by Linnea May
It doesn't help that we're celebrating our anniversary today. We never had something that we'd classify as "the talk,” but both Jared and I agreed that the day he came home to me, finally realizing that I was not out to get him, and I had come to a similar realization of my own, that that day would be our day. It has been exactly one year since then, and it feels like almost a farce that I received this offer now. It's been in the talks for a few days, and being who I am, I didn't share any of it with Jared until now. I received the actual offer today. All I had to do was to say yes.
If only it was that easy.
Jared is at the office all day, but he's made reservations for us at the same restaurant where we met for the very first time. It's a special day, so I took extra effort to look good for him, wearing a new purple Gucci dress, and letting my long hair fall down over my shoulders in elegant curls. He loves it when I wear my hair down, and I'm sure he'll appreciate the work I put into making my hair curl this way.
I'm nervously pressing my purse against my abdomen, as if it was a barrier for protection. My nerves calm down a little, when I see the look on his face as I walk through the door.
"You look stunning," he greets me, getting up from his seat and placing his hands on my hips as he pulls me in for a kiss that may be a little too sensual for a public place. It does wonders for my shaky emotional state. I instantly feel calm and protected, confident that he'll support me no matter what.
He's wearing a black suit with a silver tie, his hair gelled neatly to the side, displaying his edgy undercut that I've always found extremely attractive. The suit must be new. I can't remember ever seeing him wear that particular suit.
He's a true gentleman when we're out in public, pulling the chair out for me and making sure that I have a glass of champagne in hand as soon as I'm seated.
Meanwhile, I feel like I'm going to burst if I don't tell him. We clink glasses, and he can tell by the way mine is shaking that there's something on my mind.
"Tell me," he says, ominously smiling at me. "What's troubling you?"
I throw him a coy smile. "There's no place for secrets with you, is there?"
He shakes his head. "Not when it matters. Now tell me, Button. I can tell that something is up."
I take a deep breath - and another sip from my glass of champagne. The restaurant is busy, and the dining area is dipped in warm candlelight and unobtrusive background music. We're sitting at a table at the far end of the dining room, rather secluded from everyone else right in front of a big window that allows for people watching on the street.
"I got a job offer," I begin, catching his attentive eyes. "A pretty good one."
He smiles. "That's great! What kind of job?"
"Working for a presidential campaign," I continue. "I was asked to join the press team for Gregory Coldman."
Jared arches his eyebrows. "Let me rephrase that: that's beyond great, Button! How the hell did you pull that off?"
I give him a cautious smile. "It's... I know it's great. But it would mean that I'd be busy as hell, and I'd have to do a lot of traveling, especially if he makes it as far as becoming a candidate."
Jared nods.
"I understand that," he says. "But it's a great opportunity for you, far bigger than what we are."
"Nothing is bigger than we are," I correct him, feeling slightly hurt at how easily he's ready to part with me.
His face changes into a solemn smile. "Of course, you're right. Which is exactly why you need to do this. If that is what you want."
"It is," I say. "I mean, I know you didn't exactly feel comfortable in that area, but I think it could be really exciting. And I wouldn't be gone that much, at least not at first. And if it ends up becoming super huge, then-"
"Then we'll deal with it," he finishes my sentence. He leans forward, fixating his attention on me with his dark eyes while reaching for my hands. "I'm so fucking proud of you."
I blush at his praise. Him telling me, the man I love, that he's "fucking proud" of me is the most wonderful thing I could think of. I never doubted his respect for me, despite the way our dynamics change once we're playing, but the way he looks at me now, the way he understands, respects, and loves who I am... what else could I ever ask for?
"But there's one thing that worries me," he adds, knitting his eyebrows.
"Yes?"
"You, out there, all by yourself," he says, his eyes locking onto mine. "My sexy Button, turning every man's head with her beauty, her sass, her talent. You're more than most men would ever dare ask for."
I blush and let out a helpless chuckle. "I don't think th-"
"Let's just make sure that everyone knows you're mine," he says, cutting me off.
I don't know what he's trying to say, until he gets up from his seat, still holding my hand while he walks around the table, coming to a halt right next to me.
"Jared, what..."
My voice breaks when he goes down on one knee, a smile that never lacks his characteristic obscurity appearing on his face.
"You're mine," he says. "My partner in crime, my equal, my savior, my everyday challenge, and my everyday delight."
He pauses, smirking at my reaction as he produces a little jewelry box from the inside pocket of his jacket and drops to his knee. He opens the box, revealing a simple twisted split band ring with a round diamond setting.
"Ann Porter, will you do me the honor of wearing this ring and letting the world know that you're my everything, my wife-"
"Yes!" I cut him off, before I drop down from my chair, falling right into his open arms, tears threatening to betray my idea about being a strong and self-sustained woman. "Yes, yes, yes."
"And here I was, thinking that this could be the last time you'd let me have the final word," he breathes into my ear. "My sassy Button."
"Never," I reply, between showering him with kisses. "You're mine just as much as I'm yours."
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An excerpt from ‘Anniversary’:
"Happy anniversary, my pet," he whispered as our kiss ended, holding my chin up with two of his fingers, so I was looking at him. His dark eyes were as unreadable as ever, shielded with mystery. Yet, I had already uncovered a range of hidden parts of him - and I knew he would let me in more and more with time.
I smiled. "Happy anniversary, master."
"Are you happy to see me?"
I nodded. "Yes, sir."
I knew he would check. I knew he would check if I had obeyed his wish. And he did. His hands wandered along my back, then moved to the front, gently kneading my breasts through the fabric of my dress.
"Good girl," he whispered, giving me a little peck on the forehead.
And then one of his hands moved along, wandering down my belly, cleverly reaching underneath my light dress. His fingertips skimmed my inner thighs as he slowly moved upwards. I moaned when he reached my center, caressing my wet clit with two of his fingers. Even after all that had happened between us, I was still amazed at how wet just being around him made me.
"You're such a good slut for me," he breathed. "Such a perfect, wet girl."
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Also by Linnea May
VIOLENT DELIGHTS: A Dark Billionaire Romance
VIOLENT CRAVINGS: A Dark Billionaire Romance
TAMED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
BARRED: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
His Secret Muse
Dark Romance with Stella Noir
Silent Daughter: A Dark Billionaire Romance
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If you enjoyed this book, you may also like my other Dark Billionaire Romance VIOLENT CRAVINGS. Turn the page to read the first few chapters for free!
VIOLENT CRAVINGS
A Dark Billionaire Romance
by
Linnea May
“Something unappeased, unappeasable, is within me.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, ‚Thus Spoke Zarathustra‘
Prologue
Ryan
This girl is trouble.
I knew it from the first moment I saw her, and I’m an idiot for thinking that my obsession would sort itself out once I had her.
She’s kneeling before me, her body marked in various places, sweaty strands of brown hair sticking to her face, her make-up smeared across her pale cheeks, her bruised chest heaving under heavy frantic breaths, and the vibrant green of her eyes locked on me – asking – no begging – for more.
She’s not ready to leave, and I’m not ready to let her go.
But I will have to release her back into the world soon.
Just an hour, that is all we have left. An hour before I have to remove her collar and the leather shackles from around her wrists.
An hour before she will cease to be mine.
The thought is gut-twisting.
But I will make that final hour count. I have to make it count.
Every moment with her is cherished. The same thing applied to all the others before her, but not a single one of them made my chest ache so painfully at the thought of having to let them go. Everything has been different with her from the get-go.
She was never supposed to be here. She wasn’t part of the menu that usually serves to satisfy my cravings.
I broke the first rule by bringing her here, and I’ve broken so many more rules since.
This has to stop.
I drop down to my knees in front of her. We connect at eye level, the intensity of my expression matching her vivid gaze when I bring the palm of my right hand up to brush her cheek. She leans instinctively into my touch, and under all the dried-up tears and the traces of pain, she smiles at me.
No words are needed for me to know that she feels it, too, that magnetic attraction pulling us together. Yet my heart nearly bursts when she parts her lips to whisper the words that can bring a man like me down to his knees.
“Thank you, master.”
Her voice is soft and full of forgiveness, piercing like a blade right into my shielded heart.
I never should have bought her.
I promised myself that I would never lose control again. My addiction has almost ruined my life before, and I vowed to never let it happen again. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I paid her to be with me for just this one night. That’s why I will have to say goodbye to her as soon as our time is up.
We have one hour.
The same as an alcoholic can’t simply just have a drink anytime he wants, I can’t have sex like a normal person.
I can only allow to indulge in my cravings once a year.
A twisted annual retreat in the company of a new girl each time. I need the change. After all, what’s the point in exclusivity if I can only do this once every twelve months? Only an idiot would stick to having sex with the same woman every time.
And only an idiot would ignore the alarming warning signals surrounding me left and right. I’ve been hearing them ever since I first spoke to her, and I’ve been ignoring each and every single one of them, confident I could handle this.
I knew there was risk. There always is when an addict gets a taste of what he should stay away off.
But I may have underestimated her.
My doll.
She’s capable of ruining my life.
I have no other choice than to go cold turkey after I’m done with her, no matter how agonizing it may be for me.
I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.
I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be fine.
But until then, I will make her mine in every way possible, leaving my mark on her perfect body, on her open heart, and on her brilliant mind.
I may have to forget about her after we part ways.
But one thing is for sure.
She sure as hell won’t forget me.
Chapter 1
Laura
Tonight is a four-hour event. Four long, draining hours full of pretentious assholes, leering glances assessing and undressing me, and ungrateful ignorance, while I serve the richest of the rich, hurrying around in an uncomfortably tight uniform. The short pencil skirt moves up my thigh with every step I take, forcing me to constantly adjust it as I graciously balance a small, round serving tray. The starched white blouse and the black vest are so tight on my diaphragm that I can hardly breathe. The material is heavy, and I start breaking into a sweat after only a few minutes on the floor. I hate wearing this uniform and can’t wait to get out of it.
But the event just started. The waiters are lined up behind the bar, ready to serve, each of us shifting around as we try to get comfortable in the restrictive outfits we’ve been forced to wear. The girls had been asked to wear black heels, and I got scolded for my choice of shoes as soon as I walked in the door. Because I’m so tall, I don’t even own a pair of high heels, and I refuse to spend any of my limited savings on fancy shoes that I would only ever wear for this job. Even in my black ballerina flats, I tower several inches above every other serving girl here, and most of the guests. If I wore heels, I’d likely be the tallest person here, man or woman. My friend Layla, who’s standing next to me, is a petite girl. She‘s trying to make up for her small stature by wearing five-inch stilettos. They may make her almost as tall as me, but it also adds a tremendous amount of physical pain to an already strenuous evening.
We watch in silence as the room starts filling with guests, waiting anxiously to be called upon by Angelo, our boss tonight. He’s standing across the festive hall, his hands locked behind his back and his chin up, a focused smile unique to him affixed on his face.
“Ten bucks says he’s hoping to go home with one of the moneybags tonight,” Layla whispers. She winks at me, and we giggle.
“We should make a bet on who it’s going to be,” I whisper back, careful to make sure that she’s the only one who can hear me. “Most of them are going to be old as dirt.”
“Pretty sure he likes that,” Layla retorts. “To have himself a silver fox sugar daddy.”
I bite my lips to suppress another giggle. Getting up to nonsense with Layla makes this job way more bearable, especially when it includes making fun of Angelo, who tends to be overly strict about minor things. I don’t know what I would do without Layla. She’s my very best friend and always there, and I’m glad to know that she’ll come with me, ready to take on another town, another chance. We’ve been planning our escape for a while now, but lately things have started really falling into place.
This city holds nothing but dark memories for me. It has become an even more sorrowful place since my mother died.
It’s time to move on.
But first I need to save up a little more money in my bank account. I’m getting there, albeit slowly. I’ve been working as a hostess and server with this company for almost a year now. The money isn’t great, but it’s better than what I used to make as an ordinary waitress at a restaurant, and if it wasn’t for these uncomfortable uniforms, I would even go as far as to say this job is less exhausting and stressful, especially when it comes to occasions like tonight.
Tonight’s event is a fundraiser hosted by the Onyx Corporation, the biggest business empire in town. I don’t know much about Onyx because it doesn’t interest me, but I do know they oversee at least two very upscale hotel chains. They’re places I will never be able to afford and only get to see from behind the scenes when I’m serving at one of their events.
Like tonight. Even though I don’t get to enjoy any of it firsthand, jobs like this provide me with a dreamy glimpse of a life I
will never have. A life full of lavish amenities, pricey champagne, and ridiculously small hors d’oeuvres passed around on silver platters by girls like me.
We’re always eyeing the food and drinks, hoping to snag some of the leftovers, just like starving dogs on the street. It’s not that I can’t afford to buy my own food, but every penny I don’t have to spend on basics is one more I can save towards a little luxury, once I’ve paid my monthly debt installment. Like a new pair of pants. Or paying my cell phone bill.
I never said I dream big, did I?
More and more guests are arriving, filling the hall with fancy evening gowns and tailored suits, a fancy mass of human obstacles for us to meander through as we serve drinks. Layla and I always manage to steal a bottle for ourselves. We’re the only ones on the team sneaky enough to do it, and no one ever seems to notice. Sometimes we stash the bottle away in one of our bags and bring it home unopened, but on other nights, we open it while still on the job, sneaking out once every so often to catch a little break and sip from the bottle, like the classy ladies we are.
Tonight is one of those nights. Both our cheeks are glowing from champagne-induced heat. We exchange mischievous grins every time our paths cross. The wealthy guests barely notice us. We’re faceless servants to them. I smile at them, knowing they will forget my face as soon as I turn to the next guest. Most of them don’t even looks at us, let alone say ‘Thank you’ when I offer a glass of champagne or a Mimosa. Many of those who do make eye contact only do so to complain about something.
I don’t care. I’m used to it, and I’m here to make money, not friends.