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Diamond Days (Born Bratva 6)(14)

By:Suzanne Steele
 
She grunted as her captor kicked the small stool from beneath her. Her arms were pulled tightly above her head and the tips of her toes barely touched the floor, leaving her to swing as she tried to regain her footing.
 
This was not the lavishly furnished playroom next door. No, as Kathleen spun slowly from her chains, she was getting a nice 360 of the dungeon that was usually reserved for high-level interrogations … and, apparently, recalcitrant spouses.
 
Every Glazov wife could expect to visit this dank, sparsely furnished room at some point in her relationship with her Glazov man, even if only on rare occasions. And it looked like it was her turn.
 
Well, hell.
 
 
 
The technical term for her current circumstances was 'predicament bondage'.
 
She's in a predicament, alright-one of her own making, Glazov mused as he circled her slowly, not bothering to hide his admiration for the womanly curves that were so perfectly displayed for his pleasure. Her head bobbed on her chest as she whispered, "Glazov."
 
The sleepy, husky quality of her voice dripped over him like hot wax, shooting heat straight to his cock. Oh, the woman did do something to him, there was no doubt about that. They fed off each other sexually, their years together only intensifying their need for each other. They were perfectly matched. Not once in over two decades had the woman used her safe word-Firebird-the name of the club that had housed one of Glazov's gambling operations back in New York, and the place where he had first seen her.
 
Even on a grainy security tape, his first look at her feminine curves had brought his world to a shuddering halt. But when she had turned her face toward the camera and playfully  –  and unknowingly  –  blew him a kiss, she tilted his world on its axis and shattered any ideas he may have entertained of ever touching another woman.
 
He kicked the stool one more time, sending it flying across the room. When she flinched as it clattered against the wall, he was pleased -- and more than a little aroused. He wanted no obstacle in his way. He was ready to play with his little Ptichka. He slowly circled her, taking in every inch of her body. After nearly 25 years together, Glazov knew every detail, every nuance of his wife's flesh better than he knew his own.  
 
He deliberately walked behind her where she couldn't see him. Anticipation needed to be built slowly. He leaned into her ear, releasing the slightest wisp of a breath, and humming with satisfaction at the goosebumps that appeared on her skin.
 
"Whose dirty little toy are you, Ptichka?"
 
"Yours. Only yours."
 
He fisted her hair, jerking her head back as he growled, "You better fucking believe it." He immediately loosened his grip and began to pet her hair ever so gently. Rough, soft, passion, pain, pleasure … by the time he was finished mixing his concoction she would no longer be able to distinguish between the sensations.
 
Each time he led her into subspace was like an abstract painting he created; it was never the same. Some would probably view their brand of lovemaking as brutal, even cruel, and he supposed they were right. But, nonetheless, he used every means at his disposal  –  be it a vibrator, anal beads, a dildo, or even a meat hook in his dungeon. If he ever failed to arouse her to a fever pitch, he would be doing her a grave injustice. That would be unforgiveable, as far as he was concerned.
 
Sometimes it took hours to take her through his carefully constructed scenes. He never rushed these things; every orgasm that shook her, every quiver of her sex, every incoherent sound that escaped her lips, was his masterpiece. He would lavish her with attention and sensation until he was the center of her universe. After all, it was only fair since she was the center of his.
 
 
 
 
 
He knew how to keep her guessing. After years of making love with Alexander Glazov, it was never the same. The only thing that remained the same was the need that sparked between them. He had spent years stoking the flames of her addiction to his touch, his mouth, his cock. These chains added to her pleasure but they didn't keep her bound to him-she and her husband were as one.
 
He occupied the shadows of her mind, that place she kept hidden from all others but him. Whether he was in her presence or not, she could feel him and was certain that, God forbid, his death would sweep through her soul like an arctic blast without her needing to be told. She would just know.
 
Sometimes something as simple as a song on the radio would bring him to mind and, as his spirit whispered all his dirty secrets in her ear she would flush with embarrassment. She had stood in grocery store lines, pressing her legs together because she swore she could feel him there at the apex of her thighs, even though he was nowhere in sight.