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As the grip of her orgasm wanes, he presses a kiss on the end of her nose. “The perfect little cum slut, accepting all of our gifts. Go to sleep, Malishka.”
Her expression is glazed, but she opens her mouth to speak.
Covering her lips with a finger, Dimi smirks. “All our cum is for you now. I couldn’t wait a moment longer and I know I’ll enjoy my work when I can look over and watch you sleeping naked across the room, knowing you’re sated and full of us.”
“You’re such a kinky little psycho.” She giggles.
His brow furrows before he smiles and shrugs. “Your kinky little psycho.”
Laughing, she shuffles to her side, never questioning the cushion beneath her as she closes her eyes.
It takes me an hour to be able to drag my eyes away from the sight of my woman sleeping naked across the room. She’s so exhausted she fell asleep almost immediately and Dimi covered her with a blanket, but it’s proved almost impossible to concentrate when she’s so close.
Eventually, work drags my attention from her and I check my emails, replying where I need to, then I work on finalizing the plans for the bomb for Orlov’s plane. I like explosives. As a kid I liked to set things on fire, but from the first time I accidentally lit a fire too close to a drum full of gas, I’ve been obsessed with the excitement of making things go boom.
There’s an art to the precision of making an explosion do exactly what you need it to do. I can blow the hinges off a safe, or bring down an entire building. I once designed an explosive device that could be swallowed, and detonated while it was inside someone. After I submitted the patent, I was offered millions to sell it, but that one’s all mine, at least for the moment.
I’m not a genius, by any stretch of the imagination, but I am a bit of a rain man when it comes to the mechanics of bombs. It’s an oddly specific skill set that, for most people, wouldn’t be much use, but for me, it’s helped me kill people hundreds of times.
People assume that contract killing is all sniper rifles and drive-by shootings, but for the most part, the best hired assassins are the ones who can make death seem like a random accident. And I’m one of the best.
If death were art, then just call me Picasso.
Ali stirs while I’m absorbed with my research. Our contacts in Russia sent us all the details for the jets at Orlov’s disposal and I designed a device that can be calibrated in seconds to fit whichever jet he arrives in.
“What are you doing?” she asks, the blanket wrapped around her as she wanders behind me, her eyes looking at the three screens I have turned on in front of me.
“Designing a bomb,” I say with a smirk.
Without pause, she leans down and kisses me, her lips soft and pliant. “I know I should be more upset about the whole death and destruction vibe you have going on right now, but I start to hate you all again when I think about you killing people, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t see how excited you are to blow up a plane full of people.” Turning, she looks to my brother. “Lev, will you come with me to get food?”
Laughing softly, I watch Lev jump out of his seat and rush to her, so happy that she’s asking him for something that he’d probably get her anything she wanted.
“Sure, Honey, what are you hungry for?” he asks.
“Is there any chance Roza has peanut butter and jelly hidden behind all that fancy ass food?”
“Let’s go and see.” Taking her hand, he leads her from the room, still only wearing the blanket.
“She seems happy, doesn’t she?” I ask Dimi.
“She does. She was made for us, and she’s starting to understand that. I’m sure she’ll slip from time to time, but we just need to keep reminding her why she’s so perfect. Why do we love her so much.”
CHAPTER 31
alabama
It’s been a month since I woke up on their couch with the three of them standing over me, telling me I was theirs. Thirty days doesn’t seem like that long, but it turns out it’s long enough to change everything.
I’m not so deeply entrenched in my Stockholm syndrome that I don’t have days where I hate them, this island, and that they forced this life on me. But for the most part I’m happy in my captivity, which has been hard for me to admit.
Without work, bills, and starvation to fight every day, I’ve found it difficult to settle into this new life as the indulged pet that they treat me as. The three of them still work, although I don’t really know what they do. When I ask, they give me a technical explanation about stocks, shares, and the exchange which I don’t understand. But the gist is, that they’re so rich it’s almost impossible for them not to make money without putting any real effort into it.
For the most part, my life consists of eating, swimming and being fucked so often that I feel like I have their cum dripping out of me constantly, no matter how much I shower. Three men is a lot. Three men with their libidos is basically a full time job.
Sometimes I wonder if I really am just as much of a whore as my mom was. She accepted cash, drugs, and sometimes gift cards in exchange for spreading her legs. My men feed me, clothe me, pamper me, then use me as their cosseted cum slut. So, what makes me different to her?
The situation with Orlov is hanging over our heads like a black cloud threatening to ruin the blue skied paradise we live in. Dimi has been going back and forth with Orlov’s lawyers, negotiating my return to my second fake husband. The Russians are demanding that I be put on a commercial flight back to Russia, while Dimi insists the only way he’ll hand me over is in person in Anchorage, which is a few hours from where they believe we live.
