Violent Delights: A Dark Billionaire Romance Read online

  Probably his attic. The man is sitting on the floor, less than ten feet away from me, his legs crossed and palms resting on his knees, and his dark eyes are fixated on me. Even in his sitting position, I can tell that he must be rather tall, and powerfully strong. His shoulders are broad, and his upper arms stretch the material of the gray shirt he’s wearing, his muscles forming prominent lines.

  All things considered, I have to admit that he is stunningly handsome. His dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and defined cheekbones give him a very sharp and mature look, even though he doesn’t seem to be that much older than me. A peppered stubble graces his chiseled jaw, and strong, dark strands of hair partly hide the left side of his face, as he wears it in a casual side-swept. It’s hard to tell many details under these circumstances, but I know that he is shockingly gorgeous. He would have taken my breath away anywhere else, but right now he does nothing but scare the hell out of me.

  “Who are you?” I croak.

  My hoarse voice breaks the silence between us, and even though it was nothing more than a whisper, my question comes out awfully loud and intrusive. I almost wish I hadn’t spoken.

  He doesn’t reply, but I can see the hint of a smirk fleeting across his face.

  Does my misery amuse him? Who is this sick bastard?

  Instead of answering my question, he continues staring at me, the expression on his handsome face changing from a mischievous glare to a smile that frightens me even more.

  I flinch when he suddenly rises to his feet, his impressive height towering over me.

  “Beautiful,” he says with a deep, but low voice.

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter 6

  Joseph

  This must be the best one yet. Her horror seems so real, so raw and natural. It’s easy to forget that most of this is all an act. Her widened eyes when she gazes through the room speak of nothing but fear and confusion, and they are set in the most beautiful face I have ever had in my house.

  She looks younger than I expected, way younger. I usually order them slightly older than me, because that is what I typically go for. Older women with experience, mature enough to make responsible decisions, but still physically firm and young enough to be attractive and keep my attention. Her file said that she was in her early thirties, but her face looks like that of a girl in her early twenties.

  It’s been less than ten minutes since I placed her unconscious body on the floor, already coming to know the feel of her in my arms as I carried her up the stairs from the car. She is shorter than I expected, and not very heavy. I did nothing but bring her up here and lay her down on the floor. While I’m haunted by a wide range of twisted thoughts and ideas, necrophilia is not among them. I take no joy in abusing her body in this helpless state.

  I need her awake to fully enjoy her. And I want to be there with her to watch her when she opens her eyes for the first time.

  My heart skipped a beat when a subtle motion and an even fainter moan suggested she was about to regain consciousness. The drug only acts for a very limited time, but it’s hard to shake it off completely right away. Even with that knowledge, it was a joy to watch her struggle as she slowly comes to herself and fights to get the scarf off of her face.

  I held my breath when she finally revealed that face I have been so eager to see. My eyes are fixated on her every breath as she takes in her surroundings for the first time, her eyes locked on the ceiling above her in a blank stare as her scattered mind tries to make sense of her situation. Even when they know this will happen, they are still shocked to find themselves actually here. Nothing can prepare a person for this, nothing. They only understand after waking up in a dark attic, lying on the floor with nothing but the things they had with them when I took them.

  Just as required, she is dressed up beneath the red fur coat, wearing a dark ladies’ suit with a tight-fitting skirt that is driving me crazy. The protocol dictates that they wear stockings underneath that skirt, and I can’t wait to see them as I push up her skirt for the very first time.

  Soon.

  It only takes her a few moments to fully regain consciousness, and she’s back with a bang when she sees me sitting next to her. I suppress a chuckle as she jumps up like a frightened deer and scuttles away from me until she can go no further.

  And then she concludes our first encounter with the perfect question.

  “Who are you?”

  Next to “Where am I?”, this must be the most often posed question for a victim to ask their kidnapper after waking up from a drug-induced slumber. What a good girl she is, playing the part to perfection.

  The girls are instructed to act as if this really happened out of nowhere, unexpectedly. Not all of them stick to protocol, though. More than once I’ve had to put them back into place, inflicting enough terror to make them realize that this is not a joke. It’s not a silly game between lovers who got bored of each other in the bedroom. There is no breaking character, no escaping, no joking when you forget the lines. None of that.

  This one, Ruby, appears to understand that. I like her already, despite her earlier misconduct. My slave training follows the carrot-and-stick policy: every misstep will be followed up with punishment, while compliance will be met with a treat.

  The fear written all over her young face turns to panic when I stand up and rise to stand above her, my eyes never leaving the shivering and scared little person she has turned into.

  “Beautiful,” I say. “Perfect.”

  They are never able to appreciate a compliment when they first enter this dark world of captivity under my roof. Ruby, just like so many before her, only furrows her eyebrows, her tiny nose wrinkling as if she’s confronted with an unpleasant smell.

  “You will call me Master,” I announce. “Do you understand?”

  Her eyes widen with a new wave of terror.

  “What?” she gasps. “Where am I? What is this?”

  Her voice is trembling, and her face turning into a grimace as if she’s about to cry.

  She’s brilliant.

  “Tell me you understand,” I tell her. “You will call me Master. Understand?”

  A horrified gasp escapes her lips when I approach closer, taking only one single step.

  “Why would I…? Who the hell are you?!” she hisses at me.

  Okay, now she’s taking it too far. I want to put her in her place, but I can’t break character either. I won’t remind her of the contract she signed, the contract that clearly states she’s giving up any freedom and free will while she’s my captive. That contract also stated how she is to address me, and I don’t feel like spelling it out to her again.

  I dart forward, too quickly for her to react before I get my hands on her. She shrieks in horror when I pin her against the wall she’s been leaning up against, grabbing her by the throat without actually choking her, and using my other hand to keep her held in place. She’s too shocked to fight back, her terrified eyes fixating on me as she comes to terms with the fact that there is nothing she can do to escape my grip.

  “Do you understand?” I repeat my question, emphasizing every word.

  She whimpers and her lower lip begins to tremble, her eyes watering with despair.

  This I can work with. Raw terror and desperation. She’s good.

  I tighten my grip around her throat, pushing her further back against the wall, while moving my face so close to hers that I can feel her anxious breath on my skin.

  “Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  She hesitates, leaving a moment for the first of many tears to roll down her delicate cheek.

  “Yes, Master,” she adds.

  I smile at her.

  “Good girl.”

  Chapter 7

  Liana

  What the hell is happening to me? I’m so confused, overwhelmed with questions and an anxiety that runs deeper than mere bewilderment about my current situation and how I got here.

  This is fucked-up on so many levels that I don’
t even know where to start. When he comes at me, his strong hand clutching around my throat just enough to send a warning without really hurting me, I’m not only horrified because he’s threatening me.

  I’m not just afraid of him - I’m afraid of myself.

  I should be nothing but terrified, I should scream for help and at least try to fend him off, until I can’t fight him. I should cry, I should kick him, I should head for the door and try everything within my power to get out of this room, to escape.

  That is how I should feel.

  Scared. Horrified. In panic and tears.

  I should not be excited about this. I should not be turned on.

  Nothing about this is appealing. I was ambushed, drugged and kidnapped to a spooky attic, and am being held down and intimidated by a daunting stranger.

  A man who looks like a fucking god.

  A man whose hand feels alarmingly good braced around my throat.

  No!

  I close my eyes, trying to shake off those sick thoughts.

  What is wrong with me?!

  “Look at me!” he barks, as soon as my eyes shut.

  I oblige immediately, met with his dark gaze right in front of my face. I can’t help it. He looks fucking gorgeous.

  Did someone set this up for me? Is he being paid to fulfill a fantasy so dark that no one ever dares to explore it?

  Is that why I can’t be entirely scared of him? Because I don’t believe it’s real?

  But who would do such a thing? No one even knows about those twisted dreams I’ve had. No one knows that I’ve been fantasizing about something like this for years. No one but Luke, and I’m positive that he has nothing to do with this.

  Unless this is his way of punishing me. Did he hire someone to make this come true, only to scare the hell out of me and show me how sick I am for wanting this?

  Is that it?

  My stream of thoughts is interrupted by a sharp pain when the man, who I am to call Master, lifts my face up to his while still holding my throat.

  He looks at me, wondering, waiting, studying every inch of my face. I have never been looked at like this before. There is an intensity to his gaze that is new to me, and for the first time in my life, I begin to understand what people mean when they say that someone’s look is piercing. He observes me with such depth that his gaze feels like a touch, just as much as his hand does.

  “Now, you will listen to me,” he whispers. “From now on, you’re mine. You’ll do as I say, no backtalk, no objections, no arguing. It’s as simple as that. You’ll forget everything you were outside of this house. Your name, your friends, your family, your hobbies. You’ll just exist to please me.”

  He pauses for a moment, waiting for me to react to his insane demands, but I don’t give him anything but a blank stare.

  “You no longer have a name,” he adds. “From now you’ll just be Pet. My Pet. Understand?”

  Again, he pauses, waiting for my reply. I suggest a nod, but can’t move my head enough, because he’s still pinning me firmly in place.

  “Yeah,” I croak, annoyed at the weak sound of my voice.

  I thought this is what he wanted to hear, but instead of a pleased smile, he squeezes my throat even harder, taking my breath away for real this time. I moan in pain and my arms fly up, instinctively reaching for his arm in an attempt to get him away from me. Of course, this is futile. He doesn’t even flinch or acknowledge my defense in any way, but his pressure doesn’t loosen.

  I can’t breathe! He’s going to choke me!

  I want to warn him that he’s actually hurting me, that I will faint any minute now, if he keeps this up. Maybe that’s what he wants? Is he trying to kill me?

  But just when I feel actual panic emerging, he lets go of me, withdrawing his hand from my throat, and ready to catch me as I collapse forward, coughing and gasping for air.

  “What did I tell you to call me?” he asks with a calm and steady voice, entirely unfazed by my desperate struggle for air and the obvious pain he inflicted upon me.

  Shit. This man is seriously disturbed.

  I try to speak, but I can’t. My throat is sore from his violent treatment and I am caught in another coughing fit as I try to give him the reply I hope he’d rather hear.

  “Master,” I finally manage to utter. “Master. You said I should call you Master.”

  He’s holding me by the shoulders and sets me upright with a gentle push. My chest is still heaving in abrupt bursts, when I look up at him, met with a stoic expression that makes my blood run cold.

  “That’s right,” he says. “When I ask you to do something, you don’t say ‘Yeah’, you say, ‘Yes, Master.’ Understand?”

  I cast him a sinister look. This is ridiculous. He must know that. Why would I just agree to any of this before he gives me an explanation?

  “Where am I?” I ask. “Who are you? Did Luke send you?”

  He furrows his eyebrows and lets out an angry growl that is probably supposed to scare me. But I only react when he squeezes my shoulders, a subtle yet effective warning on how much power he possesses over me.

  “I am losing my patience with you,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “And trust me, you don’t want that to happen. So, let’s try this again. You will listen to me, obey me, please me, and you will address me as your Master. Do you understand?”

  The grip on my shoulders intensifies. I squint, fighting an internal struggle between defiance and fright. I have no need for further pain, but I also refuse to just go along with his ridiculous demands before I get an explanation as to what this is all about.

  But maybe the only way for me to get an explanation is to go along with his wishes. For now.

  “Yes, Master,” I whisper, lowering my eyes in defeat. “Yes, Master. I understand.”

  Chapter 8

  Joseph

  I’m inclined to call her a good girl again, but decide that she doesn’t quite deserve that yet. She’s been more of a struggle than most, if not all, of her predecessors.

  And who the hell is Luke? If this was some guy from the agency, shouldn’t I know him? I assume it must be someone who is only known to the girls, but is never in contact with the clients.

  Why would she mention him? She knows that she’s not allowed to mention anyone or anything that relates to our deal. She is to act as if this was a real kidnapping. It’s supposed to feel as real as it can get.

  None of this will work if she keeps overstepping the ground rules. As beautiful and convincing as she is otherwise, I won’t forgive her ruining this for me. I will send her back without payment if she doesn’t stop asking dumb questions that have no place in this arrangement.

  “Now, let’s try this again,” I say, still holding her by the shoulders. “Your only job is to please me. You exist for me. You’ll smile for me, you’ll cry for me, you’ll beg for me, you’ll breathe for me, and most importantly of all, you’ll come for me.”

  Even in the faint light, I can see her cheeks blushing at that last sentence. Good. Despite her temporary forgetfulness, she still seems responsive to me.

  “Come for you?” she asks, her chest heaving nervously. “What do you-?”

  “I’ll show you,” I say, reaching forward so I can lift her up and get her away from that restraining wall.

  She gasps in surprise when I drag her over to the middle of the empty room, removing the heavy fur coat from her small frame. My Pet is wearing a dark ladies’ suit underneath, with matching heels and a white blouse under the tapered suit jacket. I love the view of her elegantly dressed body as it’s spread out for me on the wooden floor after I release her. She clumsily supports herself on her elbow as she tries to fix her skirt with the other hand.

  Cute.

  I slap her hand away, and she regards me with an indignant look.

  “That’s mine,” I tell her, as if further explanation is needed. “Don’t you dare hide that body from my eyes. It’s mine now, and I can look at it and touch it however and whene
ver I want.”

  She takes in a deep breath of air and furrows her eyebrows. Backtalk is at the tip of her tongue, but she’s smart enough not to say anything. Instead, her eyes widen in horror when I lean forward, casting a shadow over her as my hands glide along her upper thighs, pushing the skirt up further, expecting to find the hem of her stockings.

  But there are none. She’s not wearing what I asked her to wear. Instead of sexy stockings with a decorative garter belt, she’s hiding pantyhose beneath her pencil skirt.

  I growl with anger. Did she not read her instructions at all? This has never happened before.

  Or is she just especially naughty and seeking punishment? Does she get off on misbehaving?

  “I ordered a pet,” I hiss at her. “Not a brat.”

  She casts me a questioning look, as if she has no idea what I am talking about. Her entire body trembles as I move my hands further up her sides, pushing her skirt out of the way and exposing her covered-up center. Not only is she wearing pantyhose, she also didn’t obey my order to go without panties.

  “You think this will keep you safe from me?” I ask, as my hands move between her legs, stroking along the inside of her upper thighs, so close that I can feel the warmth of her pussy.

  A surprised shriek escapes her when I grab her pantyhose by the seam and rip them in one swift motion, exposing the pale flesh of her thighs and black lacey panties underneath. She whimpers and instinctively tries to cover herself, which makes me furious. Once again, I have to push her hands aside, causing her to yelp in protest, while she pushes her legs together to keep me out.