CORRUPTED: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Mia Miles

“I love you,” I said.

  “I love you, too,” Nails replied as he pushed himself into me.

  My body shivered with joy and pleasure as he filled me. I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him down onto me as he thrust his hips against mine. He filled me, then pulled back and pushed himself into me again. He pumped himself vigorously into me. I rocked my hips against his and moaned as he made love to me.

  I tangled my fingers in his hair and kissed his lips, moaning into his mouth. He angled his hips so that his head ran across my g-spot each time he moved against me. My body shook underneath him as he quickly brought me close to another orgasm.

  I felt him growing harder in side of me. Our lips parted, and I listened as his panting grew deeper and more frantic. He groaned and shoved himself all the way inside me. He continued pressing against me even though he couldn’t go any deeper.

  I cried out as my muscles began to tighten around him, as ecstasy took over my body in violent quakes. I felt my pleasure flooding through me, and then I felt something else as Nails began to shake above me.

  “Fuck,” he groaned as he erupted inside of me. I felt his hot juices filling me as he started thrusting his hips again, emptying himself into me.

  “Yes, baby,” I called out. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”

  I held on as he rocked against me, as our bodies rode out our pleasure together. Eventually, he collapsed next to me, and I rolled over against him. He took me in his arms and kissed me tenderly on the forehead.

  There was no need to deny what had happened between us any longer. We had given in. We were together, and I could finally admit to myself that we were in love. I knew I wasn’t going to get turned away by the strong arms embracing me or the heart pounding for me within my lover’s chest.

  I kissed his hard nipple and looked up at his face. His eyes were closed, and a smile spread across his lips. There was nothing left for us to say. Our bodies and our hearts had already said it all.

  THE END

  Free Bonus Book: STRIPPED

  She’s been taught to fear me. I’ll teach her to obey me instead.

  My first instinct was to throw her to the wolves.

  My second was to devour her myself.

  It’s no secret which one I chose.

  She was like an angel on that stage.

  Untouched flesh, a perfect mouth in need of a master.

  I could be that man.

  I would be that man.

  So I make her a deal.

  It’s more than what she needed, though still a far cry from what she wanted.

  Stay in my home.

  Sleep in my bed.

  Those are the terms.

  The rest is still to be decided…

  I made her mine – and she liked it that way…

  Prologue

  Missy

  “After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?!”

  My dad screamed until he was blue in the face, shouting questions and insults at me as if they were supposed to magically make me un-pregnant or erase the relationship I’d had with Eddie.

  “Daddy, I’m really sorry,” I told him again and again. There was nothing I could do about the situation I’d put myself in.

  “I have worked long hours and sacrificed my own happiness to get you the best education and help you shine amongst your peers. I got you into Harvard, for Christ’s sake!” Spit gathered at the corners of his mouth like the rabid froth of a mad dog. His voice roared with the ferocity of an evangelical preacher. He raised one clenched fist and pointed up at the ceiling of our immaculate living room like he was even calling God to bear witness.

  My dad was a very stern man. He had built his business from the ground up. I’d heard the story a million times about how he’d started with nothing and built an entire city around it. He was worth a fortune because not only did he pull himself up by his bootstraps when he hadn’t had a penny to his name, but he’d made those bootstraps himself. I didn’t know how much of it I believed, but I had seen pictures of his family before he ran away and started making deals with local businessmen. He’d never had anywhere to go but up.

  Once he got there, though, he had all these expectations of how life was supposed to work if someone wanted to be successful – namely, if I wanted to be successful. Getting pregnant out of wedlock by a married man didn’t fit in line with what he thought a successful lifestyle looked like. I had to agree. I didn’t feel successful— unless screwing up my life had been my goal, but that wasn’t my plan.

  I had never seen him this angry. Sure, there had been plenty of times when I’d messed up before. What kid never upset their parents? But even when I ran over my mom’s Pomeranian the first time I drove out of the driveway, he hadn’t been this mad.

  I could see my mother crying into her hands in her white evening gown behind my father. She sat at the dining room table, removed from the messy emotions in the living room. She didn’t want to get any of it on her. Yet, her own emotions seemed to be taking over.

  “You see what you’ve done to your poor mother?” my dad growled when he caught my eyes straying to her.

  My family wasn’t the warmest, but I had never doubted their love for me. They had their own ways of showing it, by providing for me and making sure everything went as smoothly as possible. They had gone to great lengths to provide their ideal life for their less than ideal daughter.

  I preferred baggy jeans and loose shirts to their prim and proper, perfectly fitting formal wear. I preferred color, and lots of it. My room looked like it belonged on the opposite end of the solar system from the rest of their minimalist house. My wardrobe was vibrant and sometimes chaotic, like Arshile Gorky, the abstract expressionist. I couldn’t have been more different from my parents.

  At the same time, they tolerated me as much as I imagined they were able to. My grades were good. I never got into any trouble, other than the occasional upset at home. And I excelled at almost anything I did academically. Since I did well in school and showed promise, as my father often said, they were willing to put up with my expressive lifestyle and personality so long as I didn’t purchase any nude artwork or turn up my indie rock records too loud while they were home. Yes, I listened to vinyl; it was the only way to really enjoy the music.

  I met Eddie at a benefit auction held by a local gallery the summer after my senior year. My folks had given me some money to purchase something inspiring (my word, for once, not theirs, and I wasn’t even sure it was in their vocabulary) for my apartment when I moved off to Harvard. They felt it was only fitting that their artsy daughter had some real art to hang in her room.

  Eddie – whose real name turned out to be Edgar Worthington – was a successful banker who had a deep appreciation for fine art, but he didn’t like his art nice and neat. He didn’t like his structure clear, his focus handed to him and prescribed to him by the artist. He liked it messy. Picasso was too tame and seemed afraid of his own vision, he would tell me. He liked artists like Jackson Pollack. He liked art that did more than convey meaning. He liked it to create an experience.

  And I had never met someone who spoke more romantically to me than he did when he talked about art. He was going through a rough patch in his marriage. She didn’t understand him. She had even gone so far as to turn his kids against him. He was planning on moving out and filing for a divorce, but he knew it wasn’t going to be pretty. He knew she was going to try to take him for all he was worth, and he was worth a lot. He was worth as much as some of the art hanging in that gallery, maybe even more.

  Ours had been a whirlwind romance. He visited me at school whenever he was free. Whenever I was home for break or vacation, I would sneak off with him. He was my first, the first. I gave myself to him in his private art gallery at his home while his wife and kids were out of town, visiting her parents. He made love to me like the paintings he loved. It was messy and passionate. It was intense, emotionally and visually.

  I gave myself to him whenever
there was a chance, but it was still a surprise when I turned up pregnant. I thought we had been careful. We had used protection some of the time. The rest of the time he pulled out and let me finish him other ways. There were people out there who tried and tried but never could get pregnant. I took that as a sign that as long as we had put in some effort to avoid it, we were fine. I trusted him to take care of me like he said he would.

  I found out right before summer break at the end of my junior year. I had one year left to go, and I didn’t know what to do. I knew I had to finish school. I was too close not to. I also knew a lot of girls didn’t finish, or at least didn’t finish on time, once they got pregnant.

  I went to see him before I even went home to my parents’ house. He slammed his door in my face and told me to stop harassing his family. He stopped answering my calls and texts. When I called and got the message that the phone was no longer in service, I knew I had nowhere else to go but my parents, which was how I ended up cowering from my father on the couch while he shouted to the heavens about how horrible I was and how I was ruining his life.

  After enough time had passed, my dad seemed to come down from his rage a little. His voice lowered and turned serious instead of frantic. He put a hand on my shoulder and sat down next to me.

  My body shook. My breath came in sharp, hysterical bursts. I fought back tears and tried to maintain a straight face. I never cried in front of my dad. It was not permitted. My mom was allowed to cry because my dad had accepted that she was weak a long time ago. At twenty-one, there was still a chance for me to be strong. My dad wanted me to be stronger than my mom, and he rarely missed a chance to remind me of that.

  “Missy, there are other options. We can send you to spend the summer with family in Washington, and no one here has to know anything different,” he said as calmly as possible.

  “Alec,” my mom hissed through her runny makeup and tear soaked face.

  “Flo, I’m just trying to help here,” my dad replied in a calm, almost reassuring voice.

  “Our daughter is not going to have an… an… abortion,” she said indignantly. I could tell it was hard for her to even say the word. For once, I agreed with her. No way in hell was I going to do that.

  “Flo, she can’t have the thing,” my dad argued.

  “It’s not a thing,” I snapped, pushing him away from me. “It’s a baby, and I’m keeping my child.”

  He looked at me as if I had slapped him. Behind him, my mom stared at us in stunned silence. Much like everything else in their perfect life, I had been planned. They had left no room for messes, and as I was learning, unplanned pregnancies created quite a mess.

  My dad was shaking, but he took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He looked me dead in the eyes, and I saw all the anger and resentment he felt toward me at that moment. I felt it just as I would have felt heat from a fire.

  “You are not going to have that child out of wedlock in this house. If you want someone to take you and that bastard in, go find the bastard who got you pregnant in the first place,” my father bellowed. He stood up and raised his hand to point at the door.

  “Alec, please,” my mom pleaded.

  “Not now, Flo. She is not staying.” He didn’t even look back at her. He kept his eyes fixed on me.

  “Missy, honey, at least go pack some things to take with you,” my mom said sweetly.

  My dad grumbled something under his breath as I took the opportunity to get out of the room. I heard them arguing downstairs while I went upstairs and packed my backpack full of clothes and small necessities. I figured I was only going to be gone for a couple of nights before I was able to come back for the rest of my things.

  My hands shook. My heart raced. My mind was working overtime, trying to figure out what I was going to do, where I was going to stay. My eyes watered again as I looked around my room one last time. I looked at all the things I was going to leave behind. There was also my student apartment at school. I had no idea what was going to happen with all of that. I had one year left, dammit! I thought about running off to attend school, but it wouldn’t have been any use. My dad wasn’t going to pay for school or an apartment now.

  There was a knock at my door. My dad’s voice came from the other side, barely muffled by the thin wood.

  “I want you out of the house. Now! Go have that bastard child somewhere else!”

  Chapter One

  Cutter

  In my office in the back, music thumped through the walls from the main room. The rhythmic thud of the bass from outside my office told me who was on stage. I could tell my girls apart by the tempo and style of their music. Some were soulful and took their time to build up the audience, while others preferred to be fast-paced and exciting. I prided myself on having something for everyone.

  Unfortunately for some of my clients, however, I didn’t have prostitutes. All of my women were professional dancers. They were clean. I had to run a clean business to stay in business. I didn’t allow my women to sell extra services or go on stage under any illegal influences. I didn’t like to let them drink before going on stage, but I understood that sometimes nerves took their toll.

  Women didn’t come to me because they wanted to make it big in the stripping business. They came to me because what we did paid well. They were almost always down on their luck or looking for a quick, easy buck to get by until things picked up. Others just realized they had talent and made more money working the pole than they could have made working nine-to-five.

  But now I had to audition new girls because three of my lovely ladies had been selling their bodies on the side. They had been offering more than lap dances in the private rooms and picking up clients of their own from our crowd.

  The cops had been harassing me about it for months, which brought the guys in the Renegade Lions MC down on me. I didn’t need special attention from the cops because some of my girls didn’t know how to handle themselves as professionals. It was already an exotic dance club, and I was already a known member of the local motorcycle club.

  Basically, the cops wanted to believe that any businesses our members ran were merely money laundering fronts for the MC. There was never anything out of the ordinary when they checked my books, so I let the evidence speak for itself. It allowed me to maintain both my innocence and my reputation.

  Letting go of my edge would have been bad for business, so I let people believe what they wanted to believe. As long as they couldn’t find any signs of wrong-doing, I was in the clear, but I stayed sleazy and hard in the eyes of the law and, more importantly, my patrons. Image was everything.

  The ad I had put in the local underground paper turned up quite a few girls to take the positions I needed filled at The Bare Cut Gentlemen’s Club. So far none of them had been right. There was never any shortage of girls who were willing to bare it all for money in the city. The streets were a rough place, especially for young women.

  But that didn’t mean every girl who found herself on the street belonged on my stage. There were shelters, churches, and other places for women whose talents and looks didn’t quite fit what I needed.

  I had lost count of the girls who had come through my office, and I was starting to lose interest when the petite strawberry blonde with bright blue eyes came in. She wore jeans that were a little loose and a t-shirt that hinted at the curve of her breasts.

  What caught my attention most of all was the innocence in her face. She looked young. There was no way she was old enough to be on my stage. She was young and undefiled, and there was no way she needed to be there. I couldn’t help her, and I certainly wasn’t about to hire someone who looked underage, not with the cops keeping a close eye on the place. Still, there was something about her.

  My ex-wife had strawberry blonde curls like this innocent doll-faced princess in front of me. There was something similar in her eyes, too, something that took me back to when I had first fallen in love with my ex-wife, before she had turned into the heinous bitch who had lef
t me holding just my balls in my hand at the end of our marriage.

  I didn’t want to let another innocent little beauty get ruined by this life. She was hot, but she was not a dancer. She might have been good in bed, but I did not want to put her on the market like that.

  “And who might you be?” I asked, forcing myself to form words.

  “My name’s Missy,” she said meekly.

  There was a sadness in her voice, but there was also determination. She didn’t sound like she had much confidence, but she made it clear that that wasn’t going to stop her from trying. That was an admirable quality in a person.

  “Is Missy your real name or your stage name?” I asked. It was a legitimate question in my line of work. I didn’t want to call her by her real name at work. Besides, if I hadn’t asked, I would have assumed a name like Missy was a cute little stage name for a good girl gone bad, just like the one in front of me.