VIOLENT HEARTS: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Linnea May

  "Glad you're enjoying your food," I comment, mostly to see if my remark causes her to break.

  She's still chewing when she looks up at me, hurrying to swallow before coming up with a reply.

  "It's fantastic," she says. "I give you that, you know good food."

  I huff. "How generous."

  She casts me a cocky smirk, an expression that’s usually part of my repertoire. This girl will be a piece of work, that's for sure. I can't wait to bend her over my knee and hear her yelp in pain when my belt leaves its mark on her sweet perky ass.

  If she agrees to all of this. I need to remind myself that nothing is official yet. She needs to sign the contract first and become mine completely, ready to submit to my will and ready to put her own life on hold for as long as I need her.

  As soon as the dessert plates are cleared from our table, she looks up at me with expectant eyes.

  "Would you like an espresso?" I ask.

  "No," she says. "I want to talk business."

  "Hold your horses, young lady."

  I cast her a warning look, a gesture that's lost with her.

  Belinda said it would be hard to find a girl who is as cold-hearted and calculating as me, but that was before this one appeared. Ann doesn't strike me as a dreamer, a girl with a soft heart and a strong yearning for romance, the desire to find her one and only, and live her own fairy tale ending with a prince riding up on his white horse. It definitely wouldn't hurt if she had at least some of those qualities, though.

  I order an espresso for the both of us, even though she indicated she didn't want one. I hate drinking by myself, and I'm sure she'll take hers with a smile once it's placed in front of her.

  She shoots me an angry glare when the espresso is brought to our table. She probably resents me for disregarding her comment about not wanting one. I don't care. We're playing by my rules, and the sooner she understands this, the better.

  "You've seen my inquiry," I begin, making sure to capture her attention by intensely fixating on her eyes. "I need someone to play the role of my girlfriend in public. I'm about to announce my candidacy to run for Congress, and I need someone to make me look good at official events, someone who can convince people that I'm loyal, trustworthy, and good-natured."

  "Which you are not," she responds. Her tone sounds so unapologetic that I don't trust my ears for a moment.

  I choose to ignore her remark.

  "Could you handle this level of responsibility? This job requires a lot more than being my personal slut. I'd also expect you to be able to hold a conversation, speak about public affairs - in a non-offensive way, of course - and make people believe that you truly are my life partner, and have been for a few years. I'm not in the public eye yet, and haven’t been, so it'd be easy to make this relationship seem more established and serious than it actually is."

  She looks at me, her face relaxed and without expression. It's hard to know what she's thinking.

  "If you're not simply looking for someone to keep your bed warm, why did you go to the agency?"

  Unlike most other girls, she has no trouble withstanding my unyielding gaze. I can't intimidate her with a simple look, at least not yet. Her submission will have to be earned, and it might be the hardest one I’ve had to earn yet.

  I can't fucking wait.

  "Because I need that partner to be more than a symbol for my legitimacy," I tell her. "I've been a client at this agency for long enough to know they provide quality girls who are mentally and physically stable enough to handle what I demand from them."

  She narrows her eyes.

  "Submission," she says, in a voice so low that I can barely hear her. "Your inquiry said that you want a girl who will submit to your will. What does that mean?"

  Our eyes lock on each other again, testing, searching for something, but I'm not sure if we're looking for the same thing.

  "You're a smart girl," I say. "I'm sure you know what that means."

  She shrugs. "Not entirely, to be honest. I do have a vague idea, but I don't know how close it comes to reality."

  There’s that word again. "Why don't you share that vague idea with me, and I'll let you know how close it is to my reality?"

  She sighs, coming dangerously close to rolling her eyes at me again, but she remembers the threatened repercussions just in time and refrains from doing it. Good girl.

  "You're the paying client," she says. "Why don't you just tell me what you expect of me, and I'll tell you whether I'm in or not. I know what you're willing to pay, so I don't expect this to be easy, but there may be certain things I wouldn't-"

  "I'd fuck you," I blurt out, interrupting her little monologue. "Let's just get that out of the way. I want to fuck you, hard. I want to do more than that to you, though. I want you to obey, to do what I tell you to do without talking back, and if you don't listen to me and do as I say, you'll get punished. You'll be spanked, tied up, choked, have your hair pulled-"

  "Okay, okay," she interrupts, raising her hands up in a sign indicating for me to stop. "I get the idea."

  She's trying to act all nonchalant, completely unfazed by my words, my promises, my threats.

  But I can tell what it does to her.

  The color of her cheeks has changed again, her breathing accelerated, her dainty fingers are shaking when she lowers her hands, and for the first time ever, she's evading eye contact.

  It's just a tiny crack, but she's already breaking before my eyes. She's shivering, but glowing with the heat of anticipation.

  "You'd love it, wouldn't you?"

  Her eyes dart up to mine, the question lingering between us. She's not going to reply because she doesn't want to admit it. She can't say yes, but she also refuses to lie to me.

  "What would that look like?" she asks, batting her eyelashes nervously, as if she could chase the excitement away like that. "In everyday life, I mean. I would have to live with you, right? For more than a year. What would my life look like? Would I have to give up my free will completely, not be able to make a single decision for myself?"

  "You're not going to be my house slave," I say. "And I have no interest in having you at my feet all day, every day. You'll get your free time, and I don't care what you do in that time, as long as it doesn't hurt my agenda. But yes, you would have to let go of most of your freedom. And your job."

  Her eyes widen and she takes a deep breath in shock. "I wouldn't be allowed to write?"

  "Obviously, no. You'd have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and that agreement would also forbid you from publishing any articles while you're living with me."

  "Even if I'm not writing about you?"

  "Even then. You're no longer a reporter while living under my roof."

  She bites her lower lip as she looks at me, and I can tell she’s contemplating whether she should withdraw from the whole thing. Is this a deal breaker for her? Or did she think she could be my personal campaign reporter?

  "You said I can't publish," she says after a while, lowering her eyes solemnly before she looks back up to face me. "But can I write?"

  Her question confuses me. Until now, I made no distinction between the two.

  "I don't fucking care what you do in your spare time," I tell her. "I just don't want anything out there. You can't be a journalist while we’re together."

  "You mentioned that," she retorts, obviously annoyed. "You said I'm no longer a reporter. So what will I be?"

  She locks me down with her bright eyes, intelligence sparkling behind the color of the ocean that's distinct to her. She knows the answer to my question, but she wants me to say it out loud. She wants me to seal the deal by giving voice to something we both know already.

  So I do.

  "It's simple, Miss Ann Porter. You'll be mine."

  Chapter 10

  Ann

  You'll be mine.

  The words echo in my head as he leads me out of the restaurant. His hand is placed at the small of my back, as if he already owns me. I haven
't said yes yet, but instead I asked for a little more time to consider his offer. He didn't look happy about that, but he also didn't argue with me. He mentioned that he has to get back to work and offered to drive me wherever I needed to go.

  Of course, I tried to fight him. I'm perfectly capable of getting around by myself, and I don't have a problem with using public transportation. The look on his face when I mentioned that instantly told me what he thought of me taking a bus home. He's so bourgeois, so out of touch with the real world.

  I stop on the sidewalk as soon as we've left the restaurant, distancing myself from his enticing and unsettling touch to turn around and face him.

  "I really am fine," I insist again. "Please don't bother with-"

  "This is not up to you," he interrupts, his dark gaze holding me down. "I'll see you home."

  I sigh and roll my eyes at him, remembering too late how much he hates that and how he warned me not to ever do it again.

  He casts me a look that suggests he noticed and disapproves of my response.

  "Will it always be like this?" I ask him. "I can't be myself anymore when I'm with you, because I have to fear... punishment?"

  He looks at me for a moment, pondering. I don't know what's going on in his head, but the way he scans our surroundings unnerves me. It's as if he's checking whether we're alone, whether anyone can see us. We're out on the street, but there aren't many pedestrians around, and not even any cars. This is not one of the busier areas of the city.

  What is he thinking? Is he planning to do something... to punish me?

  And why does that excite me?

  Before I can come to a conclusion, he grabs me by the arm and pulls me closer, so close that I'm pressed against his body and met with his warm breath as he leans in to speak to me.

  "Listen, baby girl," he hisses in a whisper that's barely loud enough for me to hear, but so vicious that it sends goosebumps along my spine. "My hands are tied here because you haven't fucking agreed to anything yet, but if it was up to me, I'd bend you over my knees right here and now, spank the hell out of that tight ass of yours, and then fuck you into oblivion because that's what you deserve, that's what you need. That's who you're going be when you're with me. You're going to be my slut, and you're going to fucking love it."

  My cheeks are burning and my brain yells for me to push him away, to free myself from his grip and get the fuck away from him.

  Problem is, my brain is not the part of my body that's in control right now.

  I don't understand it, but the erotic feeling consuming my senses is undeniable. Desire, heat, nerves throbbing in places where they shouldn't be – at least not when I'm out on the street like this, not when I'm talked to like this, handled as if I was nothing but a doll, his property, a toy.

  You'll be mine, he said.

  I've never been so turned on by words alone. Words coming from a man like him.

  He's undeniably gorgeous, hot as hell, a rugged character with a matching voice, wrapped in an impeccable exterior. I could stare at his face forever, watch every furrow as his expression changes from serious to amused, from annoyed to relaxed.

  And his voice. That fucking sexy voice.

  He's still holding me in that super-tight grip, pulling me close to him, our bodies pressed against each other, and our faces are so close, it’s almost as if we were about to kiss. And I swear, if he opens that mouth again and speaks to me like he did just a moment ago, I'd no longer be able to control myself. I would melt in his arms, do whatever he wants me to do, take what I want from him, and I wouldn't even think about arguing with myself.

  But he doesn't say another word. It's as if he just needed the time to observe me, to study the effect his words had on me, and now that he has seen everything he needed to see, he lets go of me.

  I can't suppress a feeble sigh of disappointment.

  Of course, he notices and smiles smugly.

  "Just say fucking yes," he says in a calm, deep voice. "And we can do something about this."

  "Do something about what?" I snap.

  He steps closer, and before I can evade his touch, he has his arm wrapped around me and pulls me even closer than before. He lifts me up a little, so that my chest is pressed against his and I blush at the realization that my boobs are squeezed against the hard outline of his muscular upper body. Even with all the fabric between us, I can tell that he must be built like a Greek god.

  "Do something about this," he whispers into my ear. "Your heart is rapping against my chest like a hammer, little girl, and I bet your pussy is drooling all over those good girl panties of yours."

  "Shut up!" I hiss, closing my eyes in shame.

  He's right. He's fucking right about everything.

  I hate that.

  He chuckles and tightens his embrace, forcing me to look up at him with the other hand by placing his finger below my chin and tilting my face up to his level. He's so close, the dark of his eyes seething and his lips almost touching mine.

  "I wish you had worn a dress for me," he continues. "I could just lift it up and check for myself. I bet my fingers would be soaked if I touched you there, between your legs, parting your hot lips and letting a finger slide-"

  "For fuck's sake, will you shut up-"

  "Letting a finger slide right between them, maybe two, maybe three? Feel your wet cunt clench around me as I fuck you with my fingers, stretching you while you yearn for my cock. And use my thumb to play with your pink clit, spreading your naughty juices all over it. I bet it's hard right now, swollen and begging to be touched. Isn't it, little girl?"

  I bite my lips. "You're filthy."

  "And you fucking love it."

  Before I can protest, he silences me with a kiss, his lips meeting mine with urgency, before his tongue is invading my mouth with unyielding force. There's no way to resist. I can't fight him any longer.

  And I don't want to.

  Chapter 11

  Jared

  The drive to my place takes less than fifteen minutes, but those minutes stretch into eternity when there's a new seduction sitting next to me, a new toy to be played with.

  I know this is wrong. I shouldn't take her with me before the damn paperwork is complete, but I can't help it.

  Her eyes are dazed when our gazes meet as I’m helping her out of the car, her chest heaving with treacherous breaths and her legs shaking when I lead her up to my penthouse.

  "This doesn't mean anything."

  It's the first thing she said after I stole that first kiss from her, and she's repeated it several times since then.

  When she willingly followed as I pulled her into my car… "This doesn't mean anything."

  When my hand traveled up under her blouse to cup her firm tits… "This doesn't mean anything."

  When she moaned as I squeezed her hardened nipple… "This doesn't mean anything."

  I can tell that she's about to say it again when we enter the elevator and I pull her close to me, eager to taste and devour every single inch of her body. I block her words with a kiss when she's about to part her lips to speak. Her soft moans accompany our frenzied kiss as her body squirms against mine. She wants this, she really wants this. She's not playing an act, not trying to win me over, she's not doing anything like the shit I've become used to from other women.

  On the contrary, she's trying to fight against her strong urges plaguing her soul because her conscious brain has doubts about this, even though her body screams at her in a different language.

  "From now on, you'll only speak when I give you permission," I instruct upon ending our kiss when the elevator doors open directly into the entrance area of my penthouse.

  Her eyes are glued to mine. I notice they’re underlined with questions as she processes my words.

  "Do you understand?" I ask her.

  She nods. "I think so."

  Wrong answer.

  I shake my head and brusquely grab onto her upper arm, shoving her forcefully into my home. She yelps in pro
test, stumbling alongside me as I march us past the open staircase leading up to the bedrooms and my office on the upper floor and into my living room.

  Her eyes fly around the hall-like room, taking in the vastness of it: the designer furniture to her left, the living room ceiling that’s open to the upper floors, and the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the entire wall in front of us. The panoramic view of the cityscape is admittedly breathtaking, but I don't give her time to enjoy it. She'll have plenty of opportunity if she agrees to stay with me.

  Right now, though, she needs to be taught a lesson.

  I let go of her arm when we reach the middle of the room.

  "Look at me," I growl.

  She drags her attention away from the window and turns to me, rubbing her upper arm and casting me a reproachful look.

  "Was this really necess-"

  "Two things," I say, rudely cutting her off. "You'll address me as Sir from now on. Always. And when I tell you to do something, I want you to reply nothing but 'Yes, Sir'. Do you understand?"

  She scrutinizes me as if I'd just told her to strip naked in front of a jeering crowd. Mortified, appalled, and stunned. Our eyes lock. She’s standing in front of me, rigid as a statue, and it’s obvious that she’s trying to figure out how she's supposed to handle the situation. I've never witnessed a woman struggling with how to react to my demands the way she is right now, but I have a pretty good idea of what's going on inside that pretty head of hers.

  "Do you understand?" I repeat, urging her to speak.

  She nods. "Yes... Sir."

  Frankly, I’m rather surprised that she responded to my command so quickly. I expected her to protest, to talk back to me, offended by my request. Instead, she has given me permission to take the next step.

  She's shaking. I approach her, tenderly placing my right hand on her cheek as I lean in close to her face. The wild struggle still tormenting her remains evident in her sea-colored eyes.