long-lens camera from behind an abandoned shed a hundred meters off.
He thought he was untouchable out there. No cameras. No prying eyes. Just him and his little secret.
