Page 57 of Konstantin
Konstantin drives his fingers deep once more, curling them inside me, and my toes curl as a sharp gasp escapes before I can catch it.
The pen slips from my fingers, clattering against the table.
One of the men pauses mid-sentence. Another older one narrows his eyes from across the table. His gaze drops to the table, like he’s noticed the rhythm of my breathing. The flush in my cheeks.
But Konstantin doesn’t care. He keeps going.
His fingers are slick with me, pushing deeper, circling my clit again with that maddening precision that has me riding the edge of oblivion. Every breath I take is labored, my body drawn so tight Icould snap.
And when I’m almost on the verge, shaking silently in the leather chair, I want to slap him. I want to scream. I want to climb into his lap and beg him to do it again.
“This isn’t a fucking whorehouse, Marinov,” the same older man barks, slicing through the meeting like a blade. “Have some respect.”
The room stills while I freeze, heat creeping to my face.
And for the first time since this began, Konstantin’s hand stops moving. It rests right where it is: possessive and bold between my thighs.
His lethal gaze zeroes in on the man. His face doesn’t twist. His posture doesn’t shift. He doesn’t even blink. He simply smiles. That cold, amused, dead-eyed smile that chills the room.
“Did you just call her a whore?” he asks quietly, almost conversationally. Like he’s discussing the weather.
The man leans back slightly, not an ounce of fear. “What I meant was, maybe this isn’t the time for that.”
“And you think you have the authority to tellmewhat I can and cannot do?” Konstantin’s voice is smooth, yet soaked in gasoline.
“No, I just?—”
A flash of movement comes before I register it.
One second, his other hand is on his lap. The next, he’s holding a gun.
The sound doesn’t register, not right away. Not untilblood spatters the marble floor. The man slumps back in his chair, eyes still open, a neat hole drilled between them.
The room explodes into stunned silence. Not a breath, not a scrape of a chair.
My body kicks with adrenaline from the shock of it all. He just killed a man. Just like that, in front of the entire room. This is Konstantin Marinov in all his glory.
And the craziest part is he’s still completely calm. As if he didn’tjust shoot a man in cold blood five seconds ago.
He returns the weapon back to its holster, fingers still inside me. His gaze sweeps over the rest of the table, lingering, daring someone to say something just so he can do this all over again.
“I was getting tired of hearing him speak. Wouldn’t you say, gentlemen?”
A mumbling sound of agreement comes from them as one man clears his throat. Another fidgets in his chair like his bladder’s about to give out.
Konstantin turns to the man who had been speaking before the interruption. “Please. Continue. I promise there will be no more disruptions.” His gaze wanders around the room, as though in a silent warning.
The man tries to gather his thoughts. His mouth opens, but his voice comes out weak, cracked. “Uh…r-right. As I was saying…the expansion into Macau would require at least twenty million upfront?—”
Konstantin nods, once again engrossed in the topic for a few minutes before his mouth finds my ear.
“I’m sorry I had to do that in front of you. But if anyone disrespects you ever again, I’ll kill them slower. I want them all to know what it looks like when a woman belongs to me.”
He’s insane. And also kind of romantic?
No, murder isn’t romantic.
But isn’t it, though?
