Pr*ck Charming

by Madison Faye

  Pretty Dirty

  My pretty little bad girl. My dirty little secret.

  Pretty. Dirty.

  And all mine.

  Heard the one about the filthy rich mob lawyer and the cam girl with the broken past?

  Yeah, me neither. But you’re about to.

  I wasn’t looking for temptation, but I sure as shit found it. Young, fiery, dirty. The ink and the piercings. Those scars, just like mine. One look at Zoe, and I’m hooked. Addicted. Obsessed.

  So I bought her. Fifty grand for three weeks, and she’s all mine. She needs saving, but I’m no prince charming. And helping her means crossing my employers – the dangerous Moretti crime family that runs Las Vegas.

  But I can’t resist that sweet little body that’s begging to be claimed, or the soft, sultry way she says “harder” and “deeper”. I can’t tell her no when all I want to tell her is to get on her fucking knees and say yes sir.

  So I’ll keep her. I’ll protect her. She thinks she’s broken. I know she’s perfect. And I’ll stop at nothing to keep her safe.

  I found her by accident. I’m keeping her by choice.

  *Please note that while a connected storyline, each of the Dirty Bad Things books are completely standalone stories centered around one couple, with no cliffhangers or spoilers.

  Dirty, filthy, and oh-so-sweet, with an utterly obsessed alpha hero, explosive insta-love, and enough kindle-melting steam to make you sweat. Get ready to get wrong in the right kind of way. HEA with NO CHEATING!

  Chapter 1

  Gray

  The computer chimes, and my dick hardens.

  She’s on. Finally.

  I can feel my muscles tensing, my jaw tightening as I drop the rest of my paperwork onto my kitchen counter. I cross the big loft space, the neon lights of Vegas glittering through the half-shut blinds as I move towards my desk and the large computer monitor set up there. I sit, my blood turning to fire in my veins and my cock throbbing rock hard between my thighs. I grab a remote off the desk and click it fiercely, and the blinds shut the rest of the way automatically.

  I wake up my computer, the growl holding in my throat as the screen turns on. The website’s already loaded and ready, and her camera’s already on, though it’s still of her empty bedroom. But she’ll be on soon.

  Soon.

  My cock aches in my pants, and I reach for my zipper before I stop suddenly and shut my eyes tight.

  What in the fuck is wrong with me.

  It’s not the first time I’ve asked it of myself. Hell, it’s not the tenth time I’ve asked it, or the fucking hundredth at that. And I still don’t have any answers for myself except the obvious: what’s wrong with me is her. What’s wrong with me is young, blonde, covered in the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen, and about to appear on camera for me — for me, and only me. She’s about to smile that wicked smile that triggers all sorts of wrong in the right kind of ways in me. She’s about to show me every inch of her inked-up, pierced, gorgeous skin — those cute little tits with the soft pink nipples, and her tight, firm ass.

  She’s going to spread her pretty little legs and show me how wet she is. She’s going to use two fingers to spread her soft pink pussy lips apart and show me how fucking tight that gorgeous little cunt is.

  And she’s all mine.

  My obsession. My lust.

  My fucking problem.

  It’s been like this for the last two weeks, and I can’t fucking stop. I’ve been ignoring friends. I’ve been ignoring work, and in my business and with the people I do business with, that can be dangerous. Fatally so.

  I’m not going out. I’m thirty-two years old, single, and I’m in peak physical condition from years in the Marines. I’m rich — not Buffet or Gates rich, but I’m not going to go hungry anytime soon. I live alone in two-and-a-half-thousand square feet of insanely expensive real estate, twelve stories above the Las Vegas Strip.

  The point is, going out is exactly what I should be doing. I’m not conceited, but I recognize how women look at me. And going out, finding those women, and bringing them up to my condo to fuck them with a view of the Bellagio and Caesars Palace is what I should be doing. And yet, that hasn’t appealed to me in longer than I can remember. Instead, here I am — sitting in the dark, waiting for her to come on screen so I can tell her exactly what I want her to do.

  Blonde, blue eyes, soft, delicate pale skin. Tattoos — and not just trendy shit like a feather or fucking “sisterhood” in Chinese or whatever. This girl has serious ink. And piercings. And scars. I’ve got some of those myself.

  Young, dirty, sexy, and so fucking untouchable. Literally.

  The perfect little bad girl.

  My perfect little bad girl, all on high-def camera, and all for me.

  …Something's very wrong with me.

  How does a man like myself end up stroking his cock to a cam girl online? Surprisingly easily, actually. This all started two weeks ago, when my sister Callie dropped by for a visit with Jack, the ten-year-old she nannies. When I was ten, we didn’t have the damn internet or any of this shit. But ten-year-olds now are fucking tech wizards, apparently, because it took Jack all of three minutes while Callie and I were out on my terrace to visit about a million porn sites on my computer. The hardcore fuck-film blasting at full volume over my Bluetooth speakers put the kibosh on that shit, but not until Jack had gotten my internet history as filthy as goddamn possible.

  Cleanup and damage control was a bitch afterwards. I’d been signed in to my goddamn Facebook page, and Jack had decided to “like” all sorts of weird shit on his pornographic safari. Thankfully, I barely even use Facebook, so I basically have no friends on there who would’ve seen any of this. But it was still awkward to go back and delete the “Grayson Channing liked ‘big titted MILF latex gang bang’” posts on my wall. Luckily, my buddy Roman was the only one who “liked” any of it.

  Asshole.

  I’d cleaned the whole history and run a virus scan three times on my setup before I noticed the minimized window. I’d enlarged it, rolling my eyes at the giant pink “Heartthrob Cams” logo on the site, with some vapid, plastic looking chick bent over and spread-wide behind the lettering. Honestly, I’m not sure it was hearts they expected to be “throbbing” with the “O” in “Heartthrob” centered over her asshole.

  I’d had every intention of quitting out of the window and cleaning my damn history again, when suddenly, a new stream had come up on the site, and a face filled the screen.

  Her face.

  And I was fuckin’ frozen.

  I want to say “it was her eyes,” or “her lips drew me in,” or hell, even “those tits were fantastic and I wanted to keep looking at them,” but it wasn’t one thing. It was the whole thing. It was how fucking sexy she was, sure, but also that smug, glinting look in her eyes, like she was laughing at all the suckers paying money to watch her take her damn clothes off on the internet. It was the real ink on her delicate skin — not some trendy little dream catcher or something she stole off Pinterest, but real, serious tattoos. There was a dark, sensual, goddamn sexy as sin edge to her, and I fucking liked it.

  I liked it so much, in fact, that I never did click out of the window. I stayed, and I watched, and the more I watched, the harder my cock got, and the deeper into pure obsession I fell.

  Her profile listed her name as “Alice Liddell,” and I wondered how many of the scumbags on this site understood that it was an Alice In Wonderland reference, not her real name. It said she was twenty-one, with her location as “planet earth.” I watched until my allotted free time was over. Then I grabbed my wallet, ignored the fact that I would have literally laughed out loud at losers who did this sort of thing up until that very moment, and plunked down my credit card.

  Hooked.

  Obsessed.

  Addicted.

  Heartthrob is set up so you can see the girls, but they can’t see you. They can see what you type, though. Actually, everyone can see what you ty
pe. Everyone can see every disgusting, offensive, nauseating thing that every gross, living-in-their-mom’s-basement piece of garbage on the site is typing to the girl. I was mad at first — angry that these fuck-wads who’d clearly watched entirely too much porn kept butting in. Their asinine, crude comments chimed in like little unwanted flies buzzing around my head, until my anger turned to fury.

  That’s when I saw the “private show” button, and that’s when I jumped head first into my obsession.

  It’d be easy to say I did it out of some sort of fucked up, misguided urge to “save” her — to protect this random, anonymous girl from the neck-bearded, mouth-breathing trolls with their constant barrage of “show ur tits,” and “u want my cock bb?”

  But I’m no white knight, and my intentions weren’t to protect, or save, or rescue.

  …My intentions were to possess — to wall her off from everyone else and keep her as my own. Which is exactly what I did. She’d smiled a plastic, practiced smile when she’d seen the private show request from Big_Daddy_Vegas — the screen name jumped out at me when I glanced up and saw the “Daddy-O’s Big-Style Vegas Pizza” box on my kitchen counter. But when she saw my next request, her face had grown a little flush, and that smile had turned into a dropped jaw.

  A private show on Heartthrob Cams is fifty bucks for half an hour — stackable for as long as the girl wants to keep doing a show for. At each half-hour, she can collect what you’ve pre-deposited onto the site.

  …I’d put down fifty thousand dollars.

  Three weeks. I’d bought three weeks, alone with her. No scummy pieces of shit cat-calling her. No one else looking at her. No other eyes watching her as she performed for me and me only.

  Mine.

  My pretty little bad girl.

  My dirty little secret

  Pretty. Dirty. And all mine.

  Chapter 2

  Gray

  “Um…” That smug, sassy look she had for the general crowd had faded after she’d said goodbye to those assholes and switched to the private chat with only me.

  “I’m not sure what you’re looking for,” she said quietly. “I don’t escort or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just—”

  Consider it a retainer. I’d typed, my blood roaring in my ears.

  No more general chat, or other private shows with anyone else. No more pretending to smile for the losers begging you to say their names or piss yourself for them and all of that shit.

  She’d half-smiled, but then hidden it away behind a concerned look as she shook her head.

  “Look, I’m not going to be on camera twenty-four hours a day,” she tossed back. “I have a life.”

  And I’m not going to be sitting in front of my computer twenty-four hours a day. I also have a life.

  She’d grinned.

  When I’m not on, you’re not on. Your time has already been paid for.

  She’d rolled her eyes. “C’mon, what is thi—”

  But when I am here…

  I let it hang a second, watching her smile fade.

  When I am here, you will be too. You’re my own private show for the next three weeks.

  She’d swallowed, her face flush as her eyes darted over the screen, like she might somehow see me through it.

  “All yours, huh?”

  All mine.

  Something roared in me. Something drunk on the power, and the control, and the raw, inescapable need to possess her, and make her mine entirely.

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

  Entirely.

  She’d swallowed again, her cheeks reddening slightly as she’d looked away an shaken her head. Finally though — and I could see the gears turning in her head — she turned back to the camera.

  She’d nodded.

  “Okay,” she’d said quietly. “Deal. Three weeks, no general chat, no other private chat. And how exactly do you plan on ‘summoning’ me, sir?”

  I’d ignored the sarcasm in her comment and fixated on the “sir” part, which had sent a throb through my cock. Besides, I was already setting that up for her.

  Throughthelookingglass184991@gmail.com. The password is “Carroll.”

  She’d smirked. “I guess we read the same books. So, what, you just email me and I’m supposed to drop what I’m doing and get on camera?”

  Exactly that.

  Yes.

  “Alice” rolled her eyes. “What if I’m busy? Or what if I have another job?”

  Does it pay $17k a week?

  She grinned.

  And if you’re busy, get un-busy.

  “This is actually insane, you know.” She shook her head at me, hands playing with the edge of the small, lacy black robe she was wearing. “Who spends fifty-thousand on a cam girl?”

  Me.

  That got another grin.

  “And what should I call you, oh master for the next three weeks?”

  I feel like you still think I’m kidding.

  That grin again.

  “No, I’m pretty sure you’re crazy enough to be serious about this.”

  Good guess.

  “So what should I call you? You really want me to say ‘Big Daddy Vegas’?”

  I’d started to chuckle to myself, when she’d raked her teeth over her bottom lip, and looked right at the camera.

  “Or maybe I should just say ‘Big Daddy’?”

  My cock twitched.

  “Or how about,” she’d purred the words, leaning close to the screen and letting her robe open just enough to get a glimpse of her black lace bra and the sensual lines of ink tracing down between her tits.

  “How about I just call you daddy?”

  My cock turned to stone in seconds, and she’d smirked at my lack of answer.

  “I’m going to take that as a yes,” she’d purred. “So, when do we begin, daddy?”

  Now.

  My cock was straining at my zipper, aching to be free and aching for release.

  Right now, I’d typed, groaning at the way her face had flushed.

  “What do you want me to do, daddy?” Her voice was all fire and heat, her eyes blazing something wicked at me right through the camera

  Take off the robe, spread your legs, and show me that pretty little pussy.

  Her breath caught.

  Show me how wet you are.

  Alice had swallowed, her cheeks flushing and her legs squeezing together, before slowly, she’d nodded, and reached for the edge of her robe.

  “You wanna see my pussy, daddy?”

  A shadow crosses the camera, and suddenly, she’s moves in front of it.

  “Hi, Lewis,” she purrs it out, the heat in her eyes swirling like smoke.

  Lewis. As in Lewis Carroll, author of Alice In Wonderland. I mean, it goes with “Alice,” and it’s not like she could call me daddy all the time.

  And she’s been waiting for this too. No, I’m not one of those guys who deludes themselves into thinking the stripper is “really into them,” but this is different. There’s no actress in the world that could fake a look with that kind of lust behind it. My Alice enjoys doing what I ask, I can see that plain as day. I can see it in the way her breath still catches and her cheeks still flush when I tell her something particularly dirty. But she does it, and I’m beginning to suspect that it’s not entirely about the money.

  Hey pretty girl.

  She smiles, those white teeth raking over her bottom lip as she settles on her bed in front of the camera. She’s on her side, and when her black silk robe falls open, I catch a glimpse of the half-translucent, lacy white lingerie underneath. I groan, my cock throbbing rock hard at the sight. I fucking love white on her. Something about the purity of it against her inked skin gets a fire going inside of me.

  “Hey daddy,” she says, her face glowing and her voice husky.

  I growl, reaching for my cock. Alice begins to slide her robe off, and the blood starts to roar in my ears, when suddenly, there’s a crashing sound.

&
nbsp; Alice goes white.

  “Oh, fuck, I—” She starts to scramble from the bed, and I find myself lurching to me feet as well. There’s the sound of a man yelling, and my blood runs hot.

  “Lewis, I have to go—”

  “You little fucking bitch!”

  Alice screams as the camera lurches to the side and a man lunges into the frame. I snarl, my hands closing into iron-gripped fists.

  “Goddamnit! Fuckin’ whore!”

  “I’m on camera!”

  My blood turns to molten steel in my veins. My eyes lose focus of everything around me except what’s on the screen in front of me.

  She’s in trouble. My base, caveman instinct is to protect her — to protect what’s mine. I want to jump through the fucking screen and wrap my hands around this asshole’s neck until he stops fucking breathing. But knowing I’m totally powerless right now has me ready to tear my skin off.

  The man grabs her, and this time, I do roar out loud. He shakes her, heedless of her screams, before he shoves her back across the bed.

  “I don’t give a fuck if you’re on camera, you fucking bitch.”

  He grabs her again, and it’s like a blade slicing through my heart as I watch him haul back and slap her across the face. I scream in rage, picking up a coffee mug from my desk and hurling it at the wall. The man grabs her again, shaking her before he shoves her away, sending her crashing into her bedside table.

  Crashing.

  Crash.

  I don’t hear it through my computer speakers, I hear it with my own fucking ears. I hear it through my floor, from the apartment below me, and suddenly, the world goes still.

  Alice isn’t just “somewhere” in the world, on the internet.

  …Alice is my downstairs fucking neighbor.

  Chapter 3

  Zoe

  How did we get here?

  I’ve asked it of myself about a million times in the last few weeks, but I still don’t have any answers. How did we get to the point where I’m so fucking excited for this that I’ve been pacing the apartment for an hour, waiting for the email ping? Or to the point where when it does, I can barely contain myself as I make a beeline for the laptop and camera set up against the far wall, across from the bed.