Chapter 2 #2
If I were a better man, that would be enough to end this burgeoning infatuation. I’d respect that, back off, and not keep digging into Mara in an effort to figure out how and when I can see her again.
That’s not the kind of man I am.
“Anything else of interest?”
“I’ll send you everything I found,” Kazimir promises.
“But there’s not much else to tell. She has the usual social media presence for someone her age, but it’s nothing particularly interesting.
She seems to focus more on her professional Instagram for the gallery.
It doesn’t look as if she’s been in a relationship in a couple of years; I dug up some tagged photos of her with guys she’s dated, but they’ve all been scrubbed from her profiles.
A lot of traveling photos, restaurants, that kind of thing.
It looks like she lives a pretty quiet life, all things considered. ”
Just the mention of other men has my body tensing, muscles winding tight as I fight off a disproportionately jealous response.
There’s no reason for me to feel territorial over her, but just the thought of another man looking at her, touching her, has me fighting the urge to tell Kazimir to send me the photos he found so I can hunt those men down and break every one of their fingers forever, laying a hand on this woman.
Mine. The word thrums through my head, as if my body and consciousness has already laid claim to her. I feel tense and on edge, my cock thickening at the idea of punishing the men who have touched her when I’ve yet to have the chance.
“Good work,” I tell Kazimir instead, forcing the urges down. “Send over everything you’ve collected. I’ll let you know if I need anything else.”
There’s an almost instantaneous ping from my computer. I end the call and open my email. The dossier is there, a PDF with her name in the subject line. I click it open and start reading.
There’s all the same information Kazimir gave me—her name, where she was born, where she went to college, her previous work history, and the information about her gallery.
She doesn’t seem to deal much in modern art, preferring instead to chase down older and hard-to-find pieces.
She has a graduate degree in art history, so it’s clear she has a preference for pieces of a more historical nature.
Scrolling through some articles, I find out that she’s built a reputation relatively quickly for being able to track down art for buyers with specific tastes and that she’s curated an impressive client list. I’m impressed, reading about her—she’s built a career and a life out of nothing, attending Columbia on scholarship and staying even after the death of her parents.
I look through the financial records Kazimir was able to find and see that she’s not in need of anything; if I was hoping to find a way into her life by swooping in and rescuing her, it wouldn’t be necessary.
She’s managed to pay off her student debt, has a one-bedroom apartment in Tribeca, and a comfortable amount in savings.
She has no criminal connections. No debts to the wrong people.
No vulnerabilities I can exploit. She’s the very definition of a self-made woman.
And with every sentence I read, I want her more.
I flip to the photos Kazimir attached—mostly professional shots from gallery events, with her standing next to expensive artwork, polished and professional in black dresses and elegant jewelry.
I sit back for a moment, looking at the photos, the information. Everything I’ve seen and heard suggests to me that Mara has no ties to Annie’s world and is likely completely oblivious to it. Annie likely thinks she’s protecting her.
Except this will work to my advantage. Mara will have the usual hesitancies about a strange man approaching her in any scenario, but she won’t have any suspicion about what or who I am. What I'm capable of.
She has no idea that I’m not just a man—I’m a monster. A killer in an expensive suit, willing to cross lines that she doesn’t even know exist in order to keep my place in this world.
And I’ll cross those same lines to get to her.
For whatever reason, I can’t stop thinking about her. And this has only cemented my realization that ridding myself of this newfound fixation won’t be so easy as telling myself it’s pointless.
Since I was old enough to want, I’ve never been denied. What I want, I take. And I want Mara Winslow.
I flick through the rest of the photos, my arousal building with every picture, every shot of her in black evening dresses, diamonds, sapphires, or garnets winking at her throat and ears and wrists.
I reach down, gliding my palm along the curve of my erection through my suit trousers, in no hurry to ease it.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt desire this potent, since a woman has made me feel so hungry.
They all start to blur together, after a while. But this woman could never be lost in a sea of others. She stands out. And she makes me want.
I find her Instagram and open it. The pictures are more casual here—Mara in jeans and a tank top, her pale shoulders bare, in a casual sundress at a farmer’s market, in yoga pants at an outdoor class.
She likes to be outside. More of her photos are in New York or other cities she’s traveled to, eating outdoors, working out, or just exploring.
She doesn’t seem to be a homebody, which I can appreciate.
With every picture, my desire for her grows.
I reach down, undoing my belt and sliding my zipper down.
I slip my fingers through the slit in my boxer briefs, running the tips of my fingers over the straining, silken flesh of my erection, not taking it out quite yet.
Once it’s out, I won’t be able to resist picking up the pace, giving myself the release I so desperately need now.
And I’m not ready to allow myself to come quite yet.
I can feel the pre-cum gathering at the tip as I scroll through another line of photos, feel a bead rolling down my shaft, making my cock twitch and leap. I hiss through my teeth at the sensation, and then…
There’s a picture of her in a bikini. Tiny scraps of black fabric barely cover her small breasts and the juncture between her thighs, and my entire body roars with heat, my balls tightening as my cock pushes free through the slit of my boxer briefs.
The cool air of the office hits my heated flesh, and I groan, gripping the side of my chair hard as I resist the urge to wrap my hand around myself.
Almost all of her body is on display for me. I scroll up before I can linger a second longer, fighting the urge to stay on that photo, to stroke myself off looking at the object of my lust in almost nothing at all.
But I don’t want her body revealed to me like this, on a site designed for anyone to look at it—a thought that makes me want to find her and personally oversee her deleting every single photo that allows anyone else to look at her like that.
I want to see it on my own terms. I want to see her in a setting that’s only for me.
To have every inch of her luscious figure revealed when it’s mine.
I land on a photo of her in a short sundress, the hem brushing the middle of her thighs, and I can’t wait any longer. The photo was taken in a restaurant, her standing next to a table, and a fantasy tears through my mind as I wrap my hand around my aching shaft and let out a ragged groan.
I picture myself laying one hand on her shoulder, purring to her in Russian as I tell her to bend over, to grip the other side of the table as I push her skirt up her thighs.
I start to move my hand over my cock in long, even strokes as I imagine wrapping my hand in her raven hair, gripping the back of her neck as I reach down and tug her silky white thong down her hips, shoving it into my pocket for later use.
I can imagine that she’d be wet already, dripping just from the order I’ve given her, from my hand on the back of her neck, as I press my thumb against my cockhead, dragging the thick pre-cum over it and down my shaft.
A curse erupts under my breath, hissed out in Russian as I drag my fist down to my balls and up again, imagining how it would feel to slide my swollen cockhead through her folds, nudging myself against her tight hole. Would she moan for me? Plead for me to give her my cock? Beg for me to stop?
My jaw tightens as my cock throbs, my arousal quickly building to levels that I can’t restrain.
I thrust into my fist, picturing the arch of her back as I push my too-thick cock into her, stretching her wide for me, filling her as no other man ever has.
I imagine her wet heat around me, how tight she’d be, how she’d beg me to let her come by the end of it.
How I’d taunt her, stopping my thrusts, promising her that I’ll make her come if she could bring me to the brink just by squeezing her perfect, tight pussy around my aching length.
Another curse echoes in the confines of my office as I squeeze my shaft, hissing through my teeth.
I can imagine what her sweet voice might sound like, how she’d beg for her orgasm, how I’d finally give it to her if she promised to sit through the meal with her pussy still full of my cum, like the good girl I knew she was from the moment I saw her.
“Fuck!” I snarl the word aloud as my cock jerks and throbs, grabbing a handful of tissues just in time to keep from spurting cum all over the mahogany desk.
I thrust into my hand, jet after jet of cum erupting into my tissue-filled palm, teeth gritted as I lean my head back and imagine that I’m emptying myself into Mara Winslow’s pussy.
The relief that comes after the release is almost dizzying. I feel drained, exhausted from the force of my orgasm. I can’t remember the last time I came that hard from fucking my own fist.