Violent Delights: A Dark Billionaire Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prolog

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  VIOLENT DELIGHTS

  A Dark Billionaire Romance

  by

  Linnea May

  Content

  VIOLENT DELIGHTS

  Copyright by the Author

  Prolog

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Epilog

  Also by Linnea May

  Sneak Peek: Silent Daughter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Continue reading

  Copyright © 2017 by Linnea May

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

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  „These violent delights have violent ends

  And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

  Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey

  Is loathsome in his own deliciousness.”

  – William Shakespeare

  Prolog

  Joseph

  She is the best one yet.

  I have played this game with many girls before, but no one ever caught my attention like she does.

  She’s waiting for me, kneeling with her thighs spread wide, her perky ass resting on her ankles, her back already arched, chest pushed forward, her neck stretched, her head held high, and the focus of her eyes is lowered to the floor. Her hands are resting, palms up, on her thighs.

  The perfect pose of the pleasure slave.

  Her chest is heaving in a steady rhythm and her eyelashes flicker when she notices me approaching.

  It’s the most alluring sight.

  My Pet.

  There is a dark side to everyone, they say. While that may be true, I doubt that most people’s dark sides even come close to those that cast their sinister shadow over the part of myself that I keep hidden.

  I’m consumed by the fury of a raging beast, something so dark and violent that even I was scared of myself once. I tried to ignore its existence, tried to push it away, but the effort was futile and only led to more chaos.

  However, I am no longer that furious boy I used to be.

  Violence has always been a part of my life, but it no longer controls me.

  Now I’m the one in control.

  I know who I am, I know how to deal with the beast raging inside, and I know what I need. I found what helps me to cope, and no one has to become part of it, unless they want to.

  This is what’s at the heart of it all.

  Choice.

  Consent.

  Rules.

  A safe setting.

  Every time I browse through the catalog of women who are willing to offer themselves to me, I am confronted with the reality of human psychology. For every sick person out there with these dark desires and needs, there is someone else who is willing to serve those demands. Together they meet the needs of each other’s twisted minds and bodies.

  We humans, as a species, are pretty fucked up.

  It’s a glorious thing.

  My Pet is here because she chose to be here, even though the reality of it may frighten her. She agreed to my offer to buy her, and she’s proving to be the perfect Pet, tailored exactly to fit my desires.

  I have been this agency’s client long enough for them to understand my personal tastes right down to the most minute detail. They know what I want from these women, they know what I will do to them, they know what traits a woman must possess, not only in regards to her physical attributes, but also her psychological makeup. And they know what I am willing to pay to satisfy my wishes.

  Thirty-nine days, just the two of us, no safe word, no escape. Absolute surrender to my will.

  She has entered a world of contradictions, a mix of freedom and discipline doled out in equal measure. One cannot exist without the other. She remains under the agency’s protection, as do I.

  However, these thirty-nine days belong to me, and there is little to no way for her to break the established routine. I want to make every second count.

  I don’t like interruptions. I need for both of us to be totally immersed, otherwise our arrangement doesn’t serve its purpose.

  Its purpose to fulfill my darkest needs.

  To satisfy my desires.

  To keep me sane.

  We are playing a game that few are able to handle. It’s more than just simple role playing in the bedroom. This feels as real as it can get. The only difference is that she knows she will get out alive at the end of it. She will return to freedom, to real life, and be an incredibly wealthy woman once our thirty-nine days are over, and she will never hear from me again.

  This is how it works, and this is how it has to work.

  She lets out a s
oft sigh when I caress her cheek, leaning gently into my touch instead of jerking away from it as she did only a few days ago.

  She is different. Her defiance seems real, her struggle at times too much to bear, even for me.

  She is here to be trained, for me to hurt her, to teach her. But I struggle to maintain my harsh demeanor. I struggle to train and inflict torture on her as I did to all the others before.

  Because there is something special about her. Something that makes all of this feel so very fucking wrong.

  Something is off with her. Very, very off.

  Chapter 1

  Liana

  This has been the worst week of my life. You may think I am exaggerating, but I am not.

  Everything went to shit this week. That is the plain and simple truth.

  It’s 10 p.m. on a Friday night, and I’m sitting at the bar of a rundown neighborhood joint, sipping on a cheap bourbon and feeling sorry for myself. I hate bourbon, I’ve never been to this place before and I’m comically overdressed. I bet half of the slobs here think I am a hooker, because I look so out of place.

  I don’t even know where I am. I have never been in this area of the city before. I just ended up in this place after wandering the streets for hours, lost in thought and unwilling to go back to my empty house. Walking keeps me in balance, it always has. It’s as if the dark thoughts can’t catch me as long as I just keep moving, walking. I don’t want to go home and face the horrors of this past week.

  Faced with the prospect of spending the weekend in my empty place, I had started walking as soon as I left the office, but quickly realized that my heels are not meant for this. I couldn’t take them off because it’s too cold, so I just stumbled into the first bar I came to, which was this little shit hole. I’ve been dwelling in my pain for the past hour, staring at nothing and drinking this God-awful bourbon, afraid to go home.

  It’s pathetic, I know, but so appropriate, considering the turn my life has taken.

  I’m not saying my life was glorious before. No, it definitely wasn’t. But I had been content and felt no need to change anything. First of all, I had a job. Nothing special. I wasn’t changing the world or anything, but it paid the bills and I enjoyed it. I worked at the university as the secretary to a muddle-headed professor. He may have been brilliant in his field, but he was unable to master simpler things, such as responding to emails, creating PowerPoint presentations, and searching the university’s intranet.

  Professor Miller appreciated my work. He was the nicest man I’ve ever met, always greeting me with a smile, and he was so easy to impress with simple things that come easy to any millennial. He was an older gentleman with very polite manners, who thanked me profusely for every little thing I did. Working for him was easy, it was predictable. My job with him was the safe constant I needed in my life.

  And now it’s gone.

  He’s gone.

  Professor Miller died in an accident, hit by a passing car as he was crossing the street, lost in his own world and not paying attention. When he died, my job died, as well. Losing him was more than just a pay-the-bills job-related tragedy: I lost my safe and secure haven, the calm and reliable constant in my life that kept me sane after kicking Luke out of my life.

  Luke. My ex-boyfriend. The son of a bitch who had the audacity to fuck another girl in our bed, and on our sheets, when he thought I was out of town. Yes, he really was that stupid. Or maybe I’m the stupid one for trusting him, considering he was always so insecure. Maybe that should have clued me in that maybe he was the problem?

  I will never forget the expression on his face when I walked through the door. I had arrived back home a day early, because I couldn’t stand another minute with my relatives who I had been visiting. I wanted to surprise him, bearing those dumb chocolates he likes, ready to make up from another awful fight we had had the day before I left.

  I did surprise him, but not in the way I imagined.

  I caught him in the act, yet he was the one who’d accused me time and again of cheating, because of my “sick” needs, as he put it. He never understood me. He lacked the decency to even listen to me when I tried to talk with him about it. Every time I summoned the courage to talk about my deepest desires, he looked at me with that appalled and disgusted look on his face and told me that I needed therapy. As if I wasn’t feeling weird enough about it already.

  I should have known that we weren’t meant to be together, but still I clung on, hoping that eventually things would work out. I couldn’t let go of him, or rather, I couldn’t let go of the idea of us together. In a way, I should be grateful that this happened. Finding him screwing another girl was just the kick I needed to finally free myself of him.

  My week started by throwing Luke out of the apartment that we’ve been living in together for more than nine months - and my week ended with me losing my job when my boss was killed. Everything happened so fast, one atrocious thing after another. I caught Luke on Sunday, threw him out on Monday, Professor Miller was hit by a car on Wednesday and died on Thursday, and today I was told that I will no longer be needed once the professor’s office is cleaned out.

  Everybody was visibly upset about Professor Miller’s death—his colleagues, the assistants, the students—but they all treated me like I was a machine, as if I wouldn’t mourn his death just as much as they did. After all, I’m just a secretary, not his academic equal, and I wouldn’t be someone who had any close ties to him - or so they think. While others cried, walked around in shock, and consoled one another, I was bombarded with things that had to be organized and done. The cherry on top was when I was called into the Dean’s office and advised that because the funding for my position was tied directly to his teaching position – and since the position wouldn’t be filled until a national search was conducted and it could take up to a year – my secretarial position was no longer needed. Seriously?

  So here I am. Drinking shitty bourbon in a shitty bar. All by myself. Drowning in self-pity at the mess that is my life.

  It doesn’t help that this woman is sitting across from me. That damn Barbie doll with her ridiculous bright red fur coat. It’s so hideous-looking, but it’s a perfect match for its owner. She looks just like the girl I caught Luke with. A dumb blonde, with fake lashes, fake nails, fake tits, fake everything. Her fat lips are painted in a ridiculously bright hooker red that matches her ugly fur coat. I bet she really is a hooker. She’s by herself, sipping on a bourbon just like I am, and constantly checking the time and watching the door of the bar. She’s probably waiting for a john.

  I was already here when she walked in, and she caught my attention from the start, not only because of that hideous coat and her resemblance to that other bitch, but because she was wearing a black mask when she came in. It was covering up most of her face. As soon as she sat down, she took it off and placed it on the counter right next to her drink.

  She makes me furious. Women like her make me furious. I watch her as she sips on her drink, leaving red lipstick marks on the glass, and constantly shifting her attention between checking her phone and staring at her manicured nails coated in blood red. She has what many men would consider to be the perfect body and a beautiful face—as far as I can tell with all that glob she has plastered on it—but her entire get-up and attitude screams total lack of respect—for herself and anyone else.

  She’s the kind of woman who destroys—destroys families, destroys reputations, destroys hopes and dreams—and betrays everything that’s honorable.

  I don’t know if it’s the effects of the cheap bourbon, the general misery streaming through my veins from my fucked-up life, or the hatred this woman provokes in me by triggering the memory about Luke, but when Barbie doll gets down from her high chair to head for the restroom, I find myself getting up from my seat, as well.

  I want to hurt her. I want to share my fucking misery with her, even if it’s only through a small and simple act. My body is moving all on its own, driven by blind and rabid fu
ry, as I walk over to take that hideous red fur coat from the back of her empty chair and walk away with it, out the door, and into the dark night.

  Chapter 2

  Liana

  Why did I just do that? As soon as I walk out the door of the bar, I begin to question my actions.

  But I don’t turn around.

  Instead, I wrap the giant red fur coat around my shoulders and start scurrying briskly down the street. I’m pressing my little purse against my side, clutching it with one hand, holding the coat with the other. I’m not in prime shape, so I find myself starting to pant after just a few yards. Only after turning a corner do I feel safe enough to slow my gait to walking.

  I am gasping for air—though trying not to attract too much attention—and breaking a sweat, but my feet continue to carry me down the sidewalk. This is not the safest area of the city to be in, and I probably shouldn’t be walking all by myself out here, especially at dusk, but I’m not worried enough to hail a cab.

  What is safety, anyway?

  I thought my job was safe. I thought I was—kind of—safe in my relationship with Luke.

  Who says I’d be any less safe here? Alone, at night, on a street in a rough neighborhood.

  After all, I’m the one who just committed a crime, and a dumb one at that. Even through my sweating and panting, I still find myself holding the red fur coat wrapped around my small body closed with clenched fingers. I’m a rather short person, and this coat is way too big for me, but it protects me from the cold a lot better than my own coat did—the coat I left on the back of my stool at the bar because I was so focused on stealing this one. I’m sure they have a lost and found, and I can just come back tomorrow to fetch it. No harm, no foul.

  Or Barbie doll will take it once she realizes hers has disappeared, which then would make this a simple exchange and not a theft. And she’s definitely the one who made out better on the deal, if you ask me.

  What is this atrocity I am wearing, anyway? It feels warm, but itchy and artificial. At least it’s not real fur.

  When I bury my hands into the coat’s pockets to keep them warm, I feel the thickness of a folded-up piece of paper. I produce what turns out to be a small business card. Just as I suspected, this coat’s owner appears to be a sex worker, but more of a high-class kind of escort than what I suspected. Apparently, she goes by the unimaginative name Ruby Red, which may explain the hideous coat. I didn’t know escorts had business cards. Who do they give those to? Are there like parties or something, where they meet up with “like-minded” people and exchange contacts for future use?