MAXIM Sneak Peek
WARNING: Contains graphic, explicit sexual subject matter and content not suitable for readers under 18, or readers who cannot handle subjects of: violence, explicit sexual content, mentions of abuse and self-harm.
Pain is the most potent drug and Frankie Marconi is addicted to the burning sting of it. Maxim Koslov, a deranged crime lord with a tormented past, is more than willing to deliver the dose she needs.
But when lust becomes obsession, Frankie begins to realize that there is only one way out of this dangerous game of Russian Roulette...
And Maxim never loses.
18+ Extremely Dark Themes. Strong Sexual/Adult content. Mentions of abuse and violence.
Chapter Sneak Peek:
Lucius picked another café. I guess he has a thing for coffee. Though, when I finally reach the place, I don’t find the car out front or his little friend lurking beside the door. The moment I step inside, I realize why.
Another man dominates the center of the room. Dominates—that’s the only way to put it. His massive body seems out of place seated on a wooden chair before a round table draped in a fancy white cloth. In sharp contrast, he’s wearing black from head to toe. The color makes his blond hair glow almost. Like his eyes. They flicker in my direction the moment I creep toward the hostess podium, where a smiling waitress is standing to greet me.
“This way,” she says without bothering to ask my name. She instinctively knows which table to stop beside, her eyes expectantly focused on Maxim, who sends her away with a wave of his hand.
To me, he just nods at the chair across from him. “Sit, kotyonok.”
My knees bend on command, plopping me down onto a burgundy cushion. The table is already set. The silverware is legit silver, laid out in a line.
But there is only one place setting: his.
“I thought I should meet with you myself,” Maxim says. “So that there can be no mistake as to what I expect from you.”
His eyes flash, demanding a response.
“You should know that this isn’t about companionship,” he tells me. “In fact, this isn’t even about sex.”
One of his hands reaches across the table, the thumb of it coming to brush my lower lip. It’s bitten: a wound I only remember as his touch stirs up the pain. My eyes start to blink, watering. He presses down harder.
When he finally draws his hand away, the thumb is red with blood. He stares at the drop for a second and then rubs it carefully into the tablecloth.
“I only want to hurt you,” he tells me as his stare reconnects with mine. “However I want. Whenever I want. In any way that I can. Do you understand what I mean by that?”
“H-hurt me?” My voice is a fucking rasp as my belly clenches up at the reminder of the damage he’s already dished out.
He folds his hands, watching me for what feels like hours as the café bustles with traffic around us. I swear our waitress has passed us at least five times, serving as many tables, before he speaks again.
“Come here.” He pushes back from the table but remains seated. When I stand, he nods at his lap.
I nervously dart my gaze around the rest of the café.
“Don’t.” The warning trickles from him, so softly that only I can hear it. “Sit.”
It hurts to straddle him. With his size, it’s like attempting to do a split. Pinpricks of pain shoot behind my eyelids the farther I spread my legs, so I focus on sucking in air, one breath after the other. The moment I’m on top of him, he easily shifts his weight, sliding his chair closer to the table. Too close.
The rim of it digs into my lower back, but Maxim doesn’t stop. I look down and find him flicking his fingers toward the ceiling.
It isn’t until he attempts to push into the table completely that I understand what he means. Up. I have to brace both hands on the table behind me and haul myself up before his weight traps me between it and his chest. The tines of a fork dig into my thigh as all of the silverware clings together when I scoot backwards. My face is on fire, but no one seems to notice the scene unfolding.
“Look at me.” His hand captures my chin to make me. “These people?” He shrugs one shoulder toward the rest of the café. “They mean nothing. If you are to be with me, that is the first thing you will need to learn. Their reactions, their judgment means nothing.”
He slides his other hand beneath my ass, lifting me from the table’s surface altogether. I can only watch. I can only breathe. In and out. My sore pussy throbs as if it already knows just what he’s planning.
“Strip.” He tells me, even as his fingers leave my jaw and go directly to the front of my jeans before I can do it myself. With one yank, he undoes the zipper—undressing me on a table inside a public place.
I can’t process it. I just find myself staring at a balding old man at the table directly across from us. He’s steadily sipping his soup without a care in the world or a glance in my direction.
“Look at me.”
Pain sears between my legs. I look down and find Maxim’s hand there, rubbing against my open fly. A warning.
“Only me, kotyonok.” His fingers rub again, while the ones beneath me hook within one of the belt loops of my jeans.
One hard yank nearly drags me off the table and onto his lap again. I know without him even having to say it not to move an inch, so I brace my weight back against my palms, arching my hips in the process.
Another tug later and my pants are down my thighs. He inhales when he sees what lurks underneath. I can’t look, so I stare up at the ceiling as my jeans are pulled the rest of the way off and tossed aside. He doesn’t bother with the same method for my panties.
A metallic clink proceeds the icy scrape tickling my inner thigh a second later, centered in a single point that grazes a path over to my hip. I can hear people laughing. Talking. No one gasps but me when the tip of the knife slides beneath the waistband of my panties. I feel a hard jerk and then the fabric is slowly peeled away by his hands. They’re rough. Like sandpaper. Cold. Warm. I can’t fucking explain just what he feels like. Maybe it’s because pain mingles with every deliberate touch. His nails lead the charge, sharper than the knife.
“Look at me, kotyonok.”
His voice turns my body into a slave. I see what he’s done. What’s he’s doing. While I watch, he slices through the other side of the thong. Then he gathers up the black fabric and pitches it onto the floor.
I can’t help the sound that tears out of me when I look between my legs. Two purple bruises in the shape of handprints make twin marks on my inner thighs. Just beyond my pussy is a slight scarlet smear.
“You have a delicate little cunt. I hurt you. Without intending to.” The pad of his thumb drifts down, running between my legs, coming away red. He doesn’t look pleased about that. His eyes darken to the shade of his shirt as he raises his fingers to my mouth, pressing his thumb against my bottom lip.
I know what he wants. It’s sick, but I fucking know. My tongue drifts out, flicking the bloody smears away, and I swallow hard without tasting.
Chuckling, Maxim lowers his hand—and rams it between my legs. His thumb circles my entrance. Once. Again. Harder. When he raises it again, his eyes contain a dare.
I lick my lips first, tasting bitter, dry flesh. I try to focus on that flavor as I lean forward, sticking my tongue out on cue. I’m about an inch away from his hand when I realize what he wants.
When my tongue finally touches him, it’s like licking a frozen pole in the middle of winter. The icy, numbing jolt feels the same. Disgust makes me gag. Just swallow. All I have to do is swallow and I won’t taste.
But he’s watching me, waiting as my taste buds slowly register the substance they’ve picked up. Salt. Musk. Me. Drool floods my mouth, urging me to spit.
“Swallow,” Maxim commands.
I do, and somehow, it all goes down without a fuss.
“Good.” He pushes back from the table just enough so that he can take me in without having to crane his neck. His eyes flicker up and down the length of me before settling between my legs. His nostrils flare, inhaling my scent as my flesh is bared to him.
It takes everything I have in me not to slam my thighs together. Focus on him. I don’t take my eyes off his face, trying to decipher any hint of what he might be thinking. Insanity most likely. He has to be insane. And, any minute, the manager of this place will storm over and order us out.
I tell myself that. I comfort myself with what a part of me knows is just a lie.
“Why do you want this?” Maxim wonders. His fingers fan out along his jaw, smearing blood onto his gold stubble. “You’re young. You can find other clients. You don’t seem familiar with sadism.”
Sadism. My brain blanks at how dangerous he makes that word sound. The scary part? I don’t even know what it means—I don’t want to.
“I asked you a question.” His eyes flash, and he sits straighter.
“I need the money,” I blurt out.
Rather than seem insulted, he nods in response, still rubbing his chin. When his hand shoots out in an arch, I flinch, thinking I missed something, but a waitress appears at his shoulder seconds later.
Her eyes skim over me, her pretty smile perfectly in place. “How may I serve you, Mr. Koslov?”
Maxim waves his hand toward the table, and the woman nods before taking off.
“Did you really read the contract?” he wonders after she’s gone. His eyes flick up to mine and narrow a dangerous fraction of an inch. “Be honest with me.”
“Yes?” It’s the Melanie in me that wants me to lie—but the man intimidates even my fucking genetics. “No.”
“You didn’t,” Maxim says, deciding for himself which answer of the two is correct. “I suggest you educate yourself, kotyonok.” He bends forward, rummaging through something at his feet. A bag? He withdraws a folder from whatever it is. “Read.”
He tosses the stack between my legs.
It’s black, containing a pile of pages that flutter as I flip it open and smear blood over them. It’s the same list Lucius showed me, but this time, I inhale every fucking word. It’s more than just a catalogue of injuries and their corresponding prices.
So much more.
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