by Linnea May
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Can’t get enough? Continue reading with the 3rd novel in this series VIOLENT HEARTS – on the next page!
Violent Hearts
Blurb
Others see the devil in me. All she sees is her perfect match.
They call me a prodigy in the business world. Rich, powerful and cunning. At 29 years old, I'm running an empire, built from scratch.
The political realm is next. I want my voice heard and my name on the ballot.
But my character credentials are lacking.
I need a woman at my side, under contract. Someone with a pretty smile for the public eye, to make me look like a trustworthy, loyal man.
Ann Porter is the woman I want for the job.
Her heart is just as violent as mine, her mind sharp and cunning.
Her body willing and begging to be broken - ready to bend at my will.
She has the potential to get me where I want to be - or to destroy everything I've worked for all those years.
She’s the perfect risk.
"There's bullet-holes where my compassion used to be.
And there is violence in my heart."
― Nine Inch Nails, ‚My Violent Heart‘
Prologue
Jared
What a fucking mess.
I release a frustrated sigh before crumpling up the piece of paper and throwing it away from me. My eyes don't even follow as it lazily dances across the tiles of my bathroom floor. Instead, I divert my attention to the flute waiting on the edge of the bath tub. It's filled to the brim with sparkling gold liquid, a sure promise for calming my nerves and helping to rid my mind of her haunting voice when I bring it up to my lips.
I can't forget about you. You've touched my heart in a way no man ever has before. I'm yours, all of me, forever.
If you'll just have me.
Fucking pathetic.
I've heard those words before, and each time my reaction has been the same. Her letter aims to reach a part of me that simply doesn't exist. An average human heart. A heart that's capable of love, or even a heart that needs it.
She's committed the same mistake that that every single one of my former submissives have made before her, absolute confirmation that she's not suitable for the role. This girl, E, broke the cardinal rule by falling for me. She calls it love, and was dumb enough to believe the feeling was mutual; she misinterpreted my attention as an attraction that wasn't there.
I could see it in her eyes when I fucked her, written all over her face when she went down on her knees in front of me, and in that faint smile flittering across her face when I called her a good girl. I even tasted it in her kisses. E was growing attached to me more and more with every moment we spent together, despite my regular reminders about the terms of the contract she signed to become mine. I've done unspeakable things to her, some of them with the sole intention of proving to her that she serves a function for me and does not hold a special place in my stone-cold heart.
One of these things is playing out vividly in front of my eyes right now, captured on screen for my viewing pleasure.
The bubbles tickle my lips as I sip on the champagne, my eyes glued to the big screen positioned on the wall above my hot tub. I’m watching footage of myself fucking E while she's taking another man’s cock between her painted lips. She looks like she’s enjoying herself, but with these girls, you never know. They're paid to perform an act, so it might all be fake. It's a passion of mine to expose them like this, to share them, to have them fucked by other guys, all while I'm the one in command. Even with the other guy’s cock plunged deep down her throat, I can see her eyes returning to me again and again, seeking my approval, appreciation, praise.
Love.
Her cheeks are flushed and her moans sound real, but she's primarily doing this for me, her master. Her owner.
If only she'd been able to keep it that way. But E, like so many before her, was too weak. One night after finishing an intense session, I was ready to leave and head to my own bedroom, when she grabbed my wrist.
"Stay," she begged, her eyes pleading. "Or take me with you."
I resisted my instinct to shake her off like an annoying fly, but instead reached for her little hand and gently removed it from my body.
"Do you remember what this is?" I asked, fixating on her with my unyielding gaze.
That's when she broke. That's when the tears came, at a time when I didn't want to see any. That's when she confessed her love for me, her undying devotion and the promise to never let me down.
But it was too late. She had already let me down at that point. She had broken the contract, so I had to let her go.
She's been out of my life now for four days, and today was when her letter arrived, the piece of paper that I cast to the other corner of the bathroom, crumbled, and the content already forgotten. I don't know what she thought she could achieve by sending it to me, but if her goal was to change my mind, she failed miserably.
I'm watching her onscreen, presumably climaxing on my thick, hard cock, while her face is blotted with the cum of another guy. Her eyes are rolling back into her head as I ram my rigid length into her, roughly pulling at the leash that's attached to her collar, effectually choking her throughout the waves of her orgasm.
I sigh impatiently, as I continue stroking my hardened length under the warm bath water. The scene on screen is almost over, but it failed to help me finish. At this point, it has become more of a task than a release marked by pleasure. Something similar could be said about my lacking relationship with E. The scene ends with a close-up of her face. She's panting, her blurry eyes traveling dreamily before they finally find the camera lens. She focuses her attention in on the camera, looking at me as she seductively licks off the cum that’s pooled at the corner of her mouth. Then the camera moves, tracing along the curves of her perfect body before stopping at her tight core, capturing the moment when I pull out of her, leaving her pussy dripping with my cum.
Any other day, this scene would have sent me over the edge. This is what I live for – seeing one of my girls like that, used, satisfied, breathless as they have fulfilled their duty, serving as nothing but objects, cum dumps for me and a well-selected buddy, their cheeks flushed with excitement.
But now that she has disappointed me like this, E no longer manages to live up to the task, not even on video. It always happens like that. Once I no longer regard a girl as my own, I can't draw the much needed excitement from her that was once a routine part of our interaction.
She needs to be replaced. I need another one, a girl that can function as both a respectable partner for the public eye, and a dirty little whore for my private pleasure.
I let go of my hardness, certain that I won't find release just now. Not like this.
I finish my drink and reach over to the small side table next to the hot tub to fetch my phone.
"Silas!" I bark as soon as I hear my assistant's voice at the other end. "I need another one."
Chapter 1
Ann
"This is fucking bullshit," I hiss. My outburst causes heads to swiftly turn my way, eyebrows raising as people around me try to figure out what is grinding my gears this time.
I'm the only person in this office who regularly forgets that this is a shared space and people can actually hear my exasperated curses. Most of them don't care, or are even amused at my little outbursts, but there's always one face that displays little sympathy for my temper, and that face is sitting right across from me.
Brandon is a very talented and in demand freelancing graphic designer whose arrogant and entitled attitude compl
ements his above reproach career success. His face puckers into a scowl, as he narrows his eyes into slits and pierces an icy gaze through me from across the table. His freshly coiffed blond hair is gelled back, giving him a sleek look that is eased by his hipster clothing style. He's a beautiful young man, dashingly handsome in a clean-cut and benign way.
It's no wonder I was drawn to him when we first met. I'm pretty sure most women can't resist his in style appearance.
But I wonder, too, if most of them also regret sleeping with him after the fact?
It should have been obvious to me. Sleeping with someone you share an office with is never a good idea, even if you're not technically working together. This is a co-working space. We're all freelancers, writers, designers, programmers, each of us working on our own stuff. Nevertheless, we share this common space, just as we share any fighting over our coffee machine, the dishwasher, and the general mess left behind by everyone except the person complaining about it. We may not share the work itself, but we share the work environment and all the social aspects that come with it.
I should have considered all of this before giving in to his goddamn charm. Even though it happened only a few weeks ago, I feel like an entirely different person now. I can't relate to the girl I was back then, the girl who couldn't focus because his sparkling blue eyes unsettled me, because his arm touched mine as we stood close to each other in the kitchen, or because he said something funny, pulling my attention away from anything else I might have been doing in that moment. He had a definite, all-consuming effect on me from the start.
Now this effect not only no longer exists, it has been replaced by something else: annoyance. Disdain, at him and myself. Brandon is a constant reminder of my own stupidity.
"Hush," he hisses at me, putting his index finger up to his lips.
Seriously, what was I thinking?
The glare I cast him lets him know I heard him. I redirect my attention to the task at hand, the initial reason for my cursing. My eyes are glued to the screen, re-reading the same passages I've read half a dozen times already. My eyebrows furrow in irritation as my eyes travel across the e-mail one more time.
It's outlining a proposal for an article that I don't want to write, but know I should. They say beggars can't be choosers. Sadly, this all too true for me. It was my choice to become a freelance reporter, and though I still relish the freedom this job affords me and can proudly be my own boss, I also have to admit it’s not the most profitable career.
The contradiction is particularly annoying because it means my desire for creative freedom clashes head-on with my desire for financial freedom. My dream has always been to no longer have to work for money by the time I turned thirty. I still have seven years to make the dream a reality, but with the way things are going right now, I don't see myself reaching that goal. Not even remotely. I’m barely getting by paycheck to paycheck, and still far away from that big leap to success, whatever it might be.
In any case, I can't afford to stick to certain principles. As much as I hate giving in to market trends, if I want to earn enough to live a halfway decent life, I have to write what I'm assigned. I've tried to sell my work on my own before, but with very little success. If no one wants to buy my stories, I'll have to write what others assign. I know the market demands unique and unusual stories to draw readers, but a high class escort agency? Really?
And how on earth did my name come up for this story topic? Mrs. Jenkins, one of the lead editors, recommended me personally. On one hand, it’s a great honor, but on the other, it’s very confusing. I realize it could be a big-selling story guaranteed to boost my standing at one of the biggest newspapers in the area, but I can't help feeling slightly disturbed by the proposed subject matter.
An escort agency. High class, exclusive, and expensive. The story would mostly be based on an interview with one of the agency’s leading HR personnel.
An escort agency has its own human resources department? I can't suppress the dry laugh that escapes at the idea. What could possibly be in this person’s job description?
Truth be told, I can't deny the curiosity that's creeping into my head at the notion of taking on this story. Despite my initial aversion to the topic, I'm beginning to contemplate the various appealing angles to this story.
"Oh, fuck it!" I exclaim, once again causing Brandon to raise his head and cast me a warning look. I shoot him a sly smile as I reach for my phone.
Chapter 2
Jared
“Jared, you’re not making this easy.”
Belinda sighs in exasperation as she leans back heavily in her chair. The irritated look she casts me conveys more about her attitude toward me than I need to know. This is the third time in two months that we've met like this, always for the same purpose.
To find me a new girl.
Every time I walked out of here, I left with a new picture, a new name, a new promise. But after three failed attempts, the excitement has ebbed down to nothing more than a feeble hope.
The agency typically operates through its online catalog, but they make exceptions for clients like me. Clients who are flush with cash, willing to pay insane amounts of money to satisfy their insane conditions. There's an extra file for clients like me, one that’s only available to browse through in person. A file filled with extra pretty girls willing to go the extra mile.
I flip through page after page, shaking my head, essentially denying every single one of these extra special gems.
"What in the world is it you're looking for?" Belinda asks, pursing her deep crimson lips. She should know better. I've been working with her long enough for her to know damn well what kind of girl I like and what I ask of them. Yet here she is, overreacting to my elaborate search for the perfect one.
All of these girls are pretty, all of them are naughty and kinky in their own way, and all of them seek to please. But after trying out three girls from this heavily scrutinized selection, I can say with certainty that most of them are incapable of meeting my preferences. They lack the toughness, professionalism, and brains to comprehend the contract they're signing.
"Not this," I finally reply, throwing the folder onto the table between us.
Belinda flinches, her eyes flickering at me through the thick black mascara framing her dark eyes. She has been working in this business for years, and is the classic example of a high class madam brothel with her extravagant make-up and attitude indicative of a true Domme.
"These are the best we have, Jared," she says matter-of-factly, lifting her hands in defense to imply there's nothing more she can do for me. "What was wrong with the last one? You had her almost an entire month before deciding she's no good either."
"She didn't understand the rules," I say simply.
"The rules," Belinda repeats, rolling her eyes, a gesture that would infuriate me if she was any other person in any other situation, but I can understand her annoyance as well as I can my own. I know that what - or who - she's offering to me is the best of the best. Yet, I'm refusing one after another for reasons that may be hard for others to grasp.
Maybe I am asking too much, but I'm not willing to give up just yet. I need a woman at my side, a woman who can serve as both the loyal partner in the public eye and the submissive slut behind closed doors, a woman who's smart enough to be both while keeping it strictly business. I don't do love, not even if it's one-sided. Romance weakens the character. It’s a deficiency that I have no room for.
I can't afford to be weak if I want to accomplish my goal.
"Well, this is all I have for you this week," Belinda says, sighing heavily. "You either give one of these a try, or come back when we've updated the file."
I cast her a questioning look.
"We are always looking for new girls," she explains. "But as you know, most of them are only in this for a short-term engagement. One night, maybe a week. Just occasional dates with different clients. Very few of them are willing to be exclusive. And those who seek exclusivit
y are usually here to find a husband, their 'true love,' as they call it, which as far as I understand it, is not what you're looking for."
"Certainly not," I retort, shaking my head. "But I need someone who can fake that."
"A girl’s heart works differently than a man’s," she reminds me, her voice taking on a wise tone. "I doubt you'll find one who's as calculating as you are."
I regard her with a quick look, my eyes narrowed and eyebrows knitted.
"One thing is for certain," I say. "If a girl like that exists, I'm sure she'll be in that catalog."
Belinda's eyes follow my motion as I get up from my seat.
"Let me know when you have something new to offer," I tell her, nodding a quick goodbye as I make my way to the door.
"Certainly," she replies.
I knew this wouldn't be easy, but I didn't expect it to be this hard, that’s for damned sure. This agency has served me well for the past several years, and I was confident they could provide me with whatever I needed, even now that my demands have changed. My campaign manager insisted that if it’s my goal to run for Congress that I should have an attractive woman at my side. I objected at first, but I could see his point. There's nothing more disruptive than the spread of rumors and gossip about a man's personal life when he's a political candidate. Especially in a case like mine, where it's all too easy to dig up some dirt...
Things are a lot easier if there's a wife or a fiancée in the picture. As long as there's a woman hanging on your arm and a visible ring on that damn finger, it gives you credibility; she makes you appear mature and loyal, even at a young age. It's stupid, but if I want to play the game, I will have to abide by the rules.
