by Dani René
To stay in the loop of all things India, sign-up to her newsletter HERE! https://bit.ly/2IszVH7
Join her Facebook Group! https://www.facebook.com/groups/IndiasFlames/
Part VIII
His Diamond
Abby Gale
Cover illustration by Brianna Hale at Untold Design
Edited by Becky at Rebecca Fairest Reviews Editing
Proofread by Dominique Laura
Book Formatted by Dani René, Raven Designs
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except the brief quotations for reviews. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, places, incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities were surely not intentional.
To Mary Laberge…
Rest in peace and light. You will be missed.
Playlist
Broken Ones - Jacquie Lee
Come Into My World - Kylie Minogue (Acoustic version)
Faith’s Song - Amy Wadge
Water Under the Bridge - Sara Farell cover
You Set My World On Fire - Loving Caliber
Insecure - iamnotshane
Let Me Down Slowly - Powell Sullivan cover
All I Need - Within Temptation
Gravity - Sara Bareilles
Faded - Alan Walker
Thief - Ansel Elgort
Already Gone - Sleeping At Last
Say Something - A Great Big World feat Christina Aguilera
You Ruin Me - The Veronicas
Chapter One
Ramona
I stare at the wooden box, sitting on my nightstand, mocking me.
I should’ve given it to my dad the moment I bought it for him. I should’ve known there wouldn’t be a chance for me to do it this week with all the chaos of the upcoming party. I cringe with the shattering noise coming from somewhere in the house and roll my eyes at the yelling following it.
I hate Mom’s parties. But every year, she insists on going over the top, spending an unnecessary amount of money, filling the house with an event planner team for days and days of planning, and inviting all the people I don’t know or care about to our special days. A month ago, it was my eighteenth birthday party. A week from now, it is Daddy’s. Two months later, Mom’s follows. And instead of celebrating these occasions together as a family, she includes strangers into our lives to share those special moments.
I hate them.
The more people Mom fills our house with, the more I feel alone. They’re all fake, laughing and talking loudly, making inappropriate jokes while checking out other men’s wives or daughters. No one cares about the actual reason behind the parties they attend; all they think about is the lavishness of everything they’ve come to expect and my mom gladly provides. They don’t care that we don’t have the money to throw such over-the-top parties or the fact that we can no longer avoid our house. What matters is fulfilling their high standards and expectations regardless of what it costs my family.
But I know Mom and Dad do this for financial reasons. Mom once told me how these people can help Daddy with lucrative business opportunities. And I understand this is something we need. Especially in our position.
Ever since Daddy’s business partner passed away five years ago, things haven’t been the same. Mom and Dad both try to do everything to hide it, but I hear them talking at night when they think I’m asleep. I know they fret about their debt. I notice the worry lines on Daddy’s face. I see that his shoulders that used to carry me around when I was a little kid are now hunched like he carries the weight of the world. He doesn’t have kisses for Mom and me anymore when he comes home; in fact, he hardly even spares us a glance.
Daddy isn’t happy. I know it’s because of the large amount of debt and the lack of income. It also has something to do with that club he works at, the one I’m not allowed to visit. I realize that place only heightens my dad’s paranoia.
Grabbing the box from my nightstand, I open the lid. The watch winks at me with Daddy’s and my name emblazoned on the back of it. If I surprise him at work and give him the present, maybe he’ll smile for once. I miss seeing his smile. He was my king when I was a kid, but now all I see is a broken man.
With the box in hand, I stroll around the house that once reminded me of a king’s castle with its high ceilings, marble staircases, and portraits hanging on the walls. Our house used to feel warm and inviting with the champagne-colored walls and comfy, pastel-colored couches. But now, this house feels like a fancy prison I’ve been locked in for far too long. I don’t want to feel this way. This is my home, but I can’t help it. Everything about this place makes me feel suffocated. Every day I stay in this house I feel isolated, ignored, and… inadequate.
I hear Mom yelling orders at people about what she wants and what she finds unacceptable. The house is a mess now with an upcoming party that will only put our finances even more in trouble. I have no desire to interpret her tirade to let her know I’m leaving. I’m eighteen; I should be allowed to go wherever I want on my own. But I hardly leave the house unattended. Mom and Dad have the strange idea that I may be in danger. And I’m sick of it. It just adds to the suffocation I feel every day. It wasn’t always like this, but for the last five years, they’ve taken me out of school to be homeschooled and made me report to them whenever I’m about to go somewhere. Even if it was just to grab a coffee. But today, I’m feeling rebellious. Before leaving home, my roller skates catch my eye. I had never got the chance to ride my roller skates outside of the property. It’s either too risky for my dad’s standards or too childish for Mom’s. But while rebellion pumps in my veins, I grab my roller skates and hit the road.
As I glide down the road with my headphones on, the warm wind of this autumn day hits me, bringing the smell of the ocean with it. And for the first time, I feel like I’m seeing the world, and it’s beyond freeing: it’s both dizzying and exciting.
With the navigation’s directions in my ears, I stop in front of the entry of Club Black. Its onyx color helps it stand out from the other buildings. It sits tall and intimidating. Pushing the oversized door open, I enter a red-lighted hall that’s both modern and eerie. Maybe I should be scared of my dad’s reaction since I shouldn’t be here, but all I feel is excitement. A thrill to be in a place I’m not allowed to. A man turns to me, his broad shoulders and tall frame dominate the hallway. As he heads toward me with a stern look on his face, I wonder if he’s the boss or owner of the club.
“You shouldn’t be here, young lady.”
Feeling a bit uneasy, I clear my throat and plaster a smile on my face. “My dad works here. Edward Reynolds.” I hope this information will give me permission to be here.
The guy looks me up and down before nodding. “He’s in a meeting with the boss. You can wait inside.”
I follow him into the middle of the club. It’s a large room adorned with dark couches in the corners. Some parts are closed off with what look like curtains, separating them from the main area. A bar dominates the back wall and the area in front of the stage is full of cocktail tables, similar to the ones Mom always uses at her parties. “Wait here. Don’t roam around.”
I nod, and my eyes linger on the microphone on the stage. I want to go up there, but instead, I wait, sitting on a barstool, playing with my phone. Time passes, but no one comes, no one even acknowledges that I’m here, waiting. My gaze keeps returning to the microphone. It stands tall on its tripod, luring me to test it out. Looking around once more, I head for the stage, figuring I can entertain myself by pretending to do a performance.
Grabbing the mic, I start singing “Broken Ones” by Jacquie Lee. My voice echoes loudly. I fumble with the mic to find a way to silence it, but I can’t figure out how. Pushing down my anxiety, I let this feeling of adventure wash over me and take control. It’s a club, no one shoul
d care about me singing.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the lyrics. My mom always complains about my need to sing sad songs, but that’s who I am. I love songs about broken people; melancholy speaks to the deepest part of me. It understands me. It completes me in a way I can’t explain. It’s like there’s a part of me that loves the pain and heartache.
When I come to the end of the song, my eyes open, only to be captured by the most intense brown eyes I’ve ever seen.
A gasp escapes my lips, echoing off the walls. I quickly take a step away from the mic, not sure if I’m in trouble. The man in front of me doesn’t say a word. His eyes sweep over my body, making me self-conscious about the way I look. In a black suit and black shirt, he looks professional and dangerous. His hair is messy, in the sexiest way, like he just ran a hand through it. His tanned skin glows with the soft lights in the main area, making his skin even more vibrant. I can’t take my eyes off the strong lines of his neck down to the two open buttons of his shirt. He swallows as he gazes at me, and I feel my breathing quicken. The scruff on his cheeks makes him look more manly, as if that’s possible, accentuating his sharp jawline. When my eyes move to his mouth, my lips part. Desire pools in my veins. His lips look soft and lush, almost feminine, and in direct contrast to the powerful lines of his features. He is a powerful and confident man. One who knows what he’s capable of and what he wants in life. And before him, I look like a little girl in my blue jean shorts and a white crop top. I feel no different than singing into a hairbrush in front of my mirror, pretending to be a superstar as he sizes me up.
“You have a beautiful voice.” The gorgeous man finally breaks his silence.
A shiver runs through me, urging me to close my eyes for a second to absorb the roughness beneath his baritone voice.
“Thank you,” I answer, but my voice comes out breathy.
“Sing another one,” he orders, taking a step closer to where I am. He takes a seat on the U-shaped couch directly in front of the stage, placing one arm on the back and putting his ankle over his knee. He looks like he owns the place, maybe even the world. And his eyes are fixed on me, warming my insides as heat rushes to my face.
I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, and his eyes follow the movement. As his gaze moves from my lips to my throat then down the length of my body, I feel its pressure like a buzz on my skin.
“Sing for me.” He repeats his request. His voice is deeper than a few seconds ago.
And I sing.
Chapter Two
Luca
It’s moments like these I have a hard time believing women are evil. How can someone who looks so innocent and pure be devious and scheming? Then I remember the two women who looked just as innocent.
That façade is the power they wield. The beautiful and innocent-looking ones are the most dangerous. Just like the woman who brought me into this world. And all the others who came after her. None of them surprised me with their traitorous ways, and this girl won’t be any different.
She’s a blonde-haired angel. But under that clear face, there is evil that wants to weaken and control every man who is stupid enough to fall for her game.
I am not that man. I don’t fall for their beautiful smiles and even more beautiful tears. Not anymore.
I only enjoy their bodies; I don’t give a damn what’s in their minds.
A smile teases my lips as I look at the girl in front of me. The innocence and trust in her eyes make me want to corrupt her, show her that the world is full of villains, especially for a girl like her: beautiful and fuckable.
With her roller skates on her feet, she should look childish, but nothing about her body is child-like. Those shapely long legs are made for wrapping around a man’s body as he pounds into her virgin pussy. The flare of her hips is just enough to hold onto while deflowering her. I bet my next breath that no man has ever touched her. That creamy skin on her taut stomach is a blank canvas to paint with cum. My cum. If anyone will deflower this girl, it’ll be me. She should look at me with tears in her sparkling blue eyes. Not another man’s. Her tits under that ridiculous top she’s wearing...are enough to short circuit any man's brain. They would be a good handful in my palms. I bet I could make her come just playing with her tits. And those lips… I wonder if she knows how to kiss. I could teach her. But those lips of hers aren’t only made to be kissed. They are meant to be bitten, abused, and wrapped around my cock as she swallows my dick down her throat.
Her eyes are hazy as she looks at me with need in her gaze. There is want and desire in those sapphire orbs. Her voice is soft with longing and clear with seduction. I wonder if she knows what she’s inviting with her wanton voice, lush lips, and fuck-me eyes. I don’t think she does. She probably thinks I’m one of those men she can wrap around her finger. She’s mistaken. And I wonder if she’ll still look at me like this when she realizes that. I doubt she will. She’ll probably look for an escape. She’ll try to run as far away from me as she can. The only problem is there won’t be an escape for her, not after I make her mine.
Her eyes are almost begging as she sings the lyrics of her song. She wants me to come into her world, but she doesn’t know that when I step close to her, there won’t be anything left of her old life.
I watch as she cranes her head back just a little, giving me a better view of her slender neck. The imprint of my fingers around that creamy flesh would be art on its own. Her silk-like hair would be an accessory around her throat, easily wrapping around her slender neck a couple of times, as her face turns from pink to purple. I can imagine her with nothing but those blonde locks falling to her breasts.
I would wrap that silky hair around my fist as I fuck her mouth until she gags. Until that perfect face of hers is smeared with tears and spit and cum.
She’s beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good. Too beautiful not to be noticed by men like me. Men who she shouldn’t even come close to or be the object of their fucked-up fantasies. But it’s too late now. I have every inch of her planted in my mind.
And I will bring her into my world. Whether she is ready or not.
Chapter Three
Ramona
I don’t know why, but when I open my mouth to sing, “Come Into My World” by Kylie Minogue comes out. I only sing this song when I’m alone because, whenever I start singing it, something inside me breaks open and my voice becomes almost wanton with longing. It’s like I’m calling for someone I don’t even know yet. And here, singing this song in front of this man makes me feel as if I’m standing naked in the summer breeze, freeing and exciting but also vulnerable and nervous.
My eyes hold his, and my body is aware of his intensity. For the first time, I don’t sing for myself; I sing for him.
When the song ends, I stand on the stage, transfixed by him. He slowly stands up, not taking his eyes from mine as he strolls toward me. His eyes get more intense as he comes closer. They’re blazing as he looks me up and down, making me feel no longer like a child but like a woman. Wanted. Desired. Mature.
I place my hand in his palm when he reaches out for me. Letting him guide me, I roll to the edge of the platform, careful not to lose my balance in my skates. Even at this height, his head is level with my breasts. His hot breath tickles my naked navel when he grabs my waist to place me on the floor next to him. His hands linger on my flesh. My skin erupts in goosebumps from the heat radiating off of him. I feel the loss of his touch when he lifts his hand to twirl the end of my hair. Caressing the strands softly, he lifts them to his nose, inhaling their scent. I swallow the emotions bubbling up inside me. There’s something ridiculously sexy in this small gesture, and I don’t know how to handle what I’m feeling.
“What is your name?” he murmurs.
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I try to will myself to get a grip on my emotions, but I’ve never been in the presence of a man like him. I’ve never met someone who gives me his complete focus.
“Ramona,” a familiar voice answers his questio
n for me. “What are you doing here?”
My dad’s voice shakes me from my dreamy state, and I try to take a step back, only to stumble. A strong arm wraps around me, holding me steady and close to the warmth of his body. I smell his scent: rich and smoky like my dad’s whiskey but better. So much better.
“Be careful there,” he breathes against me. With the hard lines of his body pressed against mine, I have a hard time keeping the moan inside.
“Ramona.” Dad’s voice comes closer, and it’s more rigid.
Clearing my throat, I slowly step away from this man’s body and look at my dad. “Daddy,” I say, forcing a smile, while all I want to do is to hide in a restroom and splash my face with some water. His eyes look angry and something else. Scared? “I wanted to come here to surprise you. Also to give you your present,” I explain quickly. Gliding to the barstool I sat in when I got here, I take my cardigan and put it on, before grabbing the gift bag and handing it to my dad. He doesn’t even spare it a glance, but he takes my hand and keeps me behind his body.
“Mr. Caruso, I’m sorry for this. This is my daughter. We can leave now.”
Daddy fidgets in his place; his hand holding mine is tense, and it’s hurting my fingers. Mr. Caruso, though, doesn’t even look at my father. His eyes are still fixed on me, and as he takes his fill, everywhere he looks, from my hair to my neck to the swell of my breasts, feels like a soft caress.
“Have a good evening, Mr. Caruso,” Daddy says, walking back toward the exit and pulling me with him.