Page 137 of Corrupted Heart

The rain comes down harder. The sultry music surrounds us. The wet slipperiness of skin against skin and the slick squeeze of my pussy around his length drives us higher and higher as I squeal for more.

His finger drags down the cleft of my ass, pushing against my tight little back hole. My eyes flare, an erotic electricity coursing through my system as he teases me and slowly pushes his thick finger inside.

I grab him, kissing him hard and screaming into his mouth as I start to come undone, riding him for all I can. Kratos groans into my mouth, fucking up into me hard and ruthlessly, without mercy. His hand roughly pinches my nipple before sliding up to grip my throat tightly.

“Good girl.”

With another wail, I’m coming, and I’m coming hard. I can feel my entire body spasm and tighten, my pussy clenching and rippling up and down the thick length of him as he swells even bigger inside me. His hand roughly grips my chin, his thumb and forefinger pinching my lip and yanking my mouth to his as he kisses me deeply.

He groans into my lips as hot ropes of his cum spill deep inside me. I moan wildly and keep riding him, rolling my hips against him over and over until we both come apart.

We stay outside for so long I lose track of time. Just kissing as the rain comes down. Just holding each other as the world spins around us.

This is no longer a game of cat and mouse. It isn’t a game of tag anymore, either.

This might be the most real thing I’ve ever felt in my life.

26

KRATOS

With a ten and a seven, hitting again is insanely risky. But I’m feeling a little reckless, and I’m in a fantastic mood. One, I can still taste Bianca’s pussy on my tongue from when I pinned her to the floor earlier, before I went out. And two, I’m not really here to gamble tonight.

What I’m here for is a sure thing.

Situated beneath a dry cleaner’s, a hipster bar, and a lingerie boutique, the Bratva-run Black Swan is one of New York’s most exclusive, luxurious, and decidedly high-rollers-only underground casinos. I’m not much of a gambler myself. But I know that most of the people who come here to play cards, toss dice, or bet on sports or fights are all members of criminal organizations. The few that aren’t but are crazy enough to want to play cards with gangsters for large sums of money are either, A: mafia-adjacent, or B: low-lifes and scumbags who’ve been barred from every legitimate casino in the New York area.

My target this evening falls squarely in category B. And knowing that he’s here tonight is at least eighty percent the cause of the smile on my face.

…The other twenty being that despite not being much of a card player, I’m doing pretty great.

The dealer drops a card in front of me. Instantly, the whole table groans. Some of the players clap, and the Japanese Yakuza looking guy next to me nods his approval as he pats my arm.

I just hit the four of clubs on seventeen.

Twenty-one, baby.

I grin as the dealer pushes my sizable winnings toward me. But again, I’m not only smiling because of this.

I’m smiling because after two weeks of prying, hunting, and outright stalking, I’ve finally cornered my prey tonight.

Tim Ciglione, who now works for some douchebag hedge fund in the city, isn’t just a scumbag piece of shit because he tried to force Bianca to blow him in a hot tub seven years ago. He’s also the kind of scumbag with a gambling problem who gets barred from upstanding, mainstream casinos. That’s why he’s here, probably triple leveraging his own house or his grandmother’s pension chasing the gambler’s high.

Oh, and for extra fuckhead points, Tim also likes to slap his wife around when he’s drunk—and not in a way she might like. He’s also fucking his secretary.

Classy.

Anyway, he’s about to have a very, very bad night. It’s no accident I’ve chosen this table. From where I’m sitting, I can look across the room to see Tim balls-deep in losing his shirt at a high-stakes poker table. Even from here, I can smell the stench of desperation radiating off him, even with his back to me. His hair is fucked up from constantly running his fingers through it. He’s ditched his jacket and his tie, his hand rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

With a smirk, I glance back down at my chips. I’ve got some time yet. It’s when he’s done at the table that I’ll be making my move.

“Well,” I smile, organizing my winnings into neat stacks. “Shall we play again?”

“I’m afraid the table’s gone cold. My apologies to you all.”

My ears perk up at the familiar voice. My eyes lift, my brow arching curiously.

The dealer has left. And in his place, looking right at me, sits a very stoic Lukas Komarov.

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