Page 56 of Stolen By The Bratva King

I clap my hand over my mouth.Oh my God.How can I concentrate at work knowing he might send me messages like that?

I’m lost for a response, but Leon doesn’t need one.

Stunned into silence? Not a problem, val’kiriya. Let me show you what I have right here.

A blurry video thumbnail appears, the little circle filling up as it loads.

If that’s what I think it is?—

Oh sweet Jesus.

Leon is naked, reclining in bed, his rippling stomach flexing. One hand cradles his balls as he strokes his thick cock with the other, the rhythmic motion in time with his heavy breathing.

Being the first to get into my pussy has turned the man feral.

Here I was, wondering whether he’ll get bored once he’s had his fill when it seems he’s barely begun to lean into his obsessive lust.

I tap the volume frantically, turning it down before someone hears my husband’s rapturous moans. I lean inside the locker, holding the phone so no one but me can see it.

Bzzz.Another message.

How’d you like that? My cock, hard as a rock because I couldn’t stop thinking about your sweet little cunt. You better leave work on time and bring that big beautiful ass home so I can pump you full of come. X

My pager is humming against my hipbone, amplifying the tension in my core, and I feel like some kind of deviant.

This man stalked me, forced me to marry him, kept me captive, and fucked me raw. Not exactly Eagle Scout material.

But here I am, falling hard and fast for a wealthy, mysterious near-stranger who has my body and heart in a tailspin.

I have to go. Don’t waste that on yourself. X

Oooh. That was risqué for me.

A minute passes, and I wonder if I’ve made a fool of myself. Then, a photo pings through.

Leon’s erection looks painfully engorged, the head purplish and smooth, and he’s holding his hands in the air.

I scan the caption.

As you command, Emery. But it took some willpower to stop, so expect to be fucked ragged tonight. A man can only stand so much. X

Breathing heavily, I toss my phone into the locker and snatch my pager. The patient is finally under and they’re waiting for me.

Gotta get my head on straight. One last little job, and when it’s done, I can return to my new life.

The man on the operating table has been shot in the gut. We won’t know how bad it is until we open him up, so there’s a possibility we’ll encounter a massive internal bleed that no amount of clever surgical wrangling will resolve.

There’s plenty of blood and plasma on standby, but his life hangs in the balance; the anesthesiologist was afraid to sedate him too heavily for fear of him never waking up, so he’s monitoring carefully as the nurse and I inventory our instruments.

We don’t know who the guy is. He came in with no ID unless you count the word Fabrizio tooled onto his knuckles, so I assume that’s his name.

I need something to call a patient; it connects me to them and reminds me of what’s at stake.

“Fabrizio,” I say. “We’re going to clean your lower abdomen and prepare to make an incision. If you can hear me, give me a signal.”

Nothing. The nurse picks up a cotton swab and dips it in iodopovidone.

As soon as the cold swab touches Fabrizio’s stomach, his eyes fly open. His mouth jerks, and he gives a gargle of shock.

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