Filthy Beast
Filthy Fairy Tales, Book 1
Vanessa Booke
Edited by
Rogena Mitchell Jones
Contents
Copyright
Prologue
1. OLIVIA
2. DELCAN
3. OLIVIA
4. DECLAN
5. OLIVIA
6. DECLAN
7. OLIVIA
8. OLIVIA
9. DECLAN
10. OLIVIA
11. OLIVIA
12. DECLAN
13. OLIVIA
14. DECLAN
15. OLIVIA
16. DECLAN
17. OLIVIA
18. DECLAN
19. DECLAN
20. OLIVIA
21. DECLAN
22. OLIVIA
23. DECLAN
24. OLIVIA
25. DECLAN
26. OLIVIA
27. DECLAN
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Vanessa Booke
28. FILTHY PRINCE
Copyright © 2016 Vanessa Booke
Filthy Beast (Filthy Fairy Tales, Book 1)
By Vanessa Booke
All Rights Reserved
Rogena Mitchell-Jones, Literary Editor
www.RogenaMitchell.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, brands, media, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
DECLAN
The blonde at my feet looks up at me through false lashes as she licks her lips as if she’s ready to swallow me whole. Lucky for her, I have just the thing to satisfy her appetite.
I groan in pleasure as she slides my cock into her mouth with the eagerness of a porn star. It isn’t unusual for a fan to track me down after a signing, but it is unique to find one waiting half-naked for me in my hotel room. Not that I’m complaining. Not at all. My agent, Marcy, isn’t happy about the number of women I sleep with, but I think it’s mostly because it creates more paperwork for her. More nameless women to track down, more non-disclosures to get signed, and even more messes to clean up. If I didn’t pay her as well as I do, I’m pretty sure she would drop me as a client.
After several delicious minutes in the blonde’s hot, wet mouth, she pushes me back against the king-size bed and crawls on top of me. It doesn’t take long for her to slip off the rest of her clothing to straddle me. A satisfied smile is plastered to her face as she reaches down and palms my cock. I smirk at the way her eyes grow wide at my girth. It’s all real, sweetheart.
The best part about fans is their eagerness to please. I’m never short on women in my bed. And they cream themselves just at the thought of meeting Declan Hart, author of the world’s filthiest erotica. Yup. You guessed it, baby. That’s me. I take pleasure in feeding into their fantasies. The man they see is just a facade. A carefully constructed persona with an air of mystery.
“I’ve been fantasizing about this for months.”
The blonde pulls a condom from the pocket of her discarded jeans, tearing the package with her teeth before slipping it on me. She moans, lost in pleasure as she takes every inch of me inside her.
“Ride me, baby,” I say with a cocky smile.
Her pussy clenches tightly around me as she rocks back and forth, her plastic tits swaying in my face. I smother a flicker of annoyance as her hands tangle themselves in my black mane. I’ve never been fond of being touched, as ironic as that sounds. But that doesn’t stop me from getting lost in the feeling of my high. It isn’t long before she’s screaming my name. A rush of endorphins hit me at the sound of it. It’s the same rush I get from a great run, from a ride on my motorcycle, or from jumping out of an airplane at 30,000 feet. I crave that high, chase it like a junkie.
The blonde’s nails claw my chest as I jut my hips up to meet her. My grunting only seems to push her over the edge as her ass bounces on top of me.
“Are you going to come for me?” I ask as I pull her hair. “You filthy little slut.”
“Fuck...oh, God,” she moans.
She convulses around me, and a second later, I feel hot cum pumping into the rubber. A sense of regret fills me as I detach myself from the woman in my bed. After several awkward seconds of the blonde trying to cuddle me, I roll her off me and walk over to the bathroom.
“Where are you going?”
The voice purrs, beckoning me to come back. I don’t answer, hoping she’ll get the hint that it’s time to leave. We’ve just finished, and I’m already bored with her. I flush the condom and wipe off with a hot towel, trying to rid myself of the smell of her. After taking several long, appreciative glances in the mirror, I return to the bedroom. To my surprise, I find the blonde spread out on my bed, still naked.
I frown. She’s still here? Her eyes widen with surprise at the blatant irritation on my face.
“How about another round?”
“You need to go, sweetheart.”
“What?” she asks, her overly made-up face scrunched in confusion. “You don’t want me to spend the night?”
I smirk. “I enjoyed you sucking me off, and I definitely enjoyed the ride, but that’s where it ends. I don’t get involved with fans.”
Her cheeks flame with anger as I turn back to my hotel closet to change. It isn’t until I’m halfway there that I hear something whizzing through the air at me. I duck out of the way just in time to avoid a bottle of Dom Pérignon whirling toward me. I was saving that to celebrate my latest release. The bottle crashes against the wall, sending shards of glass flying across the room as the bubbly liquid pours down the wall. Damn it. Marcy will be on my ass if there are any damages to the hotel room.
“You’re a fucking asshole,” she seethes. “No wonder your wife left you.”
I roll my eyes despite the ache I feel in my chest. All of the women I sleep with have this same reaction, but thankfully, the number of bottles flying at my head is low. Their expectations are just so far removed from the reality of what I’m willing to provide. The only relationships that last are the ones in books. I may spend almost every waking moment writing about love and romance, but the truth is I don’t believe in either.
“Do you want an autograph before you go?” I ask.
“Fuck you and your tiny dick,” she spits back at me.
“We both know that ‘tiny’ isn’t the right word to describe it. Do you need a reminder before you go?” I challenge.
She scoffs as she hurriedly dresses. She pushes past me and grabs her clothes and heels off the floor before quickly dressing.
“I hope your dick falls off,” she says.
“Now, that isn’t very nice, sweetheart.”
She turns to face me, her face as hard as ston
e. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, asshole. You think the world revolves around you, that all you have to do is flash those baby blues and women will fall for your charms—but one day, you won’t have your good looks to rely on. Karma catches up with everyone—even the great Declan Hart.”
“Careful, sweetheart. Frigid bitch doesn’t look so good on you.”
She makes no attempt to answer as she storms out, leaving me with a full mini-bar and a sour mood.
* * *
Two hours and three obnoxiously tiny bottles of whiskey later, I’m still stewing. She has no idea what she’s talking about. No idea who I really am underneath all the money, the fame, the sex appeal. Is it my fault I was blessed with a strong, square jaw, thick, wavy brown hair, and blue eyes that more than one woman has said she wanted to get lost in? I worked hard for all that I have. I do all I can to maintain my body well. I eat right, I exercise, and I don’t smoke. I don’t make excuses, either.
But I also know women don’t fall at my feet simply because I look good. No, most of them want the trappings of fame. They want the money, the notoriety, the status. They want the cars and the clothes and the jewelry, all the material excess I can provide. They want the glamor of being with a famous author. I could look like a monster, and I’d still be drowning in pussy. Because, at the end of the day, money trumps all. Money trumps love.
Love.
The word turns to ash in my mouth. All women want is a cookie cutter relationship. They don’t want the real you. They don’t want the problems, and they sure as hell can’t accept failure. My ex-wife is the perfect example. She left as soon as she could take half of my money. Besides, how can anyone hold any semblance of any kind of relationship when my whole life’s on display like a fucking circus? The women I do seem to attract are shallow gold-diggers. Women who look at me and see dollar signs.
I grab another bottle from the mini-bar without looking, not caring what it is. It tastes like fruity shit and burns as it makes its way down my throat. I quickly down the whole thing before I can taste any more of it. Maybe I should go out tonight, try to find someone new. Someone who won’t see me as a meal ticket. Someone who doesn’t know me as Declan Hart, an international bestseller, and notorious playboy. Someone who’ll make me forget all the empty, meaningless sex I’ve had, all the nameless, faceless women before her.
Yeah, right. As if such a woman even exists. As if I would even deserve her.
After the sixth bottle, my head is blurry, my thinking is fuzzy, and it seems like an excellent idea to head down to the hotel’s parking garage and find my rental car. The first few miles take me out of whatever the fuck city I’m in this week. The full moon illuminates the tall pine trees surrounding me, and I catch a glimpse of snow-capped mountains in the distance. Seattle, then? Maybe Portland? Fuck if I know. All I know is it’s not an endless sea of brown like Vegas where I live.
A sign tells me there’s a sharp curve in the road ahead. If I were in a better mood, the writer in me would probably have something clever to say, some insight about foreshadowing or my life’s journey. But mostly, I just feel tired. Achingly, bone-deep tired.
My eyes flutter closed for a moment. Maybe if I rest my eyes for a moment, I’ll feel better. Just a brief moment. That’s all I need.
By the time I realize it’s more than a moment, and maybe I’m too drunk to be behind the wheel, I’m already careening off the road and straight into another black blur.
The last thing I remember before everything goes dark is the awful smell of something burning. It seems whatshername was right. Karma does catch up to everyone.
Even me. Declan Hart.
1
OLIVIA
He could feel her clenching tightly around him. It didn’t matter that Liz wasn’t a virgin. Her sweet little cunt said otherwise.
“Evans, have you gone through that manuscript I sent over yesterday?”
Heat springs up my cheeks as I pull my gaze from the steamy manuscript in my hands to the stocky figure standing only inches away from me. Richard Grant, my boss and the senior editor for StoneHaven Publishing, looks down at me with a strange expression. His gaze is masked in half curiosity and the other half boredom. Only he could manage to swing both. I begin to rise from my chair but awkwardly stop midway. Richard’s frame nearly takes up half my cubicle, making it damn near impossible to actually have room to stand or even turn my chair.
“Well?” he says with an impatient tone.
God, it’s only eight fifteen in the morning, and he’s already breathing down my neck about Hart’s newest manuscript, A Novel Seduction. I smile politely, meeting Richard’s eyes. Well, I would be meeting his eyes, if they were looking at my face. Currently, his eyes are zoned in on the piece of lint on his shoulder. I guess I’m not even interesting enough to look at for more than five seconds.
Embarrassment overwhelms me at the early memory of trying to impress Richard in the primary stages of my employment here. I was infatuated with him, but my pathetic attempts to get him to notice my new haircut or new makeup sadly went unnoticed. Nowadays, I don’t even bother trying to impress him or anyone else any longer. In fact, today I’m wearing the most boring sweater and skirt combo. A murky brown outfit my mother gave me for my first day on the job. The outfit is hideous, but I still wear it. I have no one to impress.
“Did you have a specific question in regards to Hart’s manuscript?” I ask, dreading his answer.
I’ve silently started planning my escape. If I can bulldoze my way past Richard, I might be able to make it to the elevator in time to disappear. My eyes dart over his shoulder. Hmm, it isn’t that far. After several awkward seconds, I realize I have nothing to fear because he’s still trying to pick that piece of lint off of his suit. Jesus.
“How are things going? Our deadline is in two months,” he says as he crosses his arms over his chest.
I cringe at Richard’s words. I’m all too aware of the deadline for this book. It’s been looming over my head like the grim reaper. I’m so screwed. He isn’t going to want to hear that Declan Hart isn’t fulfilling his contractual obligation. Don’t get me wrong. The manuscript is a masterpiece, but it’s only half finished. I guess there’s no hiding it from Richard anymore. I’ve been silently saying a prayer each morning before opening my email, hoping it’s magically there somehow.
“He asked for another month,” I blurt, shuffling the pages of the manuscript in front of me. Shit, I lost my place. I avert my eyes, unwilling to acknowledge Richard’s vaporizing glare beating down on me. If it weren't for the crinkling sound of the paper in his hand, I wouldn’t dare look up, but I do, and I immediately regret it. A trace of bright red flares up Richard’s neck as he leans in toward me. I can practically see the tick in his jaw as he mulls over the information I’ve given him. He scrunches his face as if he doesn’t like the taste of my words before he speaks again.
“The bosses are going to be in today, and they’re not going to want to hear that one of their highest grossing authors isn’t fulfilling his part of the deal. The blame will be on my head, and if it’s on my head, then it’s on yours, too.”
“So we need a plan B.”
“What we have… is it any good?”
“Yes, it’s extremely good,” I blush. So good, I practically orgasmed just reading it. I could blame it on the fact that my sex life has dried up, or maybe, just maybe Hart’s words are just that good. I’ve read every one of his books, and each has left me more breathless than the previous book. You know those girls who gush when they get a new book they’ve been wanting? Well, that’s me except my body does this really embarrassing thing where I blush uncontrollably. It’s one of the reasons why I can’t read on the subway, at the bookstore, or anywhere public. Except work. I refuse to let it affect my work.
“Don’t say a peep at the meeting today,” Richard says. “Let me do the talking.”
Richard Grant is the head honcho here at StoneHaven Publishing, New York’s largest i
ndependent publisher. He’s world-renowned, a giant in the industry. One of the best in the business. But he can also be a grade-A asshole. Most days, I can’t decide whether I’m lucky to work for him or not. On the one hand, he’s given me some invaluable advice about the publishing industry, including how to handle authors with tact and still get the job done. He’s the one who taught me to trust my gut in this industry. On the other hand, I’m not even sure he knows what color my eyes are because I don’t think I could name a time he’s actually looked me in the eye. He’s always looking over me as if he’s holding a conversation with someone standing behind me.
“Sounds good.” I nod. “I’m just hoping he doesn’t want to scrap the entire thing.”
His eyes widen in shock as if I’ve told him Hart wants to start writing non-fiction.
“Scrap?” His eyes dart to the manuscript in front of me. “You said it’s good.”
“It’s amazing,” I say. “But he isn’t replying to any of my emails.”
“One thing at a time, Evans. Let’s handle this meeting first.”
* * *
My heart is pounding as Richard and I enter the conference room where today’s meeting is taking place. I almost feel underdressed as we enter the room, and I spot two devilishly handsome men sitting across the room. Both gorgeous and both wearing slim fitted suits that look like a second skin on their lean muscular figures. The blond on the right side of the conference table is wearing a gorgeous charcoal gray suit with a pair of what I can only assume are platinum cuff links with small diamonds. I’m fairly certain just one of them could pay at least six months’ worth of my father’s assisted living housing. Beside him sits a man with thick black waves that remind me of the ocean after dusk.
My stomach flip-flops as the two of them gaze at us with interest. Despite their intimidating demeanor, I’m pretty sure I’d sell my soul to be sandwiched in the middle of these two.
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