Falling from Grace: A Billionaire Romantic Suspense series (The Filth Monger Series Book 1)

by Chant, Annabel

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Blurb

  A note from Annabel

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Falling from Grace

  The Filth Monger Series

  Book 1

  Annabel Chant

  How far would you go to claim back your fantasies?

  Grace Anderton is a WAG – one of the Wives And Girlfriends of a Premiership football team. In a long term relationship with up-and-coming mid-fielder, Leo Sparkes, she stays out of the limelight and has her own career, working for one of the CEOs of the UK’s wealthiest bank.

  When Leo betrays her in the worst way possible, she loses everything – even the dark fantasies which have sustained her. In a tail spin, she sets out to get them back, whatever the cost.

  Enter the Filth Monger. Heir to a fortune and criminally handsome, he can have any woman he wants...and he wants Grace.

  But he has his own agenda.

  Head of a secret organisation dealing in depravity, his life is going to shit around him. As he struggles with his own betrayals, he makes it his mission to save Grace from her one-woman ride to ruin – whether she wants him to or not, and by any means necessary. Even if it means throwing away the chance of having her for himself.

  The Filth Monger Series is a set of five interlinked Romantic Suspense novels. Due to scenes of an adult nature and some (extremely) bad language, they are intended for a mature readership. In all they total approx. 250,000 words.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for reading this first book in the Filth Monger series.

  For launch day news and offers, just join the Fan Mongers. I’ll email you on release day so that you don’t miss out.

  If you want to connect with me, I’m @AnnabelChant on Twitter, or you can find me on Facebook. I’d be delighted to hear from you!

  Once again, thanks for reading – it’s so much appreciated.

  Annabel x

  One

  WAG Acronym for “Wives And Girlfriends”. The term is used specifically in relation to the partners of players in the Premiership – the highest league in British football – or of the England team.

  The morning the story broke in the tabloids, I’d woken adrift in my favourite sexual fantasy.

  Leo wasn’t around. He’d gone up North on the Saturday. He was a Premiership midfielder, and they were playing in Hull on the Sunday. I had a cold and was feeling lousy, so I’d stayed home, curled up on the sofa, watching crap TV and old movies. He’d promised to come back on the Sunday night, after the match, then texted later that evening to say he’d been held up. Yeah, right, I’d thought at the time. Being held up, more like… by the bar.

  I’d wished, afterwards, that was all it was.

  I still felt washed out, but could’ve used some company. Instead, I spent a restless night alone in our flat, which was a large, airy apartment overlooking the Thames and wasn’t really such a bad place to spend the night.

  I woke later than planned that Monday morning. I had work, and I’d slept through the alarm – a hangover from my cold. I knew I should go grab a shower, but I’d been dreaming heavily, and I was still half caught up in it. Even before I opened my eyes, I was aware of the pulsing tingle between my legs. It was my recurring dream, my fantasy, and all I wanted was to get back there. Forget work.

  I strained my eyes against the early morning sun, still fighting to focus. I needed to get up, but the light was too bright, and my resolve, weak. The voile drapes let in too much light, and the sensuous aching of my clit gnawed relentlessly at my self-control. I needed a shower, all right – a cold one.

  My head was still heavy with sleep and cold, and I flomped back down. I couldn’t help myself and, as I succumbed to the rumpled, linen sheets, my mind began to wander again.

  Almost at once, I was in the back room of a bar. I was practically naked, except for high heels. My torn bra hung useless beneath my breasts and my ridiculously tiny panties were in ruins around my knees. The seedy room was crimson all over, stifling, and it stank of sex. Nasty, leering men stood all around me, faceless, nameless. Featureless. They always were. The details didn’t matter, didn’t even come into it. It was the scenario; the knowledge that I was going to be so utterly used and plundered, that did it for me.

  After a brief glance at the bedside clock – I really couldn’t be late for work – I parted my thighs and slid my hand down between my legs. Still feeling lousy, I’d shoved my cosy PJs on, so I pushed and wriggled the bottoms down across my thighs and over my knees, so my fingers could get to work unhindered, rubbing and teasing my clit urgently. I didn’t have time to string it out.

  Immediately, I was back there, on my knees before them, sucking on their lengths one after another, while they groped at my breasts and bent down to explore between my legs with rough, uncaring hands.

  When they’d had enough, they dragged me to my feet and slapped my ass mercilessly. Then, they threw me back on a crusty padded bench, ripped the remaining tatters of lingerie from my eager body, and tore my legs open. I didn’t protest, just lay there, exposed and waiting, a willing victim for the whole raging, jeering crowd of indistinguishable any-guys.

  I sighed and squirmed amongst the sheets, rubbing frantically as, one after another, they pushed into me, splitting me open. They were doing everything possible now, filling and using me in every conceivable way in a dizzying swirl of raw sweat and gratification.

  I opened myself wider still, taking everything they had and willing them to push me further, spread me wider, make me dirtier. I was the filthiest slut in the universe and, as they destroyed my holes, stretching them past the point of no return, they made damn sure I knew it. You dirty little whore…you filthy fuck toy… I couldn’t take any more, didn’t need any more. It was so beautiful…so perfect. I was practically delirious and, when I came, I came gasping, roiling between the sheets, in waves of utter, slutty bliss.

  As the sensations subsided, I came back into myself. I lay there, catching my breath and staring at the ceiling, wondering why I couldn’t just fantasise about regular sex. Everyone else seemed to. Why did I constantly crave degradation? What was wrong with me? Leo would’ve gone mad, if he’d known. Even the thought of him ever discovering it made me feel sick. As far as he was concerned, I was his Grace…his Princess…pure as an angel’s kiss.

  But that wasn’t me. It was as if there were something missing, an ache deep down inside me, a desire for something primal…feral…but I didn’t know what. I put my hands to my face, wiping at it as if I could somehow wipe away my own disgust, then pushed back the covers. My PJ bottoms, still looped around my ankles, felt like an accusation.

  I rushed through my morning ritual, cursing my lac
k of self-control. Why couldn’t I have waited? I knew I’d be used again that night, only this time on Leo’s terms – which meant flat on my back, with him grunting and jackhammering into me like an over-enthusiastic teenager. If I’d waited, I might even have come, for a change, before he rolled over and went to sleep, but there was little chance of that now.

  I took the elevator down to the ground floor and hurried past the security desk, out into the rush hour streets of the capital. I pushed through the crowds, down into the Underground, forcing my way onto a train just as it pulled away from the platform. We were packed like sardines in a can, and the smell wasn’t much better.

  I checked the time on my phone to take my mind off the passengers. I felt suffocated, holding my breath as they pressed against me. 8:35 am. I was late already.

  When I came out at Monument, my phone vibrated in my hand. I glanced down as I waited to cross the road. It was a text. Probably sent while I was on the train. Signal crap, as usual.

  It was from Leo:

  Love you, Princess. Mine forever, remember? Speak tonight.

  The whole tone of the message took me aback and I stood there for a moment, not noticing the traffic had stopped. It wasn’t like Leo to send sweet nothings. I tried to remember the last time he’d told me he loved me, and drew a blank. But he’d sent that text. He must have missed me. I felt a sudden pang of guilt. I really had to put a lid on these fantasies. He was all I needed…nothing else mattered.

  I checked it again, just to make sure. I could hardly believe I was reading it. It was so sweet, so…unexpected. The fact that he was up already was a shock in itself. Maybe he was turning over a new leaf. Maybe, even, he was planning something. Like an engagement. The speak tonight part sounded promising, anyway. We didn’t seem to speak all that much at all anymore. In fact, he hardly noticed me, except to find fault with me. I put that thought to the back of my mind and crossed the road quickly, as the traffic started to inch its way forward again.

  I was still thinking about it when I entered the vaulted marble entrance hall of Ffyvells Corporate Banking Division.

  Ffyvells was one of the largest banks of its kind. It had branches in all the major cities, and dealt exclusively with the wealthy elite. You knew you’d arrived when you were accepted for a Ffyvells account.

  The European Group was on the ninth floor. By the time I got out the lift, I’d put Leo’s text aside, to revisit later in the day when I had time to revel in the sweet secret of it. For now, I had other things to concentrate on. I had the whole working day to get through and Max Flint, the group’s Chief Exec and my direct boss, was likely to pounce on me the minute I walked through the door.

  Not in a good way, either. I should be so lucky. Max had all the women in the building drooling over him. He was an overpowering blend of half-Italian good looks, pale blue eyes, muscle and testosterone. The unholy offspring of a force ten hurricane and an aftershave commercial.

  He was also a nightmare boss, almost obsessively driven. He’d hit CEO of the European Group two years ago, shortly before hitting his thirties, and his ambition was relentless. He had his eye on CEO of Corporate Banking, everyone knew it, and he expected his team to want it as much as he did. I had to be ready when he grabbed me.

  As I entered, I saw Pascale Blanchard sorting through a sheaf of documents. She was absorbed, and hadn’t noticed me. She was one of the team PAs, chic in a matronly way, and usually up for a chat before the day kicked off in earnest.

  Not today, though, seemingly.

  ‘Morning, Pascale.’ I unbuttoned my jacket. It was sweltering, and there was no air conditioning. Criminal negligence, in such a high pressure environment, but Max didn’t seem to care. He didn’t seem to sweat. Ever.

  Pascale looked up from her papers, a ready smile on her lips, but as soon as she saw me her eyes widened and she looked panic-stricken. She gave me an anxious, tight smile. ‘M…morning, ma chère,’ she stammered, and crouched down, as if looking for something under her desk.

  I left the last button unopened, and stood waiting, expecting her to come back up. It wasn’t like her to be so abrupt. I wondered if something had happened. Some of the team could be real dicks to the PAs. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had got the blame for something which, nine times out of ten, was the fault of someone higher up the food chain.

  I was about to ask her if she was okay, when Max called me from his office. ‘Grace – in here, now.’

  I froze. It was his harshest, least forgiving, tone. He’d never used it on me. In fact, I’d only heard him use it once ever, after John Clyde, a complete asshole of an accounts manager, had messed up big time on a deal. John Clyde didn’t work for us anymore – didn’t work in banking anymore. Max had seen to that.

  I looked at Pascale, but she didn’t meet my eye. My heart raced. I’m ten minutes late, fifteen tops. What’s his problem? He never moans when I’m the last one here at night.

  I wasn’t going to take his crap. I’d put him in his place, tell him just how lucky he was to have me. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin mutinously, and went into his office.

  Two

  Max was sitting in his chair, his leg extended in front of him. He wasn’t alone. A man stood by his desk, his back to me. He turned as I entered, and smiled.

  I looked at Max, then back at this stranger. He seemed amused. Clearly, men yelling at their long-suffering assistants did it for him. He was still smiling, anyway, standing there in the middle of Max’s office like he owned it. Or owned Max.

  There was something in the way he towered over him that breathed superiority, and he was superior, in one way, at least. The shock of it – of him – hit me almost physically. I’d never imagined Max could appear second-rate or shoddy, but sitting there in front of this man, he did. He was like the artist’s crude first draft, displayed alongside the finished masterpiece. Everything I’d loved about Max seemed suddenly spoiled and swarthy. Too rough...too blunt…too obvious next to this stranger.

  I wondered who he was, and when he was going to wipe that mocking grin off his face. I hadn’t seen him before, so he could’ve been anyone. A colleague, a friend…but I felt sure he was a client. His bone structure reeked wealth and breeding; the ironic hook of his eyebrow - confidence and entitlement. A Merchant Ivory film wrapped in a suit, he was still smiling - leaning back against the desk now, as if daring me to look at him. I deliberately glared at him and turned to Max just as his phone rang.

  Max was looking up at me, his eyebrows raised. As he answered his phone, I tried to gather myself. I felt pinned between two opposing forces – commanded by Max, but overwhelmed by this stranger’s gaze. I attempted to focus on Max, wait for him to finish on the phone, but he’d really put me on edge. I glanced back at him, despite myself, and he winked at me. A tiny, almost imperceptible flutter of his dark eyelashes; the perfect frame to those murder-blue eyes.

  He was doing it on purpose. He knew. He knew exactly what I was thinking, and he was getting off on it. Hell, I wasn’t even thinking. It was too primal for that, like the urges that had engulfed me in bed that morning. It was instinct, pure and simple. I wanted to get down on my knees before him, throw my arms around his ankles, and worship him. He knew it, and I hated him for it.

  ‘Look, I don’t know how you got through,’ Max said to whoever was on the line. ‘But I’ve told your lot already. No comment.’

  He threw the phone down on his desk, and I finally wrenched myself from the man’s gaze, feeling clumsy and idiotic. Skirt-tucked-in-my-knickers stupid. It was as much as I could do to stop myself from checking it, there and then. Trust me to have rushed this morning. I wanted to be perfect, to go over every last detail of myself and make it right. Give him no reason to mock me. Max was still watching me too. My cheeks stung, the heat of their focus rendering me practically incoherent.

  I threw the man another glare. Leave me alone.

  Whether he felt my pain, I don’t know, but he turned back to Max and h
eld out his hand, cool and imperious.

  ‘Consider it done,’ he said. His accent matched his looks. I was right. Breeding and money, through and through. ‘Tell him I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Much appreciated.’ Max flashed the man a terse smile. He didn’t look happy, but he stood up and extended his hand. The man shook it briefly and turned to go. He didn’t look any more comfortable than Max. I wondered what they’d been discussing.

  As he passed me, his eyes met mine. He paused briefly and did a double-take. It was almost as if, after his initial assessment, he’d realised he knew me. But he didn’t. Not unless he’d seen me on TV, glued to Leo’s arm.

  I didn’t move as he brushed past me. I even leaned towards him somewhat. I couldn’t help myself. He smiled again, and I frowned, angry at my body for betraying me. He must have had women dripping from him like diamonds. What was I even thinking? He gave me a curious backwards stare as he went, but that was hardly surprising. I’d made a complete fool of myself. Either that, or he was wondering what the hell I’d done.

  If that were the case, I knew how he felt.

  I turned to Max, still flushed with shame and annoyance. He’d sat down again and was leaning back in his chair, regarding me coolly.

  ‘Enjoying the view, Grace?’ he said. He leaned toward me, almost conspiratorially. ‘Don’t worry. I get it. I do. I understand. But what are you even doing here?’ He leaned further forward, steepling his fingers and frowning. ‘Go home, Grace.’

  ‘I…I’m sorry?’ I could feel the heat, radiating off me in pulses, as his words sank in. This wasn’t about me being late. It was something far worse. I’d really pissed him off somehow, and now I’d made a fool of myself in front of…well…whoever Mr Arrogant might be. Even so, I wasn’t expecting this.

  ‘I said, go home. Go to a friend’s, your mum’s, wherever.’ He stood up. ‘You’re not needed here today. D’you understand?’