Page 9 of Claimed By The Russian

I quickly click on some nice dresses, a pair of heels, pajamas, and then I click over to the bra and panty page, selecting a few items and using the opportunity to run my eyes over her body.

She laughs. “Do you even know anything about women’s sizing?”

“No,” I confess, a smirk covering my face. I’m completely clueless.

“Why did you pick size one for me in everything you put in the cart?”

“Because you’re one of a kind.”

She pulls back, inspects my sincerity and pauses. “Thank you. I don’t remember anyone ever saying something that nice about me.”

“You’ve been hanging out with the wrong people. You’re with me now, so better get used to it.”

“Is that a threat?” she teases back.

“It’s a promise,” I give right back to her.

She leans forward and clicks on the cart button to change the sizes, but the only size I’m worried about is running my thick cock through her cleavage, which is dangerously close to brushing against the back of my hand.

Fuck! If I turn my hand over I could squeeze her tits, pull her to me, and ravish her right here and now.

Our kiss at the casino is lingering in the air, but neither of us is talking about it. She’s definitely loosened up though. She’s playful and borderline cocky, and do I ever fucking like it.

“That’s more than enough. Thank you. I’ll start cleaning now if you can just tell me where the duster and supplies are.”

“On the top shelf, right over there in that closet,” I say, pointing to a side wall which has an unnoticeable door that pops out when you press on it.

“What cabinet?”

“Press against the wall and you’ll see.”

I watch as she walks over, noticing there’s a lot more sway in her hips than there was at the casino.

I imagine my hands grabbing her by the waist as I ram into her from behind, filling her with my seed, breeding with her, making a family with her. Forever.

There’s just some sort of angst that’s greater than what you’d find in an Anton Chekhov story racking my brain right now. That Russian tragedy that is so prevalent in our culture. Something about seeing her, but not being able to touch. It’s just not right.

“Pretty snazzy,” she says when the wall pops open.

“I’ve got all kinds of surprises you haven’t even seen yet.”

“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” she says, just before she goes on her tiptoes to reach up for what she needs.

The way her body looks when her calves are flexed, and the bottom of that French maid uniform comes up, damn near exposing the bottom crease of her ass has me feeling completely territorial over her. I’d be the angriest man in the world if she was doing this at the casino and someone else laid eyes on her…eyes I’d have to rip out with my bare hands.

She grabs what she needs and comes back down flat footed. “This uniform is too tight.”

No, you’re making my balls pull up tight and I’m dangerously close to spilling my seed in my pants like a horny teenager.

“It’s just right,” I say. How can it be wrong when it’s attached to her? It can’t. It never can.

I fiddle with the online shopping cart as I watch her out of the corner of my eye as she’s cleaning. I don’t know if I’m a hawk hunting its prey, or I’m just a creepy stalker trying to avoid detection. Either way if she didn’t already detect my need for her in my pants when she came around behind my desk then she sure would now if I stand up, which is not happening right now.

My groin throbs in pain, in need, for her.

I watch that amazing body of hers twist and turn as she cleans with a sense of pride. She should. All this will be half hers…soon, very soon.

She goes to dust a statue and the arm catches her feather duster and it drops to the floor. She bends over to retrieve it and all hell breaks loose inside my mind when I see her ass, the juicy peach that it is, right in my line of sight. It’s like that outfit was made for her, and it somehow makes her perfect apple bottom even more perfect, if that’s possible.

My dick twitches and I put my palm on top of it underneath my desk, trying to control the fucker. The last thing I need right now is her looking at me trying to control the savage erection in my slacks.

She turns to look at me, damn near catching me in the act, her gaze narrowing.

“You think I’m some sort of bad guy. I can see it in the way you look at me.”

She doesn’t reply.

“That’s not what I’m about. I’m a businessman who makes decisions that impact people’s lives.” I pause. “Those women at the casino? They were all trafficked, just like you. We brought them back from places like Dubai, Singapore, and even New York, and gave them a new life here. Many of them wear those skimpy outfits because it’s all that they know after years of being treated in a way no human being should be treated. It’s a fate that no one should face, and it pisses me off beyond end.” I pause again, feeling my pulse rising as my fingertips grind into my palms. “They do it because they get more tips, but what they really need is more time around you.”

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