Baby for the Brute_A Fake Boyfriend Romance

by Penelope Bloom

  I pull at my fingertips, shaking my head a little sadly at the memory. “I remember when my dad told me all of this. He was trying to teach me some kind of lesson, I think. All I remember is feeling like I didn’t know my uncle after all. I was so disappointed. But a few years later, I learned my uncle had stopped gambling and started working for the guys he owed money to. He wasn’t ever going to make enough to pay them back, but when I realized he was trying to do what was right anyway, it just…” I laugh, feeling silly. “I still wish he had never gotten himself into the situation, but I could respect how he tried to make it better, even if he never could.”

  Angelo grins. “Subtle.”

  I look up at him. “What?”

  “I get it. You’re saying I should devote my life to making amends or some shit, even if there’s no chance of paying back the debt.” He stands up suddenly, anger clouding his face. “I never said I regretted the things I’ve done. I did what had to be done. I always have.”

  “Hey,” I say, reaching to touch his arm. He lets me. “Angelo,” I say quietly but firmly, waiting until he looks me in the eyes. “I don’t care what you’ve done. Call me jaded, but I grew up with a mafia boss for a father. I’ve heard stories of what goes on. I care about you. I care that you’re the man who put this baby inside me. I care that you’re going to be there for our son or daughter. That’s all.”

  His eyes widen and then narrow, searching my face. “I’ve tortured men,” he says, not looking away from me. Not an ounce of apology in those cold blue eyes.

  I wince a little at the thought of it, but I force myself to stare back. “Okay,” I say.

  “I’ve killed men.”

  I swallow hard. “Okay.”

  “This is all okay to you?” he asks.

  I take in a long breath, pausing until I can find the right words. “No. It’s not. It’s something I’m going to have to live with, to figure out. And if you want to be part of your child’s life then I guess you’re going to have to figure it out, too.”

  For several long seconds, he doesn’t so much as blink. He just stares back at me, eyes icy and jaw flexed. He takes a step closer until he towers over where I sit, hand still rested on his arm.

  “You know,” he says. “You’re sexy as hell when you’re trying to be tough.”

  I bristle at his condescension. “Angelo… I’m not trying to be or do anything. This is serious. This is—”

  He kisses me. His mouth is rough against mine at first, like a command. Stop and give me what I want, it seems to say. Enough talking.

  He grips my hair in a tight fist, pulling my head back and forcing me to stay in place.

  “Angelo,” I gasp between kisses. “We should—”

  He doesn’t let me finish. He lifts me up from the chair, carrying me easily from the poolside chair toward the beach house.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You said you were okay with what I’ve done for my job. Now I need to know if you’re okay with what I do for pleasure.”

  “I think I already have a pretty good idea what you—”

  “I’ve barely given you a taste,” he growls, kicking open the door to his house without bothering to close it behind us as he carries me up the sweeping staircase toward the second floor. He carries me down a hall lined almost entirely with glass, giving an unbroken view of the beach and stars outside. A thousand questions and objections rise up and die before they reach my tongue, silenced by the pounding momentum of him, by the heat and purpose in everything he does.

  He’s not a man to be stopped, to be questioned, or to be opposed. In a dark, dirty corner of my mind, I find myself embellishing the fantasy that he’s taking me without consent, that I haven’t technically agreed to anything tonight. He stole those kisses just like he’s stealing me away to some bedroom where he’s no doubt planning to steal the rest of me, too. I could tell him I want it, because I do, but it’d strip away that part of the thrill that tastes so wrong and so sweet.

  I don’t feel like we resolved any of the issues I raised when we talked. If anything, they feel more unsolved than before we talked, but somehow it feels right to let him do this, to take me away and let our bodies do the talking for a while.

  It’s almost impossible to feel like any problem is worth thinking about around him. Maybe that’s what makes him so addictive. When I’m beside him, I know he’ll take care of me. He’ll impose his will on the world—the universe. He’ll make sure everything works out.

  Maybe that’s why I keep trying to run from him. He and I together puts him on an inevitable collision course with my father, a collision that I don’t think my father would survive. But I believed Angelo when he said he wouldn’t hurt my father. So what would happen?

  He walks me past what looks like a master bedroom and takes me through a door at the end of a small staircase. The room must be at the highest point of the house and is totally encased in glass. But the views outside aren’t what catch my eyes first.

  “Wow,” I say.

  I expect an easy grin or a chuckle form him, but his expression might as well be steel. He takes me toward a leather… thing at the center of the room. It’s in the shape of an “X” and covered in straps, harnesses, hinges, and looks like some sort of torture device.

  “Saint Andrew’s Cross,” he explains. “Now take off your clothes.”

  I raise my eyebrows and let out a nervous chuckle. “You want me to—right here?”

  “Off,” he says.

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “We were just talking and now—”

  He takes off his shirt, flicking his fingers skillfully across the buttons in a few smooth motions before he strips it and drops it to the ground.

  “Okay, you’re starting to make a pretty good argument, but—”

  He silences me with a raised finger and hard eyes. “I tried to be patient. I tried to do the nice thing. I didn’t take you straight to the playroom or to the club. But we can talk for hours and we’ll come to the same conclusion. I’m not a good man, and you deserve better. But if you’re going to be with me, you need to see what kind of appetites I have. What I expect of you.”

  “Angelo, I—”

  “No,” he says. “You deserve better, but that’s my baby in your belly, and unless you tell me to leave you alone, I’m not going anywhere. That means it’s time you learn what I expect. What I demand.”

  He waits long enough that I realize he wants some kind of response. All I can manage is to nod my head. My eyes wander over the dozens of devices scattered throughout the room, all clearly designed for some kind of sexual fantasy fulfillment.

  “And what do you expect?” I ask quietly.

  “Submission. Surrender.”

  “What if you try to convince me that pie is better than cake? Am I just supposed to agree with you?”

  He grins, but there’s something heavy in his expression that keeps it from calming my pounding heart. “You’ll learn when I expect total submission and when you can relax. But you’ll always be accountable. I may choose to punish you for your behavior at breakfast when I get you into the bedroom.”

  “And why would I want to agree to this? Why blindly agree to be punished for disobeying you?”

  “Because you’ll learn to crave my punishment. You’ll learn to beg me for it.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Call me crazy, but I find myself doubting that.”

  “Then my only choice is to give you a demonstration.”

  I try my hardest not to let my eyes fall down his bare chest and abs, but fail miserably. Once they slip from his eyes and travel down his full lips, perfect jawline, and neck, I’m lost. He’s built from smooth skin, defined edges, and hard muscle. I want to explore every inch of him with the tip of my tongue, to feel the taste of his tongue inside my mouth again. At the same time, I want to run away as fast as I can. I want to go back to the cage my father built for me and raise this child by myself, pretending I never knew Angelo or who the father
could be. That would be the safe thing. The smart thing. It’d keep anyone from being hurt. The biggest victim would be my child, who would never know the comfort of having Angelo’s hard eyes soften, even for an instant, on his or her face.

  He moves to the corner of the room and opens a cabinet mounted on the wall. I watch with confusion as he pulls out a long candle, a lighter, and an ice cube from a little bucket within the cabinet. He pops the ice cube in his mouth, walking toward me and lighting the candle.

  I want to ask questions, but it feels like all I can do is wait and watch, too curious and strangely aroused to do anything else.

  He pulls me away from the strange cross-shaped device and lays me on a leather table covered with just as many restraints and belts as the cross. He stands the candle up on a table beside the bench just long enough to tie my wrists and ankles to the bench, pulling until the restraints are so tight that I’m sure I couldn’t escape, even if I wanted to.

  He picks the candle back up and then lifts my dress until my panties are just barely covered.

  “What are you—”

  He quiets me with a glare, holding the candle over my inner thighs close enough that I can faintly feel the heat of the flame. A drop of wax drips down and makes me jump with surprise and pain. Before the heat has had time to calm, he bends and kisses the spot with his mouth, which is wonderfully cold from the ice inside his mouth. He uses his fingers to slide the cooled wax away from my skin and presumably keep it from his mouth, and even manages to make the movement of his fingers a chill-inducing experience.

  He wordlessly repeats the process for agonizingly wonderful minutes, working his way from my toes to my neck, which is my favorite. Eventually, he crunches the remains of the ice between his teeth, and swallows what’s left before leaning down to kiss me with cold lips and an already warming tongue.

  “That’s not fair,” I say after he’s done, laughing a little. “Hot wax and ice are hardly a punishment. You’re just trying to lure me in with the easy stuff.”

  He shrugs, still not giving me the relief of a smile, as if he knows he has me in some kind of spell as long as he remains serious and stern. This version of him is the Angelo I know, but it’s all the hard parts without the funny and relaxing side of him. I would’ve thought that would feel off-putting, but it’s thrilling in all the right ways. It’s Angelo, but not quite Angelo, as if when he’s acting as my Dom he’s a being built for sex and smoldering glares.

  “Okay,” is all he says before blowing out the candle and moving back to the cabinet.

  I expect him to grab some new tool—something more intense like a whip or a paddle, but all he does is put the candle and lighter back. When he comes back, he starts untying my restraints. Regret floods through me. Is it done? Did I say something wrong?

  On one hand, I’m trying to push him away and do what’s right, but whenever I start to feel like it might actually happen, I break into a near-panic at the idea of losing him. I feel insane. Crazy.

  Once he has me untied, he flips me over and pulls my dress up, helping to lift my head as he pulls the dress off me completely. I don’t even try to fight him or argue it. His moves with the candle and ice have overcome all the wiser parts of my mind, and I’m ready to experience whatever he’s planning, even if my stupid mouth can’t stop digging a deeper hole for myself.”

  Whatever is going to happen, I’ve already gone this far tonight. I can worry about the consequences tomorrow.

  14

  Angelo

  She’s lying on her stomach for me now, naked except for her bra and panties. I positioned small pillows to be sure no pressure is on her stomach. She’s not very far along, but I didn’t want to take any risks. Her panties are lacy and white, just like I’d have imagined an innocent little thing like her would be wearing. I palm the inside of her thigh, letting the edge of my hand brush against her pussy. I’m pleased to feel heat radiating from her and a patch of wetness already soaking through the material there. Good girl.

  I take my time admiring her laid out the way she is, just for me. I tried to hold back the part of me that has been screaming to fuck her since before we even left her room where she was essentially being held prisoner. I tried to wait, to give her the night she deserved, to let her get the kind of closure she should have before we take whatever this is any farther.

  I couldn’t wait though.

  All the self-control I’ve prided myself on for my whole life was blasted away like sand, every word from her perfect lips like a gust of sweet-smelling wind that could erode even the most solid foundation of control. I let her wrap herself around me. I drank in the heady smell of her perfume and devoured the ice-cream sweetness of her lips.

  And now I’m here. Now I have her where I want her. How I want her.

  I marvel at the idea that this sweet, sleek creature is carrying my baby inside her belly. The thought makes a protective urge explode within me with irrational force, like unbridled adrenaline. My girl and my baby. Right here. Right in front of me. Why would I ever let them go? Why ever risk something happening to them or coming between us?

  My fingertips dig painfully into my palms but I force myself to relax, to enjoy this. No matter how fiercely I might want to hold her close, I know better than to squeeze too tight or pull to hard on the thin connection between us. She gets enough of that from her father. Something tells me the best way to keep her close it to make sure she knows she still has her freedom if she wishes it.

  Better not let her know I’d follow her to the ends of the earth if she ever got away, that I’d do anything—anything—to make sure she’s mine. No, she doesn’t need to know all that. I’ll let her think she’s free to go and choose as she likes.

  But I will train her as my submissive all the same, and not just because I crave the delicious taste of her submission, because I want to show her the sexual experience she deserves, the kind she can only have if she gives me everything. Everything.

  My cock strains against my pants, so hard it fucking hurts. Not yet, though. Not nearly yet.

  I run the palm of my hand down from the base of her neck to the small of her back, pausing just briefly before I run my touch over the swell of her wonderfully smooth and supple ass. I don’t stop there, though. I’ve never been a man to fixate all my sexual desire on something as limited as the ass or the breasts. I’m equally fascinated by every part of her from the adorably small earlobes she has to her elegant ankles. She might as well be a commissioned painting I ordered, because every last detail, down to the smallest part, is precisely how I would’ve placed it, exactly where I would’ve ordered it.

  “You’re my masterpiece,” I say.

  She turns her head, looking beautiful with flushed red cheeks and lips still slightly swollen and red from my kisses. “Yours, am I?”

  “Completely,” I say.

  She fixes her big eyes on me but says nothing. She only moans softly and arches her back, testing the strength of the restraints from time to time as I continue exploring her body, piece by piece.

  I feel my restraint being chipped away every moment her eyes linger on me. Every second of exposure to her pale, perfect body is a notch in the armor I’ve put up. I need to show her what it means to be a submissive. What it really means. I’ve given her the soft introductions, but it’s time for something a little more real.

  I go to the cabinet where I keep several of my toys and pull out a rabbit-skin flogger. The leather handle has a few dozen thin strips of the supple leather dangling from the end. I also grab a deer-skin flogger, which is a step up from rabbit in intensity, but still won’t be too much of a shock for her. I’ve never been turned on by severe pain, and feel that experienced hands can do plenty with the promise of pain, or at most, a slight enough sting to remind the body where the line between pleasure and pain falls.

  When I walk back toward her, I see she’s watching me with nervous eyes.

  “Easy,” I say, stroking her back. “You will enjoy this. Tr
ust me.”

  She nods tightly, but still looks frightened.

  “Anabella,” I say firmly. “I need to know that you trust me. Give me your trust, and I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted. I need to know I have it.”

  She sucks in a breath through her nose and then nods again. “I trust you,” she whispers.

  “And remember, once we begin, the only word with any real power here is ‘red.’ Say the word, and it all stops. Nothing else matters. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Good. Good.” I let the tips of the rabbit-skin leather dangle between her shoulder blades and drag them slowly down her spine in a way I know will send chills echoing across her body. “You should know the purpose of all this,” I say softly, knowing the rough texture of my voice will lull her into a sensual kind of trance, but also needing her to understand. It’s not enough that she knows it feels good. Understanding why it feels good will enhance it even more, it will help her see how she should relax her thoughts and let go. “Our bodies have learned to adapt to most sensations if they go on long enough, it’s why you don’t notice your own house smells a certain way until you leave and come back.”

  I flip the flogger around in my hand and begin rubbing the handle, which is about as long as my hand and as wide as two fingers, between her legs. She lets out a beautiful whimpering sound and her body tightens before it relaxes again.

  “There are some sensations we don’t get used to. Pain, for instance, never seems to dull until the injury is healed. It’s why even a simple headache can seem so debilitating. Our body never shuts down those pain receptors until the problem is fixed,” I say, angling the flogger so that the first inch of it’s length presses against her entrance. I feel my body tense with nearly uncontrollable sexual need when I feel the slight resistance of her pussy give way and allow the flogger to slide inside her.