Falling For The Villain

by Robinson, M.

  My eyes watered, and I hacked and coughed, but that didn’t stop my body from responding to his touch. The more pressure he applied to my clit, the closer I got to release. I felt his hard cock on my leg through his slacks.

  “You want to come?”

  “Yes…” I shamelessly begged.

  He slapped my pussy a few more times, and that was all it took for me to shake with a deep, steady release. My come dripped down my inner thighs and all over his fingers, and he didn’t stop until every last drop was out of me. My head swirled with aftershocks, and that was when he slid his fingers inside of me. It was the first time a man had ever done so, and I squirmed at the discomfort. It hurt a lot, and it was only his fingers that were inside of me.

  “And right there, pet …” he rasped in a husky, addicting tone. “You feel that? It’s your virginity. Now the real question is, should I claim it with my fingers or with my cock instead?”

  “Please,” I pleaded, for I didn’t know what.

  I was embarrassed, ashamed, afraid, and I still wanted him, needed his touch.

  He growled from deep within his chest.

  It was over before it even began. He removed his fingers and licked them clean. Backing away, he walked toward the door.

  “Aren’t you going to untie me?”

  “When you’re my good girl, you get to sleep in my arms; until then, you get nothing but darkness while you’re bound to the bed.”

  He turned off the light, and once I heard the door being locked, I welcomed the sleep with open arms, allowing myself to slip back into dreams of my old life where I wasn’t being held captive.

  My dreams turned into nightmares, and somewhere along the night, I was screaming in terror. Only to be told, “Shhh… shhh… shhh…”

  I passed out again, only this time I wasn’t tied up.

  No more dreams.

  No more nightmares.

  I was at peace.

  Laying there, wrapped in my villain’s arms.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Donovan

  “Fuck!”

  I kicked the door, again and again, my foot banging against the metal until I felt nothing. When I was feeling everything. She was sleeping in my arms. It was too soon, but I couldn’t fucking help myself. She was hysterical, having a nightmare more than likely about me. I wanted her fear, yet it needed to be on my terms. Not hers. I watched Juliet from the monitor in my office for as long as I could bear it.

  “You done yet?” a familiar voice questioned down the corridor.

  I didn’t turn around.

  I didn’t have to.

  “Does it look like I’m done?” I kicked it again.

  I sent the guards to go play fetch while I tended to my property.

  That’s all she is, Donovan. You’re just taking care of what’s yours—nothing more, nothing less.

  “I can smell her fear.”

  “What?” I spun around. “You a werewolf now, Troy?”

  “I don’t like blood as much as you do. You sure you still want this one? I could take her off your hands … break her for you, really challenge her to become the best version of herself. You know how it goes, kill all hope, burn down everything, so she becomes reliant on you. It’s like having a gorgeous slave who would kill just for your approval.”

  I clenched my fists and finally gave him my full attention. Troy was my father’s best friend, and in some form, he was a father figure to me as well—taking me under his wing after I had killed my father. He was one of the only people who understood me, understood what we did, what we provided, and was the only one capable of seeing past every one of my cold, calculated looks to the man inside of me.

  And sometimes, I hated him for it.

  Troy wasn’t intimidated or threatened by my presence and made sure to put me in my place every chance he’d get. It didn’t happen often. He was getting older and didn’t have the power he once had.

  Especially, over me.

  “What do you really want?” I changed the subject, walking into another room that stored all my liquor. I poured a dram of whiskey into my favorite glass. “You never visit when I’m working.”

  “I missed you,” he chuckled, sitting in his usual spot. The black leather chair was his favorite.

  Our habits kept us focused, and each of us were religiously tied to everything we did when breaking someone new, down to the very clothes we wore and people we talked to.

  This lifestyle wasn’t simple. It was a calculated web of desire, deceit, lust, training, approval, and money.

  And I fucking loved it.

  Most days.

  He wore a black suit with his black shirt; the first two buttons were undone, revealing the matching tattoo we both got when we started our company. Something I couldn’t think about now, not with his arrogant blue eyes practically twinkling with amusement and not with his dark blond hair pulled away from his face like he’d constantly been running his hands through it. Plotting, thinking, planning. Even in his sixties, he was striking. According to almost every woman he had trained.

  In the back of my mind, I was reminded of that day.

  The day my world went dark.

  The day he offered to rescue me, and I hated that he was right to this very day. My father’s best friend, now my business partner and the only man I could trust.

  But could I really trust him?

  Fuck no.

  We were slave trainers. Sometimes the women were trafficked, and sometimes they were just taken. I took my seat, leaning back, folding my hands in my lap, and waiting for the question I knew would come. It was inevitable. After all, he always wanted what he couldn’t have, and I typically always gave him what was out of his reach. I was indulgent like that, and it was the only way we really showed affection.

  Gifts.

  Of the female variety.

  A lot of them.

  He uncorked the wine, poured a half glass, and lifted it to his lips with a superior smirk before saying, “How much?”

  I knew it was coming. He was always so fucking predictable.

  The question itself wasn’t shocking at all; my reaction, however, was.

  Stomach clenched, I took a calming breath and shrugged. “More than you can afford.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Is it, though?”

  “Donovan…” He shook his head. “You know I’m good for it, so answer the damn question before you ruin my night—is this Castella wine?”

  “Vintage,” I answered in a clipped tone. “Wasted on a bastard like you.”

  “Cheers.” He winked. “And try not to sound so threatened, D. This is business, not pleasure,”

  I flinched at that.

  “Or is it pleasure? Is this … more than just a business arrangement? Is that why you’ve been with her longer than usual?” He set his glass down, then cracked his knuckles and stood. “I called earlier; your assistant said you were busy, so I assumed work. I came by twice, and both times you were busy. With her. We both know it takes a few hours tops. You leave, you come back, you leave, you fuck with their heads, and then you have the best product possible, but you…” He pointed, his smile firmly in place. “It hasn’t been a few hours, Donovan. I even heard you grabbed the cold cream.”

  I scowled. “Every pet is different. You should know that. Oh wait…” I snapped my fingers. “You wouldn’t since you accidentally killed—”

  “Shut the hell up,” he yelled. “We won’t speak of it. Ever.”

  I shrugged, knowing I’d hit one of his buttons. “Whatever you say, Troy.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Just admit that you’re keeping her or offer her up for sale. Your choice.”

  “Nice.” I laughed mockingly. “Has anyone ever told you that your manipulation schemes need more polish?” I stood and stared out the large bay window as lights filled the night sky. “I won’t give her up today.”

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “What about next week?” I sighed. “It doesn
’t matter because she’s one to keep.”

  “Because last time that worked out so well for your fat—”

  “We all have our things we don’t talk about, Troy. Don’t make me fucking kill you. I’m wearing my favorite tie.”

  Footsteps sounded. “This isn’t over, D. I’ll be back. Don’t underestimate my love for you. Or my need to possess something dear to you. It didn’t go well last time and won’t go well this time. Remember how the game works… In the end, the ones you care for suffer.”

  “And who’d you pick this time?”

  “Like you don’t know.”

  “Twenty-seven, blue eyes, reddish-brown hair, has a dimple on her right cheek, father owns two shipping companies, one little brother, married, one older sister, divorced, drives a Maserati and just can’t stop waiting for her prince to come, does that sound about right?”

  He started slowly clapping. “So you did your research.”

  “You have yours. I have mine. Why the question, Troy? Truly?”

  He was silent for a few seconds. “Maybe I’m just greedy.”

  I laughed. “There is no maybe, Troy. You are a greedy fuck. I’m warning you now—back off. This one’s…” I refused to say different. Instead, I shrugged then glared. “Mine to break.”

  “If you can,” he said hauntingly. “If you can. She’s been with you how many weeks now? Over a month, right?”

  A shiver ran down my spine as I watched him leave, like a foreboding sensation of dread and fear wasn’t something I was used to feeling.

  Until her.

  Until now.

  Until my Juliet.

  Fuck me.

  Juliet

  “Shhh…” His voice filled my dreams, rolling over me in waves as a warm ocean breeze kicked in, making me doubt my sanity. I sucked in a sharp breath and jerked awake.

  My achy wrists were now tied up again; the ugly pieces of rope were cutting into my skin, marring me, provoking me, and worst of all, reminding me of whose I was.

  And what he would eventually do.

  I clenched my legs together or at least tried to. They were both tied up as well.

  Why?

  He undid the ties, and I slept in his arms. Why, even when he was cruel, I wanted his name to fall from my lips, so even if I cursed him to hell, I knew whose name I was screaming? The blindfold had fallen down toward my nose while a fire roared in the corner, and blackness overtook the rest of my surroundings. Maybe on purpose, maybe because my villain thrived in the dark. Whatever it was, I was at least alone, able to breathe, to think.

  Suddenly, the door opened, and I stilled as footsteps sounded.

  A voice I didn’t recognize whispered in my ear, “One day, you’ll know what it’s like to serve at my mercy. Today. Is not that day.”

  He left me shaking until the door opened again what felt like hours later. I tensed, assuming it was the terrifying stranger only to have the blindfold pulled from my face and my villain’s dark eyes searching mine.

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where!” he demanded an answer.

  I didn’t understand. “What? What!” I tried to scramble back as he grabbed my wrists and stared at them, his eyes roaming from the rope toward my face, down my body, and back up.

  Trembling, I waited for him to talk. His lips pressed down into a hard, gorgeous line of cruelty I wish I could say was more terror than beauty.

  “Where,” he repeated again slowly, his lips almost moving in a slow-motion cadence. “Did he touch you?”

  “Who?”

  He grabbed me harder, almost painfully squeezing my soft skin where the rope had burned against my skin. “The man who was in here, where did he fucking touch you?”

  “Nowhere!” I yelled, a hot tear sliding down my cheek and colliding with my wrists, with his hands joining us together in my pain, his horror. “H-he came in and said something about me being his. I was kind of out of it, then he left—he left!”

  “Motherfucker!” My captor jerked back, and his eyes dripped with hatred as he paced the room. Back and forth, he walked across the wood floor until he finally stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I’ll untie you.”

  “What? Why?”

  His nostrils flared. “You’ll know soon enough.”

  Already I could see the erection in his slacks. The way he tried to adjust himself, move out of the light. He left for maybe a minute and returned with a knife. Slowly he cut through the ropes on my ankles and wrists, his whiskey breath on my face.

  “Stand.”

  “Wha—”

  “NOW!” he growled from deep within his chest.

  I shuffled to my feet. My body was so unbelievably sore. There I stood, naked in front of him. In one swift, rough motion, he clutched onto the back of my neck and forcefully threw my ass onto the bench of the piano.

  I barely had time to register what was going on when he sneered, “Play.”

  “Play wha—”

  “Play,” he emphasized each letter.

  I felt like this was a test that I was going to fail miserably at.

  “Juliet,” he warned right next to my ear. “If you don’t start playing, I’m going to whip your fuc—”

  My fingers began moving, and I played what came naturally to me. It was one of my favorite pieces to perform.

  There was so much emotion.

  So much depth.

  Intensity.

  Craze.

  I played what I was feeling, all the hysteria he was putting me through with his multiple personalities.

  One finger right behind the next, my hands danced from one end of the piano to the other. My body and head moving in sync with each other. I got lost in the music, in the vibrations, in the mania of the tips of my fingers, becoming one with the sounds I was evoking. Closing my eyes, I let myself be one with the melody and the life this song was breathing into me.

  His vicious words.

  His cruel demeanor.

  This power he held over me from the moment I’d first seen him.

  It was all overwhelming, consuming, breaking me into a million pieces.

  Like a shattered doll.

  A broken toy.

  I. Was. His.

  No mind of my own.

  No thoughts for myself.

  No opinion.

  No talking back.

  He was stripping everything away from me.

  I wanted it to stop.

  Please, God … make it stop.

  The song was beginning to end, over too soon. I never wanted to let it go. I had to; he would make me. Giving me pleasure and pain was what he did best. I held on for as long as I could, seeking refuge in the only place I always could.

  I didn’t want to open my eyes. When I did, this would be over—the high I was riding on would come to a complete stop.

  I wouldn’t be Juliet…

  I would only be his pet.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Donovan

  I was sitting in the closet, all the way in the back corner, where he couldn’t see me at first. It didn’t matter how far back I hid in the darkness; he always found me.

  I cried; I couldn’t help it.

  I didn’t like it in here.

  “Sir … please let me out. Please, Dad. I’ll be a good boy. I promise; I’ll be the best boy.”

  He didn’t listen. He never did.

  My body was shaking.

  I was scared.

  What would he do to me this time?

  Tears streamed down my face; faster and faster, they fell down my cheeks as I waited for the punishment that always came.

  “Shhh … baby … shhh…”

  I recognized her soothing voice, knowing who was in my room with me.

  “Play for me, Mama,” I murmured so low she wouldn’t hear what I said.

  He didn’t like that. When I begged for her. It’d only make him meaner, madder, hurt me more than throwing me in my closet with the door locked on the other si
de so I couldn’t get out.

  I was trapped.

  Alone.

  It wasn’t long before I heard her playing on my piano for me. She always did when she could get away from him, long enough to comfort my fear of him. He was never nice. He didn’t smile, or laugh, or play with me like I’d see in movies and television shows.

  Nothing.

  He yelled, and hit, and threw me in the closet. Sometimes it felt like I lived in here, with my sadness and my tears that never stopped. Mama started playing Clair de Lune, my favorite song.

  I don’t know how many times she repeated it until all of a sudden, I heard his hateful roar, “Did you think I wouldn’t have found out?”

  She stopped playing, her finger sitting on a key for a second too long.

  I gasped, thinking he was talking to me, but he wasn’t. I could see through one of the holes in the door that he made one night with a knife. He stabbed it so many times, screaming that I was a bad boy who never listened to him.

  I did.

  I tried to.

  It wasn’t enough.

  It never was.

  “I asked you a question, pet. Don’t make me ask you again.”

  I jumped, hating every second of what was happening, and I couldn’t do anything about it.

  I was stuck.

  I couldn’t move, trying to breathe through the terror I was feeling. Exactly how Mama taught me to.

  “Master, I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You fucking liar!”

  The sound of his whip was the next thing I heard, instantly hitting Mama’s skin. I didn’t make a sound. Even though I wanted to scream, shout, beg him to stop beating her. Usually, he’d strike her a few times and then stop; this time, he wasn’t stopping himself.

  “Master, please…”

  “Donovan, do you see?! Do you hear your lying whore of a mother?!”

  Slap.

  Slap.

  Slap.

  He struck her so many times I lost count. She fell to the floor by the bench of the piano.

  Surrendering in mercy.

  Usually he would stop. This time he didn’t hold back on his assault.

  “Donovan…” he sang in that voice I hated more than anything. “Tell him the truth, pet. Where did my boy come from?”