by Linnea May
I didn’t know what else to do, so I went back to bed, hugging myself in the soft sheets that still smell of him. He spent hours with me, possibly. He lay next to me, holding me as I slowly drifted off to sleep, and he stayed for God knows how long after that. He gave me comfort and solace, and I welcomed it.
It sickens me to say it, but I miss him. I really do.
I don’t know if he has some kind of routine, but I feel that it has been long, too long since he last visited me. Since I fell asleep in his arms. Was it day or night when all of that happened? Or early morning? Did he make me come as the sun was about to rise, causing me to sleep through half the day?
Does it matter?
Now the black haired girl is standing inside my room, her dark eyes locked on me, not carrying a tray with her, but something else. I sit up, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders like a protective cape while my eyes wander down to her right hand, where her fingers are closed around a black object.
A phone.
Oh my God. Did she bring me a phone so I could call for help?
But who would I call? What would I even do with it?
Did she dial the number for me? Is there someone at the other end waiting to speak to me?
Someone on the outside?
My eyes go back and forth between hers and the phone in her hand, trying to make sense of a situation that has no predecessor. I don’t dare speak or move, because that has never led me anywhere when it comes to this mysterious girl. She froze, she listened, once she gave a cryptic reply, once she started crying.
She always ran. She always took flight away from me.
Whatever this is about, she’ll have to be the one to get the ball rolling.
Her fingers tighten around the phone in her hand when she steps forward, slowly approaching the bed in deliberate and small steps, careful, as if she was approaching an untamed animal. The look on her face hardens, and I twitch in surprise when she raises her left hand, holding her index finger up in a warning.
“You have to promise,” she whispers, and my heart skips a beat at the sound of her voice. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it, so long since she ever gave me the gift of hope, as short-lived as it may have been.
“You have to promise you won’t tell.”
She comes to a halt right next to the bed, within arm’s reach. We’ve never been this close to each other. It’s the first time I see her face up close, the first time I’m allowed to look directly at her for long enough to see the details adorning her young face. She has a little scar right above her left eye, and her nose is slightly crooked, but it doesn’t hurt her beauty at all. She’s a pretty girl, looking so different to me with her healthy olive skin and those deep black eyes, locking me in place just as much as his gaze does.
“Promise,” she hisses, now pointing at me. “Promise me you won’t tell him.”
“Tell him what?” I utter helplessly.
“What I’m about to show you.”
She holds up the phone, angling it from side to side as if that would tell me anything.
Show me? She wants to show me something? So she didn’t bring me help, but... what?
“What are you going to show me?” I ask. “You’re not going to help me?”
She shakes her head. “This will help you.”
“How?” I probe.
She sighs, throwing a quick look back over her shoulder to the door before she turns back to me.
“Look, we don’t have much time,” she whispers. “Please, just promise me you won’t tell him? You have to!”
“But—”
“Please!”
She steps even closer, her lower lip trembling as distress laces her expression. “Please... Petal. Promise.”
That pause before she addresses me. She looks pained when she calls me by the only name I know, revealing that it really isn’t the one she knows me by. Her anguish is so palpable that it makes me hurt.
“Okay,” I say in a low voice. “I promise I won’t tell him.”
Relief washes over her, visible in the way her features relax and her shoulders sink. She turns the phone toward herself, tapping on the screen a few times before she takes a deep breath.
“It’ll be quick,” she says, regarding me with a serious look as if to check for my attention. “I promise, this will help you. But it needs to stay between us. It really, really has to.”
“Understood.” I reply with the same genuine earnestness she’s displaying right now.
Our eyes latch on to each other, a few seconds of grave silence stretching between us.
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth when she taps on the display one more time before she turns it around for me to see. I lower my gaze, drawn to the device in her hands.
My breath hikes when I see what’s on it.
Then it stops.
Everything stops, losing its meaning as it is swallowed by the dreary clouds of the reality that surrounds me.
That reality is turned upside down, tearing away its black mask as it gets ready to be replaced by a new one.
New. Not less terrifying.
I’m choking, unable to hold back the tears as it hits me.
As it comes back to me.
As I’m faced with something he was so adamant to keep away from me.
This is it.
It all makes sense now.
Thank you for reading!
What did Malia show Petal? What did she learn? Who is Jayson, and who is he to Petal? And what’s the deal with Christopher?
All of these questions will be answered in the 2nd part of Petal’s story, scheduled for release on December 27th, 2018!
Pre-order the book right here and it will be sent to you on release day!
Need something to bridge the time until then? Just turn the page for a little sneak peak to another dark captivity romance: Violent Desires.
Also by Linnea May
FREEBIE
A hot & steamy Billionaire Romance about a mysterious thriller and suspense writer and his muse.
His Secret Muse
Prequel to The Velvet Rooms Series
The Velvet Rooms (Prequel)
Dark Billionaire Romances
Stories of dark seduction, twisted desires and fateful encounters.
The VIOLENT Series (sneak peak attached!)
Silent Daughter
Black Velvet
Blue Velvet
Red Velvet
New Adult Billionaires
New Adult Billionaire Romances with a college twist.
MASTER CLASS
For my Master
Billionaires & Bohemians
Bad Boy Billionaires and their artistic counterparts.
TAMED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
BARRED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
Romantic Suspense
Fast-paced & action filled stories that will keep you at the edge of your seat.
Cards of Love: The Tower
VIOLENT DESIRES
A Dark Billionaire Romance
BLURB
I want real fear. Real submission.
She’s giving me all that -
and taking so much more.
I’m the last son. The one who doesn’t matter. I was never meant to inherit my family’s wealth, but my brother’s gutless betrayal left me as the one holding the bigger fortune.
Now, with money to my name and the looks to match, women see me. They want me.
But they don’t know me.
I savor a very specific kind of leisure pursuit. I buy women to lock them up and make them submit to my will.
But this time, I want the real thing. Real fear, real submission.
Someone special, who doesn’t play a role.
Someone like her.
A luscious lamb, curves all in the right places, and eyes so deep, I’ve lost myself in them before we even exchanged a single word.
She doesn’t know what’s coming. She doesn’t know that she’s g
oing to be mine, my captive, my submissive, my possession.
For as long as I please.
But something is wrong with her. She’s twisted, with a soul just as broken as mine.
She’s not playing by the rules, and that makes me want her that much more.
„I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”
– Sylvia Plath
Prolog
Ruby
I shouldn't enjoy this.
I shouldn't allow pleasure to persuade me to ignore the obvious danger I'm in.
But I can't help it. I‘m dazed, my brain swimming in a pool of clouded bliss as I yield to him.
My wrists are chained to the rack, my vision shrouded by a blindfold, and my core trembling from the aftermath of a staggering climax. I can feel his cum trickling down the inside of my thighs, and he’s still tightly gripping me by the hip. I moan anew when he digs his fingers roughly into my flesh, pulling me closer to him as his hardness parts my lips again.
"No," I breathe out unsteadily, but my protest isn't sincere.
"Yes," he objects.
How can he still be this hard? He just came. We both did, peaking in joint rapture, our moans blending into a blissful symphony of carnal, violent need. He continued to ram into me with an urgency akin to rage. The spasms of my climax brought him over the edge within moments. Yet, here we are, still going, still fucking primally, as if there was no tomorrow.
And maybe, for me, there won't be.
I'm lost in a hazy and confusing mist of agony and thrill, clenching around him as if I was trying to stop him from leaving me. But he isn't going anywhere. He never will. He's here, with me, at all times, barely allowing me time and space to take a breath without his presence. He robbed me of my freedom, peeled away every layer of protection, exposing everything that I am and forcing me to face myself, my true self, the person I've always feared.
And I may love him for that.
But how can you love a man who kidnapped you? A man who seized you, leaving you bereft of everything you used to be?
He forced himself on me, yet never took anything I didn’t freely give up. On the contrary, he was the one who made me wait, the one who tightened the reins and made me realize that I wasn't ready for the things I desired.
We consume each other, feeding off each other's bodies and minds, neglecting the reality outside this room. A room that has been my prison for the past few weeks. I should despise it, but I don’t... I can't. I've lost too much here, but I've gained so much more.
Tears of pain roll steadily down my cheeks when I realize he's drawing another climax from me.
"No, no, no," I whimper desperately, trying to despise the warm throbbing that's spreading throughout my core, numbing my mind and elevating my body to inconceivable levels.
I can't possibly come again. I can't.
But I will.
He leans forward then, dropping one hand from my hips to reach under my belly, surpassing my mound to caress the swollen spot right above my entrance.
"Yes, my toy."
His lips are brushing my ears, his hot breath trickling across my skin in rhythm with his pants in ecstacy.
"Come."
As soon as his command echoes in my ears, another rapture cripples my body.
I shouldn't love this. I shouldn't love him. He's not who I thought he was.
He's fucking dangerous.
I know it now.
I know there's been a horrible mistake.
I know my life is in danger.
And there's absolutely nothing I can do to escape.
Nothing.
Chapter 1
Ruby
Jealousy. I'm used to it.
The way that girl is glaring at me, the way she grinds her teeth as she pins me down through narrowed eyes. I've seen it all before.
She doesn't even turn away like most people would when I catch her staring. She hates me, and she doesn't care if I know it.
We have never met before or exchanged a single word, but this woman across the bar already thinks she knows everything about me. She thinks she knows enough to hate me, despite the apparent similarities existing between us.
We're both overdressed for this dumpy and shady neighborhood bar, and we’re both sitting by ourselves at opposite ends of the counter, surrounded by greasy characters who make no effort to hide that they are undressing us with their eyes. Her make-up isn't quite as extreme as mine, but she still stands out in her professional business suit with her shiny heels and well-coifed hairstyle.
At first glance, we could pass as twins, but we both know we're nothing alike.
Unlike me, she doesn't radiate sex. She's missing the fake lashes, the fake tits, the fake presence that makes me irresistible to most men. And that's exactly why she hates me.
I get it, I really do.
To be honest, I didn't like myself all that much when I looked in the mirror this morning. These days, I'm nothing but a reflection of myself, a reflection of only a single side of me.
A side that I can't come to terms with.
The side of me that is Ruby Red, a high-class escort. A call girl.
I'm paid to please men, filthy rich men, filthy kinky man. Men who not only possess the darkest and most unbridled desires, but also the wealth to pay generous amounts of money to fulfill each and every one of them. Very fucking generous amounts.
I started this job out of desperation, but continued it to fulfill a deep-seated need. Not mere financial need. Actual need. Real need, like the need for air to breathe, water to drink, food to eat, all that is necessary to survive.
I don't know when it happened, but there was a point when something changed. I changed.
Something broke inside of me.
And something else came to life.
And I don't know which one of the two is the most real, because they feel equally dominant.
All I know is that I need this. I need to feel like I’m a possession, a fuck toy. I need to be used, punished; I need to feel the pain, the be rewarded, and see the voracious look on their faces when they take me, knowing they can do almost anything to me without taking my feelings into account.
That's what I signed up for, and my heart races with excitement every time I'm about to meet a new client. I could never openly admit it to anyone, but I love what I'm doing.
But I hate it just as much, because I know that it's wrong to love this. No healthy person would love this lifestyle, no normal person, no sane person.
Well, I guess I'm none of those.
I take another sip of my cheap bourbon and notice the girl across the bar doing the same. It's starting to really fucking bother me that she's still glaring at me. I wish I had the guts to just go over there and tell her off, tell her my story, tell her that she should take a careful look in the mirror before judging others.
But would she even understand what I’m trying to tell her? She's already formed her opinion of me. All she sees is a dumb blonde, with fake lashes, fake nails, fake tits, fake everything, lips painted a bright hooker red that matches my fur coat. I slip off the red fur coat. It’s neither stylish or classy, but I feel naked without it. It’s part of my identity, my signature, and it keeps me protected against the chill of those who judge me, like that cold girl sitting across from me.
Now the mask, it’s something different. The black fabric lying on the counter in front of me should be covering my face. It’s what the client requested because he doesn't want to see my face before he grabs me.
I'm waiting for that to happen.
I'm waiting to be kidnapped.
It has to seem as real as possible.
I knew this new client was special from the get-go, and not only because of his specific demands and the amount of money he was willing to pay. I actually heard about him before he knew about me, completely by accident. I overheard our Madame, Miss Barry confiding in another girl that she was looking for someone who was willing to completely turn herself ov
er to a client for thirty-nine days, to be kidnapped, locked up, and stripped of any rights or a way to negate the contract once she agreed to do it.
I was intrigued. Very intrigued.
I've done a lot of objectionable stuff. I've sold myself to men who tied me up for hours, forcing spellbinding orgasm after orgasm out of me, or denying me the same as a punishment. I've served, pleased, submitted to the darkest desires - but I've always wanted more. With each new client, I hoped for something deeper, so strong and powerful that it could destroy me. I need the challenge. I want to be scared, to be at someone's mercy. I want to give myself, all of myself, to a man without knowing what will eventually happen. I want to know what it feels like to surrender completely.
And what better way to discover this than in a safe setting protected by the agency’s agreement with its clients? This setup is perfect. It seems so close to the real thing, but without the danger of it really, truly being real.
But when I asked Miss Barry to share my file with the client, she rejected me.
"He doesn’t want a redhead, he wants a blonde."
My heart sank. My bright red hair has always been my big selling point. So many men nearly go out of their mind when faced with landing a true redhead. We are rare and special, and we have a reputation for being fiery and hard to tame.
And he won't even consider me because of my hair color?
Fuck that.
I dyed my hair without thinking twice, and when I showed up at the agency, parading my new do in front of Miss Barry, she laughed, but agreed to include my file with the others.
And that was that.
He picked me. I signed a contract for him to kidnap me as the first step in the agreement to become his for thirty-nine days, no matter what. The instructions were specific and strict for the kidnapping: I must cover my face with a black mask every time I leave the house, which I’m obligated to do during the same couple-hour time frame every single day over the next week to give him time to learn my routine. The kidnapping is to appear as real as possible - for both him and me. I know he's been watching me the past few days, and he's going to grab me very soon, but I don’t know exactly when.
