Page 2 of His Order

His third dip in, he helps himself, grabbing as much of my cum as possible. And this time, when he brings it out, he stares into my eyes as he shoves those slick fingers into my mouth. What a sweet dream it is.

My heart’s a jackhammer, slamming against my ribs as I blink into the dim light.

Then I open my eyes and there is a man standing over me. There is a man in my room, leaning against the edge of my bed, a smile twisting his lips like he’s proud of the ruin he’s made of me. Tall, dark hair falling into sharper eyes, His eyes light up with a devious light.

“Who the fuck are you?” I ask.

Chapter 2

Pavel

Her apartment’s a fucking cesspit—peeling walls oozing damp rot, a flickering bulb spitting jagged shadows across the room, the area thick with the sour reek of stale coffee and her desperation.

I’ve ghosted this shithole before, a shadow in her blind spots, watching her unravel night after night—those late hours hunched over her screens, vodka bottle tipping closer to empty, her fingers fumbling for the release she could never quite grab. She’s sprawled across the bed, blonde hair wild and sweat-slick ripped black lace panties hanging off her thigh, her skin flushed from that frustrated fight with her buzzing toy.

I’d caught her mid-struggle, her curses slurring through the dark. She is probably imagining someone or something while she is playing with herself. This witch looks so hot with her legs spread open, fingering herself into oblivion. There is a bottle of vodka next to her bed, so she is drunk. It's hard to get off when you are drunk. But she is not stopping. She spreads her legs wide open and plummets her fingers deep into her pussy. Again and again. Her vibrator is on her clit while the fingers are doing the work. Her three fingers are deep inside her pussy now, going in and out. Her moans are overtaking the room, and she is begging to finish, but she is struggling. Then suddenly, she starts slamming her fingers inside, faster and faster. Her fingers are glistening from her juices. I can see her pussy wide open. It’s so beautifully mesmerizing. I would love nothing more than to take my cock out and slip it inside of her and fuck her until she finishes again and again. Then finally, she arches, and her hipsgo up; I can see her pussy pulsating, and she starts shaking. I wish it were my fingers inside of her or, better yet, my cock. But I am not here to fuck her just yet. I am here to do a job.

She is Anya Sokolov—the Valkyrie—Dmitri’s slippery little hacker who’s been bleeding his accounts dry, feeding scraps to the feds like a rat in the walls. I am here to take her and bring her to where she belongs.

Her lashes flutter. Perfect. Now she sees me. Her green eyes are wide open, her legs still spread, and she is looking right into my eyes. A wave of shock spreads across her face. Surprise.

“Well. Hello there. You’re a hot beautiful fucking mess, zayka.” I say, my voice smooth now, and I am teasing.

She lunges for the edge of the bed, but I am faster, and the glint of my gun stops her cold.

“What do you want from me? Who are you?” she screams. Still naked and vulnerable, I smile.

“Oh, zayka,” I murmur, stepping closer, voice dropping to a low, dirty promise. “So many fucking things.”

“I am asking you again. Who are you?” I tilt my head, letting my gaze rake over her—naked, trembling like a little captured rabbit, a zayka.

“Someone is looking for you,” I say. “Get up.”

She doesn’t move, just glares up at me, those green eyes blazing with a fire that I want to fuck out of her. Defiance flickers through the haze of her exhaustion, sharp and jagged, and I can see the wheels turning.

“I told you to get up,” I growl again, “I am telling you again, and I won’t repeat myself. You better get up, and you are coming with me, whether you want it or not. Believe me, you do not want to defy me right now. I don’t care if you are naked; I will drag you out of this house.”

“Where are you taking me, you filthy animal?!”

I ignore her, steering her past the cluttered desk—monitors dark now, coffee cups spilling brown stains—past the vodka-stained floor where the bottle lies empty, and she’s still scanning, eyes darting to the door’s flimsy lock, the window’s cracked frame, filing it all away like the clever little Valkyrie she is.

I throw her clothes into her face. She is taking a moment to dress up. Hectically pulling her t-shirt around her and pulling up the pants. She is visibly shaking, but it’s not the same as when she was shaking of that orgasm a few minutes ago. I would love nothing more than to put my lips on that beautiful clit of hers and just suck it until she comes into my mouth again and again. I would press my lips against her lips and hold them there, feeling her pulsation.

I grab her arm as we reach the front door, and she starts to panic again, wrestling with my grip on her. “Let me go, you asshole!”

That’s the last thing I’m going to do. I grab her wrist and start dragging her to the car.

Outside, the night bites cold. My car is waiting, and as she continues to protest, I slam her against the vehicle. I grab a few zip-ties, ignoring her resistance while I bind her hands.

She gasps a jolt of shock and fury and struggles, twisting against me, her bound hands fumbling for leverage.

“You’re a fuckin’ dead man,” she spits, voice trembling with rage and something hotter, her breath fogging in the chill air.

I pin her there, chest flush against her back.

“Keep talking, zayka,” I tell her. “Gives me more reasons to shut you up.”

My hands slide up her sides, one gripping her hip, the other cupping her throat—not choking, just holding, a reminder of who’s in charge. She shudders, a mix of fury and that heat she can’t kill, and I open the passenger door.

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