Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1)

by Ellie Meadows

  “Yes. Yes, that’s what I want.” Her words were pleading, as if she worried I’d change my mind.

  I pulled my fingers from her pussy, and reached up her body to press them against her lips. She opened her mouth, once again tasting herself, sucking my fingers with so much vigor that the first threads of orgasm began pulsing through my cock.

  “You like that?” I asked, voice heavy with desire.

  She nodded with two of my fingers still in her mouth. Her tongue pushed between them, licking the last remnants of sticky fluid. Taking my hand back, keeping my eyes on her face, I moved to kneel between her legs. She bent her knees, scooting slightly down the bed and raising her hips slightly.

  I gripped her hips to roll her enough to the side that I could slap her ass sharply. She yelped, an angry handprint welting up on her sensitive skin.

  “Stay still.”

  “Okay,” she gasped out, the pain making her eyes dilate.

  I gripped my cock and positioned against her opening, her lips parting easily for me now that she was slick and primed. As I buried into her, I pressed my thumb against her sex-flushed clit and rubbed quick circles. She moaned against the dual sensations, covering her mouth with one hand and clawing at the sheets with the other. She accepted every inch of me, reveling in the fullness. I delayed pulling out, wanting to feel her cum, her pussy squeezing around me. My thumb rhythmically massaged, never letting up. I rocked my hips only slightly, keeping a steady movement of dick to thrum against her inner walls.

  “God, stop. I don’t want to come yet!” She groaned, staring at me desperately, both hands assaulting the bed now.

  “You’ll come when I want you to.”

  “Please. I want this to last,” she begged.

  Her words redoubled my efforts, thumb working furiously. She thought one orgasm was all she was getting. This woman needed to be properly fucked.

  “Oh, God! God!” She screamed, too lost in the orgasm to worry over muffling her cries. Her legs tightened around my body as she rode the wave, toes curling and the screaming dissolving into soft grunts of pleasure while her body shivered.

  I fucked her faster now, continuing to rub, upping the stimulation and watching as her eyes flashed open and she realized the experience wasn’t over. One orgasm was just the tip of the goddamn iceberg.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” She thrashed against the pillows as a new rush rocked her body. She convulsed around me, gasping, already pink Irish face flushed bright red.

  Abruptly yanking out of her, I smiled down at her, lips curling and blood boiling.

  “On your knees.”

  She fumbled, pulling her legs from around me and rolling over to her stomach. I clawed into her hips, yanking her up onto her knees. I loved the squeals, the little gasps of surprise. They fucking sent me into overdrive.

  This time, I didn’t start slow. We were past that. I slammed into her, plunging and exiting hard and fast. She reached back between her legs, pushing finger between her folds and rubbing herself now. She was greedy, wanting the flood gates to reopen. Her upper half was angled down against the bed awkwardly, her head turned, and the side of her face smashed into a pillow. As I slammed into her, she rocked back and forth, but she kept her damn hand in play, flicking the bean until she began to gasp and groan again.

  I came in a hot stream, filling the condom to its breaking point before pulling out of her one more time.

  Hotel Ann collapsed to the bed, naked body limp and too spent to care how she looked now.

  It was freedom for her. Even with my need to dominate, with my rules and lines in the sand, it was still freedom.

  To let go.

  To surrender to the experience.

  To be kissed and fucked the way a woman should be.

  I didn’t feel like I normally did though. An emptiness had settled in my chest. The sex felt hollow, even after the orgasm.

  And I knew why. Deep down, I knew why.

  Because the woman on the bed wasn’t her.

  16.

  Juliette

  The change of clothes Balthasar gave me were slightly too big, and not at all my style. They were more 90s Britney, “Oops I Did it Again,” and less grown woman with a serious career. It wasn’t something I’d have expected a fucking billionaire to have for his ‘guests’, so my money was on a one-night stand leaving behind a role-playing costume. Catholic schoolgirl anyone?

  But I was grateful to be dry. Mostly dry. I’d refused the lace panties he’d offered. That was just... really fucking creepy.

  My holster, gun and badge, really set the outfit off though I had to admit. It was just what the FBI needed—stripper chic to distract the bad guys.

  Balthasar insisted on calling me a car, and paying for it, leading me down through the garage and out a back entrance.

  “I hope you understand the cloak and dagger, Miss Capuleti. Things are salacious enough as it is.” Balthasar stood on the curb, his gaze roving the street.

  “I understand and welcome it.” I nodded from inside the lux vehicle. “I would have been fine with a regular old cab.”

  “Mr. Montego would not have been fine with me sending you off in a regular old cab,” he smiled. “Besides, John here is discreet.”

  I glanced at the partition between myself and the driver. “Ahhhh.” I understood now. More precautions. I’d be offended, if I wasn’t also desperate to keep my name out of any more news articles.

  “Thank you for your visit, Miss Capuleti.” Balthasar gave a little bow and turned around.

  “Hey, where is The Candy Factory anyways?” I asked as an afterthought, though the car was already pulling onto the street. Balthasar didn’t turn back to answer. He hadn’t heard me, I guessed.

  Leaning forward, I tapped on the partition. It lowered slowly, revealing a serious man in a brown suit. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Just wanted to give you my address,” I smiled tentatively. The man didn’t seem... jovial.

  “The directions are already programmed into the GPS, ma’am.” He began to raise the divider again, but I jutted a handout to block the way.

  “How is my address already in your GPS?” I hadn’t told Balthasar, and I sure as hell hadn’t told Romero.

  “Ma’am, the address was sent to my company and programmed before I drove to Mr. Montego’s residence. That’s all I know.” He lapsed into silence, patiently waiting for me to move my hand.

  I wanted to interrogate him further, but if he was telling the truth, then he didn’t know anything more. Sheepishly, I moved my hand.

  “You already fucking knew my address, didn’t you?” I huffed into the air, crossing my arms and pressing harder against the admittedly cushy-as-hell seat. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. Billionaire with connections. He fucking knows people in the FBI. Not just the FBI, my own damn building. It would probably take one damn phone call to find out where I lived. I swear to god if that asshole Anthony gave it to him...”

  I hoped the partition muffled the sound of me ranting to myself. Discrete car service or not, the daughter of a murdered socialite acting like a complete head case might be too juicy of a story to resist feeding to the tabloids.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I mumbled as I pushed out of the car, not waiting for the driver to open the door—though he clearly meant to.

  “Yes, ma’am. Have a good day, ma’am.” He stood next to my opened door now, hands on the upper edges and readying to close it as soon as I was out of the way.

  “You don’t have to keep calling me ma’am.” I said awkwardly.

  He didn’t answer, so I retreated away, jumping a little as he clicked the door closed fast behind me. Even though I knew he was going to close the stupid door. Obviously.

  I just wanted to get inside, get a fucking beer, and watch about a hundred hours of mindless television. I’d fall asleep insanely late. My alarm would piss my tired ass off in the morning. And everything would be exactly how it should be.

  Of course, life has a ten
dency to not give you what you want even when you desperately need it.

  My phone was ringing when I pushed into my apartment. I stumbled over the foyer rug and snagged it, saying ‘hello’ before the receiver was lifted to my face.

  “Hi, Julie. It’s Dad.” He sounded tired. Even more so than he had at the cemetery, which means he was lower than low.

  “What’s wrong?” My heart leapt into my chest, though I didn’t know why. What could be worse than the anniversary of Mom’s murder?

  “Look, Sweetheart. I can’t afford another month at the studio space in Brooklyn, and I haven’t been able to sublet it since that last artist bailed. Not everyone wants to work in a space filled with someone else’s crap. I’ve been holding on to it because I just couldn’t let it go. Your mother rented it for me and...” His voice faded away.

  “I remember that birthday. She was so proud of you for having that small show in Tribeca and said a dedicated space was exactly what an art world rising star needed. She even rented it under your favorite artist’s name, right? Ingres.” God, it was going to kill him to clean out the studio.

  “Yes,” Dad’s voice was so broken, “Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres. She thought she was being so clever, renting under David Ingres because Jean-Auguste studied at the Studio of David.”

  “It was clever,” I smiled to myself, thinking of how she’d given him the keys pushed inside a cupcake and then frosted over. She’d said the studio was his free and clear for the next five years. It must have cost a fortune, but it was around the time my maternal grandparents died. I always figured the funds to rent it came from their estate. I hadn’t thought of that in forever. I mean, I knew they’d kept renting it after the original lease expired because I would sometimes visit Dad after school. But when Mom died, I’d finished my senior year of high school and run off to California in a fog. I hadn’t given the studio a second thought. I wasn’t attached to it like Dad. How had I not known he was still hanging onto that memory? These past months having to pay the lease must have been bleeding him dry.

  I realized the line had gone quiet, both of us lost in our thoughts.

  “Mom made things special sometimes, didn’t she?” I offered, trying to brighten the mood.

  “She made everything special, until—” Dad said, but then stopped speaking abruptly; I could hear a loud swallow, as if he was gathering himself against a fresh wave of emotion. “Enough of that. I’m exhausted and the hard work hasn’t even begun yet. You think you can meet me there in about an hour? I know you’re working, and it’s okay if you can’t, but if—”

  “Of course I can, Dad. I took the day off anyway. I’d rather be with you than alone.” That was a little bit of a lie. All I wanted right now as to be gloriously alone.

  He sighed, relief clear in his tone. “Thanks. I don’t think I could have gone there alone.”

  “How long has it been?”

  “I went about three months ago. I... I didn’t make it past the front door. I opened it and looked inside and I just... I just couldn’t do it. Even though I knew I couldn’t keep paying the rent anymore.”

  “You won’t be alone this time. Okay?”

  “Okay.” God, he sounded so broken. I hadn’t heard him like this in a long time. “See you there soon. And sweetheart, I know it’s a pain, but I’ll need to clear some space at the cottage too. If you can come get some of your stuff from the old house?”

  “Sure, Dad. I can do that.”

  “Thanks, honey.”

  “Anything you need. See you soon. I’ll bring coffee.”

  We said our goodbyes and I dropped the phone against its cradle. Looking wistfully at the TV for only a moment, I sighed and went to the bedroom to change. I wasn’t going anywhere else in the borrowed clothes. I’d wash them, fold them, and then return them to their owner. I was sure he’d miss them the next time he had a hard-on for pigtails.

  *

  The elevator creaked upwards, jerking unexpectedly and causing one of the coffees to spill a little from its vented top. A hot stream of amber liquid snaked down the side of the to-go cup, singeing my fingers. “Fuck,” I lifted my hand, keeping the cup upright, so I could suck the hot drops off my skin.

  When my ride shook to a stop, Dad was there to raise the gates and let me out. He hadn’t gone in yet, hadn’t even unlocked the door to the studio.

  “I figured I’d wait for you out here,” he mumbled sheepishly, taking the cup I held out to him.

  “We’ll go in together then, shall we?” I smiled encouragingly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll survey the place, see what needs doing, and then we’ll hire someone to come in and pack everything up and move it to your garage.” The cottage in Glen Cove had a detached double garage. Dad had converted one side into a makeshift studio with a pot belly stove to keep the place warm in winter. It was small, intimate, but it suited him better than the large uptown space ever had.

  He nodded, not responding and not sipping at his coffee, even though it was from what used to be his favorite café.

  “Want to give me the keys?” I held my hand out, waiting. He hesitated for only a second.

  “I’m weak as hell, aren’t I?” He gave a small laugh, reaching into his pocket for the keys and handing them to me.

  “You’re anything but weak, Dad.” I shook my head. “Mom meant well when she got you this place. She loved your art so much.”

  “She wanted me to be big time, Julie. Wanted me to have all the showings and accolades and my picture in the paper. She wanted me to be more than I am. That’s why she rented the studio.”

  “She loved you, Dad.”

  “She’d have loved me more if I were successful.”

  I’d never heard him talk like this, like he wasn’t sure about Mom’s love, about their relationship. I didn’t know what to say, what to do to make him feel better. My mother wanted to look good, dress well, and she maintained her social circles after marrying Dad who wasn’t exactly her caliber. But she loved him. I knew she loved him, for exactly who he was. Not who he could be.

  The deadbolt clicked and I turned the knob to push the door inward.

  The smell of old paint, thinner, and dust floated into the hallway.

  I loved those scents. My father always smelled of them.

  “Come on, Dad.” I shoved the keys into my pocket and reached for his hand. He took it, giving it a squeeze, and we walked into the studio together.

  It was just as I remembered it from so many years ago. Floor-standing easels set near the large banks of windows, rolling so they could be shifted to take advantage of moving daylight. A row of three large work surfaces were dotted with table easels, each cradling half-finished paintings. The back wall was a mine field of finished works of various sizes, some nearly hitting the ceiling, others so small they could be held in the palm of your hand. The center of the room was empty, as it always had been. Dad liked space to move, to consider his pieces at different angles. The floor seemed wrong though, like something was missing.

  “It’s all exactly as I remember,” I murmured, letting go of Dad’s hand and moving deeper into the large space with its exposed beams and duct work.

  “I tried to work here after her death; I knew she’d like that, but I couldn’t. So much pain. The guilt...” his voice trailed off and I turned around to find dampness welling in his eyes.

  “Hey, it’s okay. She’d understand. She rented the place to make you happy. She wouldn’t want you to force yourself to use it.” I walked back to him, patting his shoulder and comforting him as he’d tried to do at the cemetery.

  The loss of a loved one... that pain never really fades away. It’s that whole thing about our feelings being in a box. And grief is this giant ball at first, and so it’s hitting the sides of the box often, always, again and again. Yet over time, the ball gets smaller. Until it hits the sides a little less often. And that change happens again. And then again. Until the ball is tiny enough that you can forget the agony once in a while. Tho
ugh it still hits, sometimes, randomly and fiercely and you find yourself curled into a ball dying because the pain is even worse than you remembered it being.

  “Where should we start?”

  Dad stared around the room and finally pointed at the array of stored finished paintings in the back. “There. We can sort which ones go to the cottage and which ones get donated. I’m sure there are charities around the city that could use them. Your mother would like that.” He looked at me, small smile making his face look less worn. “And if you like any of them for your apartment, of course you can take them today.”

  “I’d love to have a few.” I nodded.

  “Looking at this place, I guess I was really lucky anyone ever wanted to sublet it from me. Having to promise to leave everything as it was, and only work in the empty available space… Am I such a fool as to think not changing anything will keep her from being dead?” Dad’s voice grew softer with each word, until I could barely hear his last few utterances.

  “You’re not a fool, Dad.” I walked over, kissing him quickly on the cheek and swiping away the tears beginning to fall.

  We spent several hours moving slowly, mostly because Dad had a story for each painting. The last few paintings to decide on were covered by an old floral sheet. I pulled it back gingerly, not wanting to knock over the art, and a cloud of dust blossomed in the air. We coughed, covering our mouths against the dirt.

  Under the sheet were six city streetscapes. Pencil and watercolor. Soft shadows and light. Not my dad’s usual style. “Are these yours?” I squatted down, studying them. They were framed simply in black with pale gray matting.

  “Oh, yes,” Dad stared down at them, a hand reaching behind his head to rub his neck. This was too much for him, not just emotionally, but physically. I could see the strain in his face, the pallor and how his body shook ever so slightly. He probably hoped I didn’t notice.

  “You normally don’t work in watercolors. And they’re framed. Was there supposed to be a show or something?” I reached for one, picking it up and studying it closer. Dad’s telltale initials with the stylized ‘C’ that arrowed sharply to the corner of the frame was unmistakable.