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“Shit! Fucking bitch!” he said in Russian, his voice full of fury that I could hardly tell he didn’t really mean. He ripped my face off his lap and twisted my head to the side. “This fucking whore just bit my dick! Anatoly, pull over. I can’t give a crazy fucking slut to Belkonov.”
Terror filled my heart, I understood completely how good an actor Ivan had had to be to survive playing the part of the brutal warlord. Still, in that moment, despite knowing I hadn’t bitten my master’s cock, that I would never, ever bite the huge, gorgeous manhood of the man I loved, I felt certain that he would kill me—maybe even in front of the broker standing ready to take me to safety.
CHAPTER 19
Ivan
Over the twelve years of my rule atop Klimatov’s criminal empire I had been forced to kill eleven men personally. I had had to give orders for the killing of at least a dozen more. Every one of them had richly deserved it through their wanton cruelty and their utter disregard for the basic human rights of other people.
Still, I had regretted it every time; not so much because any of them had a single redeeming quality as because it showed me just how hopeless my world was, and how fruitless all my attempts to make things better.
That was why Heather had to go, beyond the absolutely existential need to make sure of her safety. My love for her, for a young woman who clearly wanted to dedicate her life to the good of others, demonstrated—more painfully than anything else ever had—the sheer impossibility of my life ever being worthy of her.
When I had pressed her head down and begun fucking her face, I had had in mind precisely how it would go—the exact scene I wanted to play to deceive Anatoly and the rivals who I knew had bugged my car. I had found the listening device only a few days before, so I was still in the stage of feeding it disinformation to ferret out who had me under surveillance, but staging Heather’s murder for their benefit could only help: the more people in my dark world who thought she was dead, the better.
We were driving along the river, apparently on our way to Belkonov’s palace. I looked out the window and saw the statue of some forgotten war criminal that told me the limo had almost reached the spot I’d agreed on with the broker. I got ready to rip Heather’s mouth off my rock-hard manhood.
I nearly fucked it up. The little scene had just played out too perfectly. To have my gorgeous bed girl naked in front of me, with the terrible stripes of the knout across her perfect bottom, yielding her mouth so obediently and giving my cock the ecstasy I had become all too accustomed to… it stole my reason away. The thought of telling Anatoly to turn around and just take us back to my palace, where I would work out some way to keep Heather safe… some way to marry Heather despite the terrible danger… floated into my head.
Then I remembered, at the very last second, how it had felt to whip her with the knout. How she had screamed and sobbed as I brought the ancient instrument of degradation and chastisement down across that sweet backside. How I had wanted to hold her afterward, soothe her, love her, praise her for enduring the horrible lashes.
How I couldn’t, because I had to show my brutal little empire that they followed a man immune to such things.
When I did pull Heather’s lovely face back from my lap, and say to Anatoly in my cruelest tone the words I’d prepared, I wondered just how much Russian the girl had picked up. The surge of guilt that went through my chest at the idea that Heather might understand my absolutely unjust accusation of her biting me told me yet once more that I had chosen the right course of action.
The terror in her eyes merely confirmed it. I had loved scaring my wonderful concubine with erotic torment—even with the threat of the severe birchings she sometimes received merely for speaking out of turn. This fear, though, for her very life, rent my heart.
The limo stopped at the side of the road. I glanced out the window and saw that we had reached exactly the place I had set up for the meeting. Another statue, of another forgotten war criminal—this one on an enormous, rearing steed—loomed next to the river. In its shadow, on the far side, I knew the broker would be waiting.
“Say goodbye to Anatoly,” I said to Heather in English, making my voice as stern and harsh as I possibly could. “You’re not going to see him again.”
