Addicted to the Dark

by Sophia Reed

  Addicted to the Dark

  A Dark Billionaire Romance

  Sophia Reed

  Contents

  Join The Tribe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  A Preview of Taken by the Billionaire

  Annie

  Cole

  © Copyright 2019 - All rights reserved.

  It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

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  Synopsis

  Annie/Lily

  She's an undercover narcotics police officer who's gotten in over her head and become addicted.

  * * *

  Cole St. Martin

  He's a billionaire, CEO of a pharmaceutical company doing work with Rain Forest naturals to combat addictions. Just not the addiction that drives him into the realms of trading punishment for pleasure.

  * * *

  When their paths cross, something is set in motion for which neither may be prepared.

  1

  The first indication that the buy had gone bad was when the shooting started.

  "Shit! Shit! Shit! Down!" Jesse yelled, and threw me to the concrete, following me down. We were surrounded by a ring of Asian dealers, all tattooed and over the top slick and mean. They made the motorcycle gang I'd infiltrated, the ones I was at the buy with, look like pussycats and scared the crap out of me.

  Jesse throwing himself on me was just weird. He was the leader of the gang, tattooed and bearded and angry pretty much 24/7. He scared me, too. That wasn't a bad thing.

  Because if you're not scared when you're working undercover, you're asking to die undercover and sometimes when that happens, nobody ever finds you.

  Sometimes when that happens, it’s just assumed you went rogue. Police officer drawn into the other side. Was it the drugs? The money? The machismo (or the female equivalent)?

  They were using automatic weapons, AR-15s or something. The noise was tremendous. There was the roar of the Asians’ Mitsubishis starting up to get the fuck out of the warehouse. There was the noise of the bikes as the couriers saddled up to ride and the bodyguards started firing back.

  There was the sound of a helicopter overhead, which had to mean the police were here, but whoever was firing into the warehouse, they weren't cops.

  There were going to be blue deaths and that made me sick. Colleagues, gunned down, maybe Feds, people I didn't know, but we were on the same side.

  They wouldn't know that if I got taken down. I didn't look like a cop. I looked like Jesse's girlfriend.

  I put my head down and stayed still. I wasn't armed because Jesse's girl didn't ride armed. There were eleven men that had come to the meet, and six of them were soldiers. Four of them were couriers who would get the China white out to wherever it was meant to go. Their system worked better than most retail operations.

  Then there was Jesse.

  And me.

  "Lily. Move behind those plates." Jesse wrenched my head up and pointed it to the far corner of the mostly empty warehouse where steel plates stood waiting for god knew what purpose. I nodded, best I could with him holding my head, and the instant he released me, I ran, crouched and low, the way any sane person would when there's gunfire.

  The way a cop is trained to move.

  There was too much going down for him to wonder how I knew to move like that. Anyway, my cover story wasn't that I was some sweet choir girl.

  Where I ended up I had zero view of anything. All I could do was hear the clusterfuck going on beyond the plates. Law enforcement, Jesse's riders, the Asians we were trading with, and whoever had come in on their heels – or with them, no honor among bad guys – and everyone shooting and the helicopter coming down, guns firing. I wasn't sure anymore if the helicopter was law enforcement or one of the other parties. Or another interested party.

  Damn, damn, damn! I'd been with Jesse every step of the way, sitting behind him, hands on his shoulders, watching, listening. The few times anyone asked my opinion, I gave it, always with reluctance. Yeah, I know the right way to do a buy of China white. I've studied past busts. But I didn't offer much in the way of info.

  Didn't want to stick out that much.

  What Jesse and the boys put together should have worked. The info I'd gotten out should have resulted in a clean bust by Seattle PD narcotics unit.

  This cluster going on was a slip of somebody's tongue, maybe not even on Jesse's men. The Asians might have been compromised. The Asians might be the ones doing the compromising.

  There were going to be blue deaths.

  Fuck, this wasn't supposed to happen.

  I started making my way toward the one exit I could see, protected by cement and steel stairs on the edge of the warehouse. If I got caught in the crossfire, the first thing my fiancé Ben would know about my deep cover assignment was that it had gone tits up.

  Only Jesse was there. His bike was inside. He found me, didn't bother with anything like Told you to stay put over here or Keep down or any other stupidity. Jesse's a man of very few words.

  He grabbed my wrist, pulled me. I stumbled after him. In the racket of shooting and screaming, engines and rotors, no one was going to hear us.

  He pulled me after him, turned his bike, and I got on behind him. Everything and everyone was up at the front of the warehouse, far as we could tell. He made a two-pronged finger jabbing motion at his eyes and mine – What do you see?

  I made a fist, then pointed west. I thought everybody was there, too.

  On the bike behind him, I put on my helmet. Meant to keep roads from breaking heads and cops from stopping bikers. I didn't know what it would do for automatic weapon fire. We were wearing vests. We were all wearing vests. That at least was a comfort.

  Jesse put his fingers between his teeth and gave a shrill whistle, enough to cut through the noise. His men instantly started backing up, still firing. I saw we'd lost Carl and maybe someone else, and that the Asians, confused, or pretending to be, were mostly firing at the groups outside the structure.

  They watched us and then those who weren't already in cars ran for their Eclipses. Still firing. The longer we all kept firing, the less anybody would expect us to head out of the warehouse.

  He waited until the very last soldier threw his leg over his bike and then Jesse gunned the motor. The tires squealed on the concrete. With the rest of the still-living men behind us, we roared out of the warehouse.

  2

  Jesse pounded into me. Rage sex. He was taking out his frustrations over a buy gone bad and a lot of money gone down the drain.

  There wasn't a lot of privacy in the clubhouse but I'd gotten used to that. Since I could still hear the men outside playing cards, tuning up their bikes, which were, after all, in the kitchen, and watching porn or even lower forms of entertainment like Ridiculousness,
I figured they could hear us, too.

  His cock was hard as steel, long and thick and brutal. He wielded the thing like a club and I tried never to acknowledge, at least to myself, how in thrall of it I was.

  When I first found my way to him, the story of being the girlfriend in a connected gang, Rodrigo's Lily, I'd winced every time he laid a hand on me. Rodrigo was dead and the real Lily was in solitary for the run of this operation, and as far as everybody at her prison knew, she had been paroled. So now I was her.

  And back in our apartment in Portland, my fiancé, Mark Tomlin, had no idea what I was doing in my undercover assignment, only that I was going to be gone for several months and there'd only be the rarest of contacts, that he shouldn't worry.

  That he shouldn't wait. But I hadn't quite the courage, or the cruelty, to say that to him. Mark was an intern at a Portland Hospital, finishing up his med school years, getting ready to do some course of specialization. He kept telling me it was fine, just fine for me to be a regular patrol officer, even to ride a desk because that was safer and he saw what happened to police officers because he was one of the guys who patched them up during his rotations in emergency. We could live on my patrol salary and he could graduate and –

  And there were all his student loans, I'd remind him, it wasn't like he'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Or a trust fund. Or anything he could trade in to pay for all that schooling.

  Besides, I was born to a father who had the blue uniform in his blood. I was raised by a policeman and I had been bound and determined to become one myself, even as all my sisters went off and got married. All three of them, the three who formed their own little dolly and tea party cliques and left me out because I just didn't fit and they just didn't understand.

  I looked like them – small, with black curls and olive skin and big boobs over slim hips, wiry muscles and washboard abs in my case – but only on the outside. On the inside we were different species.

  We all looked younger than our ages, too. I looked like a teenager but I was twenty-four. I was a cop. I'd already shot a man in the line of duty.

  My sisters didn't understand me.

  My fiancé thought I was looking for a way out of what I did for a living, that of course I'd want to stay home, even though he himself loved his chosen profession.

  And Jesse? Yeah, I wasn't going to think about that.

  Because maybe the man pounding into me with the finesse of a pile driver, the man who had slugged the mattress beside my head, and whose eyes burned with fury at the cosmic fuck up of a buy gone bad – maybe he understood me better than anybody else in my life.

  Did that just suck? Or was it terrifying, too? Did the very terror of it make my heart beat faster and make me wetter for him?

  "Wrap your legs around me," Jesse growled in my ear.

  I didn't hesitate. He'd hit me, once, when I didn't move when he told me to because I was so close to crashing over the edge into orgasm. Hauled off and hit me so hard I saw stars and had to eat on the other side of my mouth for a week.

  Now he grabbed my wrists and pulled my arms high over my head, pinning them down so hard my hands went instantly to sleep. I couldn't have freed myself if I'd tried. I didn't. I cocked my hips at an angle, letting his cock plunge farther and farther in between my legs, and locked my ankles onto the small of his back.

  No objection. The friction changed on my clit and I could feel all the better the orgasm building low in my belly, like an itch, a tingle, a tightening of muscles all over my body as blood rushed down there. I bit my lip, let my head fall back the way he liked, and felt his teeth graze my neck like he was some kind of fucking vampire.

  He rocked into me, rhythmic but with no particular grace. His cock started to throb, pulsing as he got ready to come deep inside me.

  It's all it took to send me over the edge, even as his fist pounded the pillow again, close enough to stir my hair. Both of his hands came away from my arms. Even with my partial freedom, all I did was tighten my grip on him with my legs.

  "Jesse!" Everything pulsed inside me, a heartbeat speeding, circling around and around as the pleasure surged through me. My nails clawed at his back and that was the last straw for him. He came hard, shooting deep into me, his head thrown back, his back arched. He said, "Fuck," long and drawn out, the word only dying away when his head dropped forward.

  His eyes met mine. No way it was love, but there was acceptance there. I wasn't some nameless motorcycle bitch, not some whore he'd paid. Jesse saw me and somewhere, without realizing it, he understood that something in us marched to the same unusual drummer.

  Undercover cops and motorcycle bitches both have mothers and fathers. Mark didn't have my cell number but lots of dubious contacts did. All the people who called me had numbers that traced back just to them. I wasn't going to get killed over some administrative snafu. But my parents? My name wasn't really Lily, it was Annie. But if someone answered my phone, the fact that it was my parents calling and really was...? I thought that was all right and my dad's health had been so shaky for the last few years, taking a phone that went to the fictional version of Lily and letting them have that number was all right.

  Dad was a cop. Retired now, but he understood. He rode my mother hard about the phone number. He didn't know I was undercover, not the whole story – not only because no one did, but because I didn't think he could handle everything that went with this assignment. But his knowing meant mom could have the number at the same time none of my sisters did.

  At the same time no one asked about Mark not having it. Mark didn't have a way to get hold of me short of calling my father and asking him to get a message to me. I didn't think he'd go to that extent unless it was a pretty serious emergency.

  I also didn't think too hard about not giving my fiancé a way to contact me directly. Or the fact that I didn't trust him to use it responsibly. Mark had an underlying core of romance that meant he just might underestimate the danger he'd put me in if he decided he just had to talk to you, Annie and that was the emergency.

  So when my mother called, I knew it was bad.

  "Annie?"

  Shit. But Jesse was pumping iron in the living room and the others didn't mess much with me. That was a good thing about being Jesse's. There were other women around, some of them just girls, but they were usually stoned and there for the drugs. Emily, who I'd actually liked, had been a criminal justice major before she dropped out of college and had OD'd a couple weeks back. Her old man dumped her at a hospital in the suburbs and that was that. The word ‘relationship’ took a beating around here. Besides that, this was the kind of place where people used different names and nobody asked why Annie became Lily, especially when there really was a Lily and the person asking for Annie was a parent.

  "Mom? What's wrong?" I went from the kitchen onto the back porch. Rain slanted past the overhang onto the dead grass of the backyard.

  There were tears in her voice but she wasn't actively crying. Crap. I'd hoped when dad went I wouldn't be on this assignment any longer.

  "Your father had a heart attack last night." Translation: You should already be here, all your sisters are.

  "What hospital is he at?" Translation: Don't you dare tell me he's already gone.

  Miraculously, she flat out told me where he was, and without hysterics or histrionics. I'd have to put up with Sarah, Melanie and Gina and whichever of their children they couldn't leave behind, but I hadn't seen my sisters in forever. Maybe it would be all right.

  I went in and found Jesse and told him I had to go. I lied about where my father was and didn't bother calling once I was out the door to set up a cover, someone in the hospital somewhere else who would answer to another name to keep my cover secure. No real need. If Jesse let me go, he wasn't going to check up on me that way.

  3

  "Pumpkin? You didn't have to come."

  "Yes, I did." I had my dad to myself briefly, my sisters off in the cafeteria talking about whatever they talked
about when they got together. They were scattered around the west, in Sacramento, in Reno, in Portland. Portland meant Sarah was only three hours away from me and I still didn't see her. She didn't even know I worked narcs or that I was undercover at all, and still I didn't fit into her white picket fence daydreams.

  Dad looked tired more than anything else. He's fifty-nine and a retired police officer, a detective who raised four girls. Maybe he has a right to look tired.

  Our conversation was stilted. How could it be anything else? There were doctors coming in and going out because he was in cardiac ICU still and there was my mother coming in three times during the fifteen minutes I was given and dad sending her away. There were nurses. There was the hushed murmur because there were other patients.

  There was my own fear that I was drowning. Just being out of the clubhouse, I was already itching to get info on yesterday's fucked up buy, both needing to know and dreading the info on the deaths.

  "How bad is it?" I asked and saw his face relax.

  "You're the only one who asks me that." He reached up and smoothed my hair back.

  I snorted. "Of course I am." Didn't have to say anything more than that. He knew mom was a throwback somehow to a fifties wife and my sisters were – not that bad. They just weren't us. Him and me. He was the reason I kept going when the job required being so deep cover I was fucking the gang leader. He'd had to do some dodgy things in his career too. He wouldn't understand that aspect where I was concerned – I was still his daughter – but he understood more than anyone else.