Page 4 of Bound By His Name
She cries out, the pain mixing with pleasure as I fill her completely. I begin to move, slowly at first, allowing her to adjust to my size. But it isn't long before I’m pounding into her ass with the same ferocity I’d used on her breeding hole.
Irina screams into the pillow, tears streaming down her face. I reach around, finding her clit swollen and sensitive. I rub it firmly, making her cry out louder. "Come for me," I demand, pinching her between my fingers.
She obeys instantly, her body convulsing around me as waves of pleasure crash over her. I grunt, feeling her orgasm milk my cock, drawing my own release from him. I slam into her one last time, burying myself deep inside her ass as I come hard.
I roll off and let out a sigh.
I need the release. I can already tell today would be intense.
As I sit wondering if my new possession would be easy to train, Irina moans beside me, arching her plump ass for more.
I click my tongue.
“Don’t be greedy,” I murmur. “I must save strength for my soon-to-be wife. She needs to learn slowly.”
Irina swallows whatever she wants to say. I leave her cuffed, red and aching. I walk out without another look back.
Dmitri falls in beside me without a word, only a quiet glance toward the chapel doors ahead.
“She’s here?” I ask.
He nods. “Came in five minutes ago with her father.”
“Rehearsal?”
“No.”
“Good.”
The chapel is a shell of carved concrete and blood money. The altar is bare, no crosses or sentiment.
I stand beside it while the priest fidgets through a leather-bound book. Dmitri waits at the far side. The seats behind me are full—Bratva heads, silent investors, old men with blood on their teeth. None of them claps when she walks in.
Yet, Anya Mikhailova doesn’t tremble.
Good.
She doesn’t lower her eyes or look at me as she walks. She keeps her gaze level, somewhere above the priest’s head.
Smart.
Her dress is plain white and satin with no veil. Her mouth is set with not sign of a smile. Yet, the way her honey-blonde soft waves frame that pale, beautiful face exposes her angelic aura.
I’m immediately drawn to her perfectly curated hourglass shape; the simple dress cannot hide it.
I chose well, as always.
I take her hand because the moment calls for it. Her fingers are cold. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t lean in.
The priest begins, “Do you take this woman—”
“I’ve already taken her,” I cut him short, my eyes never leaving what’s mine.
We sign and the photos follow. I kiss her cheek. Her skin smells floral, and like fabric that’s never been worn.
She doesn’t say anything other than what is needed.
Side by side, we walk through the stone corridor together. She still doesn’t speak. Her hands stay clasped in front of her, tight enough that I can see the blood leave her knuckles.
