Mmmmmm, the size difference. I had to lean down to even rest my chin on the top of her head, holding her against my chest, my arms are around her like a vice as she melts into me.

Her hands slide under my hoodie, reaching across my abdomen, they were cold, but my body heat was radiating and I welcomed the sensation as they slid around my back, dipping into my waistband.

My cock stiffened and I pulled her against me tighter, pressing into her stomach where she was lined up against me. She let out a soft moan, as both of her hands gripped my waist tighter, I pushed my knee between her legs and pressed her down onto me firmly, moving it back and forth, slowly, gently.

She pressed her entire body into mine, her arms wrapped around me, face buried into my lower chest as my left hand wraps into her hair at the base of her neck. My right slides down to her right hip, covering the entire small of her back, I push her down hard, while lifting my knee at the same time, pressing firmly against her pussy.

I pull her head back and she is forced to look up at me as I grind into her. She is biting her lip, her eyes half closed with a dreamy look. Her hands reach up to my face, lifting the bottom half of my balaclava mask.

“Kiss me,” she begs.

She was wearing one of my white t-shirts and swimming in it. Her lacey black bra visible beneath the fabric, her nipples, hard. I lean down, lifting her slightly, she’s holding onto my neck as I kiss her deep, her fingers entwining in my hair, she takes my bottom lip in her teeth and I go crazy.

Without thinking about it, I grip her around her waist and lift her, bringing her left tit to my mouth. She gasps at the sudden change in height, and scrambles to hold on until she realizes she is secure.

“I got you,” I growl, one hand holding her waist, the other squeezing her breasts while my mouth devours them both through the t-shirt.

She squirms and kicks a little with her feet against my back, but she clings tight to me.

“Put me down, you beast,” she is only half joking. I can hear a little fear in her voice. Delicious.

I reach down and place my right forearm between her legs, lifting her higher, at the same time, I walk her back against the wall, pinning her there, inches from the door frame, her arms flail out, one gripping the doorway, the other bracing against the ceiling.

“Oh my god, get me down.” she sobs a little, her voice catching in her throat.

“Never,” I laugh, spreading her thighs open, pinning her open with one arm, and holding her against the wall with the other, while she clung, crying.

She had no choice but to not fight, she could only brace against the wall, while I leaned in between her legs, kissing and nibbling along her inner thigh, she rolled her hips forward, silently begging for more.

I teased hot breaths across her pussy, her thong was drenched, pushed to the side.

She whimpered incoherently.

“Use your words, baby girl.”

"Please…”

“Please what?”

“Please…eat me…” she breathed

“Good girl,” I whispered against her clit, the tip of my tongue just barely grazing it, and she shifted, pushing against me, her arms bracing the wall, trembling.

“I can’t hold on much longer,” she cried.

“We’ll see about that.” I laughed, pulling her towards, wrapping her legs around my neck, as she started to loose her grip, I braced her back and moved her under the door frame. “Grab onto it, little one.”

She frantically reached out, clutching, as her head slipped to the other side of the door. I kept a hand on her back for support and with the other, I braced her hips.

I wasted no time, sliding my tongue deep inside her, she moaned, crying and whimpering, shaking, holding onto the door way. Her legs scrambled to cling to my neck as I held her suspended in the air, fighting for her life while my tongue circled her clit.

“Put me down, please,” she managed.

“Not until you come,” I laughed.

“Are you enjoying this? she asked, I could tell she was trying not to laugh.

“Very much,” I said against pussy, sucking her clit into my mouth.

“I’m so weak, I’m going to fall,” she cried, grinding herself into my mouth.

“Let go if you have to, and let go and come,” I said, nibbling her inner thighs while she squirmed against me. “I got you.”

I pushed my tongue inside her again, snaking it in and out. She was dripping wet, I could feel her pulsing and quivering, her breath growing ragged.

I pulled my tongue out and flicked her clit softly but quicker. As she came, she let go of the door frame and I slid my hands up to catch her, letting her slide down along my body, her legs wrapping around my waist as I supported her, leaning in and pressing her against the wall, kissing her.

“I’m done with you,” I promise.

I watch her as I circle the bed. With each footstep, there is a visible tremor, so I make sure each footstep of my heavy boots on the floor count.

“You’re so obedient.”

Her eyes are wide, staring at me as she lies on her back, thighs pressed together.

Her wavy ginger hair spread around her, her breasts displayed.

“Good girl. But you don’t know what I’m doing, do you?”

She whimpers and I laugh. A delicious game, making her wait. I get on top of her, my naked body barely grazing hers, caging her under me, my huge cock pressed against her black thong. She knows not to move, but she does anyway.

“I’ve trained you better than that.” I lean down to her ear.

She is completely hidden beneath my body, so small compared to me. My cock is pressed against her.

“Your pussy is wet and ready for me. Good girl.” I say as I deliberately breathe so she can feel and hear me.

She is shaking.

“You’re safe,” I whisper against her neck, letting her feel my beard, my weight as I lower it down on her slightly. “But I am going to hurt you.”

Her breath sucks in. A whimper, then crying.

“Mmmmm. There it is.”

As I stand back up and watching her in the dim light my cock stiffens even more.

Gliding my hand down her side, tracing her hip and her thighs over her fishnets as she watches me silently, but eyes welled with tears. I feel alive in a way that I never do.

When she gives herself to me despite her fears.

I have to make good on my promise, grabbing her waist and turning her onto her stomach, running my palm over her ass.

I slap her right cheek hard with my open hand. She makes a muffled cry against the bed, as she instinctively spreads her legs wider, inviting more.

She needs something firmer, something with more sting, more weight. I pick the paddle up off the night stand. Wooden, solid. She knows what’s coming.

“Count.”

The first smack makes her press her hips down against the bed. She squirms and tries not to make any sound as her ass reddens.

“Back up on your knees,” I command.

She doesn’t hesitate, but she is slow about it. It makes me harder, knowing she wants only to obey despite the pain.

I make her count out three more quickly in a row. She is gripping the sheets, her hips moving, her ass now reddened with marks and welts.

I set the paddle aside as she realizes her punishment is done.

“Do you want this cock?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir.”

She is moaning as I move my thumb over her clit roughly. “Please, Daddy,” she whispers, “I need your cock.”

I slide my middle finger inside her. I can feel her pulsing around me. I pump inside her as my other hand slaps her ass again, hard enough to make her cry out. “You’ll get my cock when I’m ready,” I say, my voice low. “Not before.”

I finger her while spanking her, watching her body writhe, my cock growing harder.

I pull my fingers out and bring them to her lips. “Suck them clean.” She obeys, eyes still shut, tasting herself on me. I stroke her hair. “Good girl.”

Shifting position, I line up the head of my thick cock against her pussy. I push in just an inch, letting her feel it. “You wait,” I remind her. “I control the pace.”

I slide out, then back in, only half an inch deeper. Each time I pull almost all the way out before sinking back. It’s torture… she is breathing hard, begging, but I keep her right on the edge as I feel her begin to tighten around me, creaming on me.

I thrust all the way, bury myself inside her, hold it there, deep.

Her back arches as I grip her hair, pulling it. A loud moan is torn from her throat. I don’t stop. I fuck her hard and deep, my balls slapping, my hands holding her in place.

I lean over her back, whispering in her ear while I pound into her.

I pound against her cervix. Over and over.

“You wanted my cock, didn’t you? Now take it. Every inch. Every drop.” I spank her left cheek. “Don’t you dare come until I tell you.”

She nods. And I keep going, claiming her, using her, filling her.

“That’s what Daddy is doing to you, sweet thing. Taking what belongs to him.”

Nothing felt real… but him, he did. He was the only solid thing that was keeping me from going under. “We’re orphans.” I managed. They were the only words that would come. I felt his sob then and he buried his face in my wet hair.

I gripped him tighter. It felt like if we could hold each other tight enough, it would crush our souls back into our bodies. We clung to each other, the only thing anchoring us to the earth.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. This mountain of a man, shaking with pain broke me open.

The cabin was still cold but Damien’s body so close to me, it was easy to ignore. The shower and the tears had softened me, the adrenaline had started to wear off but it was still there. I needed to feel something besides the engulfing darkness.

The memory of the blood, the gunshots fighting to come to my mind as I pushed them away harder.

My fingers twisted into his shirt as I pressed myself against his hard tactical vest, sobbing uncontrollably.

He just held me. We held each other. Our bond forming in the loss, in our shared destruction. He was a stranger, but he wasn’t. From blood, a parallel history and now an uncertain future we had to face together.

One of his massive hands was holding my lower back, he slid it around to my hip and gripped me, while his other hand buried itself in my wet hair, pressing me flush against him.

He was a fortress and I just wanted to be hidden inside him.

I knew tomorrow we would be plotting retribution, but in this moment there was only this need to claim survival in the most primal way possible.

I pushed away the guilt pressing down on my chest, the animal instinct to slam into his mass of muscle was screaming louder now with every passing second. I could feel it in him, too.

I didn’t want to be alone in my own head for another second.

I felt the pain inside me subside. The tears didn’t stop but I shifted slightly, standing on my tip toes, I pressed my face into the curve of his neck. My lips parted naturally against his skin.

Damien’s grip tightened and he pulled back, his dark eyes searching my face. The firelight flickered across his features. I could feel our eyes locked on each other.

“Charlotte,” he murmured, his voice gravelly, “I’ve got you.”

“Make it stop,” I whispered as I sucked in my breath.

He stared into my eyes, “I would burn the world down to take the pain away. You know that.”

“The pain will be answered,” I breathed. My hands slid up his chest to wrap around the thick column of his neck. I could feel the heavy pulse jumping beneath his skin. “But now, I need to feel something….else, Damien. Please.”

I felt him tense up. The look in his eyes going from protective to dangerous in an instant. It thrilled me, enough to push back any lingering guilt for choosing my primal instincts in this moment.

He stared down at me as I looked up at him. I watched as the muscles in his jaw tightened. There was a chaos raging between us and I needed to crash against him. His body would be the stones my storm would break on.

“You’re grieving,” he said, as his hands hovered over the curve of my waist. “You’re in shock. If I touch you right now, tomorrow you’ll look at me and hate…”

I didn’t let him finish. I couldn’t let the guilt win. I let go of his neck, reached down, and unhooked the towel tucked between my breasts.

It dropped to the floor and left me entirely bare in the firelight. I shivered as the cold air wrapped around me.

I watched him drink me in with his eyes. “You’re cold, you’re still wet.”

“I could never hate you, you’re all I have now” I whispered, stepping fully into his space. My bare skin brushed against the rough tactical fabric of his pants, the contrast sending a jolt of electricity through my nervous system. “We need each other.”

He framed my face with his calloused palms, tilting my head up as our breathing synced, he leaned down and pulled me in for a kiss. In that moment, it was like everything I had ever been was to become his.

His massive hands clamped onto my hips. I felt so immediately and completely possessed. He backed me up, his heavy boots sounding against the floorboards, until my spine hit the solid wood of the bathroom door which gave way as he lifted me, pushing inward.

I whimpered into his open mouth, my hands tangling frantically in his hair as I kissed him back fiercely.

His immense strength made me feel like I was weightless. As he set me down on the bathroom counter, my legs wrapped around him and pulled him in, my hands searching for the snaps and straps of his tactical vest.

Damien broke the kiss, his chest heaving as he undid the straps and lifted it off of him then the hem of his long-sleeve Henley. In one violent motion he tore it over his head, ignoring the wince of pain from his stitched shoulder.

I gasped at the overwhelming size of him. I felt small as my hands immediately flattened against his chest, tracing the heavy, swirling ink of his tattoos and the hard, flexing muscle.

His thigh pressed deliberately between my legs, spreading them wider. The rough fabric of his pants rubbed between my legs and I let out soft cry.

“You have no idea,” he growled, his mouth trailing down my jaw, his teeth and beard lightly scraping my neck before he moved lower. I arched off the counter, my fingernails digging into his back as his tongue explored me, while his hands pulled my hair and gripped me.

“Damien,” I pleaded, my hips rolling instinctively against him, pressing. My hands moving to his belt, undoing it as he pushed into me, I unzipped his pants and reached my hand inside, feeling him grow harder as I wrapped my hand around his girth and pulled him out, using my legs to push his pants down while at the same time pulling him into me.

His hand trailed down the curve of my waist curling around roughly squeezing my inner thighs and then slowing as he approached my center.

One hand between my legs, his other lifting my chin forcing me to look into his eyes. A dark fire smoldered between us “It’s us against the world now,” he whispered as his fingers below gently trailed across my pussy, I reflexively pushed against them, a sob still in my chest, as a tear rolled down my cheek.

“I need it too,” he assured me, his other hand cradling my face, wiping the tear away with his thumb and then he pressed it hard against my mouth, bruising my lips against my teeth and pushing inside, my tongue and lips clamping around him, sucking. At the same time, he spread me open below and slid inside.

“So fucking wet for me,” his voice low as I melted into the sensations. “God help me... Let me feel how much you need this.”

As he moved his finger in and out, his thumb found my clit. He watched my face as I writhed beneath him, sucking on his thumb like it was the last meal I would ever have. The intensity of the eye contact undid me.

I was completely at his mercy, the way he was learning my body in seconds, finding the exact angle, the exact speed.

“Were you made for me?” He asked, not waiting for my answer, he leaned down and kissed me again. His tongue matching the rhythm of his finger and thumb.

My hand gripped his cock, sliding it up and down. He had to stop for a minute, as he stepped out of his pants.

When he looked back up at me, I was panting, crying, begging. I didn’t recognize myself when I caught a glimpse in the mirror. My black hair tangled, my dark brown eyes wild. I felt like an animal.

“I need you…” He said, as his hand flew to my throat. Squeezing.

“…inside me.” I gasped, feeling the pressure of his hand.

His other hand was on my back, pressing me, holding me, securing me.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly. The absolute authority in his voice, coupled with the control he had over my body made me lose control. I came on his fingers, my eyes closing as I tossed my head back, moaning.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me up to him as he leaned in and kissed me through it.

“We belong to each other now,” he said as my orgasm subsided and he slipped his finger out of me.

He swept me up into his arms, carrying me to the heavy wrought-iron bed. He followed me down into the mattress, bracing his weight on his good arm, trapping me willingly beneath the cage of his body.

Our eyes met again. And this time, there was less rush as he bent down to kiss me. He reached down between us and then shifted back over me and I could feel the heavy head of his cock pressed against me as my head fell back onto the pillow.

My eyes closed. I felt him kissing my eyelids as he ground against me, entering me with deliberate slowness. I was coming undone, squirming beneath him as more hot tears slipped out and ran down my cheeks, into the pillow. He kissed them away.

“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave, demanding absolute surrender and bringing me back once again from the pain in my heart that threatened to engulf me. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” I breathed, my hands gripping his hips, trying to pull him into me. “I’m yours, Damien. Only yours.”

“Fucking right you are. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

“I’ll never let anything happen to you, either” I sighed back.

“I believe that, Marchetti.”

He pushed forward, sinking into me in one long thrust. I cried out as my body stretched around him.

He stayed perfectly still for a heartbeat, his forehead resting against mine. We both fought to breathe through the connection as he began to move.

He pulled almost all the way out and then back in, I smoothed my legs down over and along side his, and then up over his ass, feeling his muscles harden with the effort. My hands searching his body like they were covered in holy words and I was blind.

His hands and mouth were everywhere. Gripping me, biting me, kissing me.

“I was made for you,” I breathed as his mouth found mine. His tongue in my mouth matching the rhythm of his cock.

His pace quickened. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist, locking him to me, taking him deeper, my hips arching to meet his.

“Charlotte,” he growled against my neck “Fuck, you feel so good.”

I became aware of a sensation of everything having happened to someone else. A bubble had surrounded the sadness, another the sound and sights of my father covered in blood and rasping his last words. They floated away.

When he said my name, I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel him.

He pulled my legs up over his shoulders, and pushed in deeper, watching my face in the flickering firelight as he sensed I was ready for all of him. And he gave it to me. That place deep inside, he found it and his hips pressed with an unhurried rhythm.

I turned my head on the pillow, looking away. He grabbed my chin and turned my face towards him.

“Let go for me,” he demanded, his thumb dropping between our bodies pressing against my clit, “Come for me, Charlotte.”

My body tensed around him.

“Good girl,” he said, fucking me through it as I writhed beneath him. He kissed my calves and pulled my hips up into him. When I was finished, he bent down to kiss me, staying inside me, stroking slowly.

His hands in my hair, pulling at the nape of my neck, gently kissing down my throat. Then a small bite, and another.

“I want more,” he said against my ear, his beard scraping against me. I tried to lift my hips up into him, but he had me pinned firmly against the mattress.

He took both my wrists in his right hand, the large lion tattoo visible for a moment as he lifted my arms, placing them above my head. The back of his other hand brushed my jaw, then moved to cup my chin.

My eyes were closed but I could feel him looking at me, felt his kisses, and his thumb moving across my lips, pressing inside, my tongue swirling hungrily with each teasing pass.

He started fucking me again. Deliberately slow. I moaned and arched, throwing back my head.

“Such a good girl, taking every inch of me.”

“Don’t stop,” I begged. “Don’t ever stop.”

“I’m far from done with you,” he promised as his rhythm began to shift, growing more urgent.

The hand holding my wrists let go, moving down my side, while his other arm slid securely beneath my waist.

In one sudden, fluid motion, his immense strength pulled me up and rolled me, flipping me onto my stomach.

The weight of chest was pressing down against my bare back, covering me, caging me. My nervous system relaxed completely. “Hold me down, don’t let me go,” I whispered into the bed.

His large hands found my hips, lifting me just enough to anchor me exactly where he needed me. I felt the possessive intensity sear me like a branding iron.

I reached out, my fingers wrapping tightly around the iron rungs of the headboard, bracing for the impact I welcomed.

“Mine,” he growled as he leaned over me. He pressed his face into the damp tangle of my dark hair, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck.

Just feeling him, not being able to look at him as he took me. It was the primal surrender.

His breath hot against the back of my neck, he takes his time with me. Holding himself still just letting me feel the heaviness of his cock resting against my opening.

His hand slides from my hip, tracing the curve of my ass, then down the back of my thighs, fingers digging in, leaving marks. I hope.

“Look at you,” he growled against my ear, “Spread open for me.”

I whimper, pushing back against him, desperate for more. But he doesn’t give in.

“Tell me what you want.” He commands as the tip of his cock, just the head, pushes in an inch and then back out.

“Please,” I breathe, the word half-muffled by the pillow. “Please, fuck me.”

With a slow thrust he buries himself inside me. The stretch claiming me as he pauses, letting me feel every inch of him. He presses his hips against my ass. Then he pulls out almost entirely, leaving only the tip, before slamming back in with a brutal force.

“Yes,” I gasp, my fingers tightening on the headboard.

A welcomed invasion that clears my head and brings me back to earth into my body as my focus narrows to that of his cock sliding in and out of me.

His hands grip my hips, pulling me back onto him with each stroke, controlling the pace, the angle, the depth.

“Mine,” he repeats, leaning forward, his chest pressing me flat, his mouth at my ear. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I moan, and its the only thing that has made sense today, maybe ever. “I’m yours.”

He growls his approval, as his hand moved around me, palm flat against my lower belly, pressing down as he thrusts.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, his voice rough. “Feel how deep I am?”

I can only shake my head and moan. His hand leaves my belly, sliding up to my throat, fingers pressing lightly against the pulse point, holding it firmly.

Reminding me who’s in control in this moment makes me come undone as his pace quickens.

“Fuck me back and don’t you dare come yet,”

He slows, just enough to keep me on the edge, his thrusts teasing.

I move my hips backward onto him as he stays still, allowing me to slide off and on him at my own pace as his hands move all over my body.

His hand finds my clit again, stroking me as if he had done it a thousand times. The pressure, the rhythm, it was like he could sense every sensation he gave me.

“Not until I tell you,” he reminds me.

I continue moving up and down on his cock but I’m shaking now. The effort after the long day, the emotions, I am starting to succumb.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please, I need...”

With a hand in my hair, he yanks my head back just enough to arch my spine. The angle allows him to drive even deeper.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, “come for me, again.”

He takes over. Staying deep inside he thrusts over and over as I grip the headboard. I feel myself coming again, this time is so intense that I start speaking incoherently.

My thoughts cease as my orgasm wraps itself around us both and I feel him come inside, claiming me deep.

He stays buried, grinding as we both come back to reality.

For a long moment, we lay there. Our breath slowly returning to normal. When he pulls out, his hand strokes my hip lovingly, before he collapses beside me and pulling me into his arms.

His lion tattoo is right there, inches from my face, I trace the outline with a trembling finger, and he catches my hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it.

“Your hand in mine, Marchetti,” he whispered. “I’ll never let you go.”

Kael’s dark eyes locked on mine. Rourke was scanning the rooftop.

Rain whipped around us, promising to turn into snow before the night was over.

Kael leaned forward, his hand coming up to the back of my neck. He gripped it possessively with a steady pressure.

“You good?” he asked in a low voice, steering me to look directly into his piercing brown eyes.

It had been a brutal to get my head right for the job we were doing tonight. After what happened on the last run, the near-miss that almost cost us Rourke. But the shadows couldn’t conceal me forever, the dawn came fast in our line of work. We needed this.

“Getting back to work is the best thing for me. I’m ready,” I confirmed, holding his stare without flinching.

The sharp, lethal focus that always took over right before the drop gripped me. We’d gone over and over on this job, it was high-stakes. The three of us had to agree or it wasn’t done, that was the rules. I knew my guys needed the W tonight.

The cartel had locked down the upper floors of the high-rise below us. We knew a small army protected our target, a high ranking official in the organization we’d been tracking for weeks.

The bastard was wanted for double-crossing half the underworld. Our contract was chosen because our reputation for being crazy enough to do it preceded us, even with the last job fuck up. Pulling this job off would put us in the green permanently. I checked my watch. He was due to arrive in the high-floor boardroom any minute now.

A quiet step rustled behind us. Rourke adjusted the strap of his heavy rifle, his eyes meeting mine from behind his black tactical balaclava as he prepped to leave for his sniper nest on the adjacent ledge. He stepped into my space, towering and broad, his familiar smell embracing me.

“The job will be finished soon,” Rourke murmured, his dark voice vibrating straight through my chest. “And then tonight, you’re ours.”

He reached his gloved hand out, cupping my chin firmly, his thumb brushing over my lower lip before he stepped back and vanished into the shadows of the fire escape.

Kael and I exchanged a single, synchronized glance. We had the kind of connection where no words were needed. We were moving. Our tactical boots in precise rhythm as we sprinted toward the central ventilation housing.

We hooked into our repelling gear and descended into the dark vertical drop. Kael’s hand was firm on my back. I focused on the pressure, but I couldn’t feel the warmth I knew was there through my kevlar vest, it kept me centered through the gloom.

We dropped steadily until our boots touched down on the maintenance grating outside the glass, moving like the well-oiled machines we were trained to be. Count of three. Breaching charge planted.

Crack.

With a synchronized kick, we breached the double doors of the meeting room, our boots hitting the reinforced floor at the exact same moment.

The guards were fast, but we were faster. We had the element of suprise. We always made sure we did. The glass shattered and immediately gun fire started echoing off the polished marble walls. Kael grabbed me, throwing me behind a heavy conference table

Muzzle flashes strobing in the dim room, men yelling orders over the deafening crack of automatic weapons.

“Crimson! Over here!”

He grabbed me around the waist and we dove behind a heavy mahogany conference table just as a spray of bullets tore through the air. The wood splintered into sharp shrapnel.

“Cover me!” Kael yelled. I was already squeezing the trigger of my suppressed sidearm. Returning fire, I double-tapped the closest guard as he charged my flank, dropping him instantly.

Kael was lethality in motion. Without hesitation he moved hrough the remaining defenders. I loved to see it. To see him, like this. I could watch him kill for hours. His movements were a tango with Death herself, cold and efficient one moment, unhinged and wild the next. His clothes and weapons would be covered in blood.

He preferred close combat to guns. His knife an extenstion of his arm and hand, it cut whatever got close.

The entire thing took two minutes, I confirmed, looking at my watch. When I lifted my eyes, Kael was stepping over the wreckage of the guard detail, his shadow falling over the cowering official curled behind the main desk.

He didn’t hesitate. He reached down, grabbed the man by his expensive silk lapels, and jammed the warm barrel of his sidearm under the official’s chin.

“It’s over,” Kael growled, his voice a dangerous, gravelly rasp that left no room for negotiation.

“You’re coming with us.”

The man didn’t resist. Paralyzed by pure terror, his knees shook as we hauled him up between us.

We navigated the pre-planned extraction route, breathless and adrenaline-fueled, double-checking blind corners until we cleared the secondary access door back to the roof where Rourke stood waiting, his rifle already broken down and stowed in its hard case.

The moment we stepped into the open air, Rourke moved in. He reached out, hauling me straight into his broad chest, wrapping his heavy arms around me and kissing the top of my head while I leaned into his warmth.

“I can’t wait to get back to the loft,” I murmured, burying my face into his tactical vest for a brief second, feeling the hard, steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“We’re going to ruin you, queen,” Kael said, coming up behind me. He reached out, his gloved fingers tangling into my hair, gripping it firmly at the nape of my neck to tilt my head back for just a moment before letting me go.

He turned, expertly maneuvering the trembling official toward the secondary strike detail waiting in the alley to take him into high-security custody.

Our job was officially done. And we could finally go back to the loft.

“Do you guys want to get food before we head back?”

“I ordered Chinese, it will be there by the time we get home,” Rourke confirmed nonchalantly. He always took care of us in little ways. I moved my hand out to put on him, the muscles of his leg felt like rock.

There was an electric tension between the three of us mounting with every mile. The dark interior of the ops van hid their faces in shadow more than their balaclavas.

“I’m not going to let you shower when we get back, I want you dirty, covered in tonight’s grime when we take you, Crimson.” Kael said in a low voice.

The violence of the night surged as he reached his hand onto my upper thigh, separating my legs roughly, he found purchase and tenderly pressed. I let out a soft moan, and Rourke’s hand fell over mine, guiding it over his tactical pants to his cock. He was already hard but as I pressed slightly down I could feel it grow. “Yes, baby girl,” he growled, and gripped the back of my neck pulling me in sideways for a kiss.

“I want to watch you come undone,” he said pulling back and looking into my eyes.

By time we hit the security gates of our private loft building, the mission was fully behind us, and all we wanted was each other.

We made our way to the elevator. Rourke’s hand shot out as the door opened and gripped the back of my neck, his other hand grabbed my wrist and whipped me around, walking me backwards up against the wall of the elevator.

“I do like it when Rourke gets like this,” Kael said laughing deeply as he stepped inside the elevator. Rourke’s mouth crashed down on mine, his knee pushing my legs apart as he started grinding against me, his hand tightening its grip on my throat.

As we burst through the heavy front door of the loft, it slammed shut, locking automatically behind us. Kael and Rourke closed in around me instantly, stripping off their tactical vests and tossing them to the hardwood floor with heavy thuds.

They were my welcomed dark predators, and I was their desiring prey, trapping me in the narrow foyer, their eyes burning dark.

“Fuck, baby girl, you’re already so wet,” Rourke said, he had pulled my pants off and had his hand between my legs.

“I want to lick every inch of you right now

They pinned me flat against the cold brick wall on of them on each side. Their large, calloused hands peeling away my gear, gripping my hips, pulling my body flush against theirs.

“We’re going to take care of you, Crimson,” Kael whispered, his hot breath brushing against my neck. “You did so good tonight, you did perfect.”

The smell of gunpowder still clung to our skin as we melted into each other. The electric tension that always followed a successful job made every touch, every command, every single moan that much more intense. They shattered me into a primal version of myself.

My men. “Kael, Rourke…” I managed to whisper. They both fell against me, engulfing me, their mouths on my neck, one of each side, kissing, licking, biting gently, as their hands explored my body.

My red hair was a wild, tangled mess of crimson spilling over my shoulders.

Kael reached under me and picked me up, carrying me the two feet and setting me down on top of the cold steel of the kitchen island. He didn’t say a word, just gripped my waist with those huge, tattooed hands as my boots clattered against the metal.

He knelt down and removed my boots as Rourke grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me down, tilting my head to where his huge cock was now at eye level. Still gripping my hair he pushed my open waiting mouth onto it.

He held the back of my neck firmly. “Let me fuck your mouth while Kael fucks your pussy with his tongue.”

Kael stepped between my legs, I could feel his massive frame as he spread my legs apart, running his hands up my inner thighs, squeezing hard, kissing my inner thighs, his rough beard grazing my soft skin.

He reached up, his hand slowly pressing as it moved up my stomach and then wrapping around my throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the pressure was there, a firm, possessive claim. “I can feel his cock working your throat,” he groaned, and then he started planting soft, urgent kisses on my pussy. I squirmed. His hand around my throat, holding me place as Rourke fucked my mouth, his tongue parting me, I could feel him slide a finger in and I moved into it.

Rourke’s hands were still cold from the night air as his finger slid in and out of me with with a slow, agonizing precision.

“You weren’t reckless tonight,” Rourke murmured, his voice a low, dangerous vibration.

Kael’s hand left my throat and his thumb stroked my jawline as Rourke traced his dick over my lips. “You’re such a pretty mess, open your eyes.”

I did.

“Look at me, Crimson.”

I lifted my eyes. His was cock still in my mouth while Kael continued to lick me and finger fuck me slowly. It was all I could do to keep from bucking and moaning.

“That’s right, pretty,” he said, “Look at me while I fuck your throat. You’re our good girl.”

Kael continued to ravish my pussy with a hunger that felt like it could swallow me whole. His tongue was broad and relentless, licking and sucking my clit with a rhythmic intensity that had me arching my back, my fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

“Look at him,” Rourke commanded, his voice grazing my ear as he stopped fucking my mouth, he lifted my head.

Kael was looking up at me, his lips wet, an unadulterated devotion. He stood up, his cock already hard and pulsing, freed from his pants. He was thick, heavy, and veined, a brutal piece of anatomy that matched the man.

He slicked the head of his cock with the wetness he’d just drawn from me, then gripped my hips, pulling me to the very edge of the steel island.

“Take it,” he groaned.

He drove inside me in one powerful, deep thrust. His cock filling my pussy completely, stretching me and I immediately came as Rourke leaned down finding my mouth with his, he kissed me through my orgasm.

And then he was behind me, his arms wrapped around me, pulling my back flush against his chest, as he lifted me off the counter, Kael’s hands gripped my ass. Rourke’s hands slid down to grip my thighs and hold them wide, ensuring Kael could bury himself as deep as possible.

They held me suspended. I leaned completely against Rourke.

“Watch yourself get fucked,” he commanded into my ear, kissing my neck.

Kael’s rhythm slowed as he leaned in to kiss my mouth. Every thrust was heavy and deliberate, driving me harder against Rourke, who held me steady, his chest heaving against my back.

“You’re both so perfect,” I managed as Rourke’s hand slid down between us, his fingers finding my clit and rubbing it in sync with Kael’s thrusts. I was trapped between them, a toy for their pleasure, and I loved every second of it.

Kael gripped my throat gently, pulling my face toward his as he accelerated. His thrusts became shorter, faster, more desperate. He was hammering into me, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Another orgasm as Rourke massaged my breasts with one hand and my clit with the other. Kael let out a low, guttural roar, driving himself in as deep as he could go, his cock pulsing hot and thick inside me as he came.

She couldn't help herself. The moment her hands came to my face, pulling my lips to hers, she broke the one simple rule I had given her. Don't move. The taste of her desperation was intoxicating. The way she was sweet, frantic, and entirely out of control all at once had me rock hard but a line had been crossed. As the heavy, warm shadows of the bedroom seemed to hold their breath, I watched the realization dawn in her beautiful green eyes. She was eager. She was starving for it. But she was about to learn exactly who was setting the pace tonight.

She knows the rules.

I don’t need to look angry now, I look at her instead like she is a little pathetic to me, reaching up, gently but firmly wrap my fingers around her wrists, pulling her hands away. I press them back to the mattress above her head, pinning them there with one hand.

“I... I couldn’t help it,” as she blushed in shame, pink splotches creeping up her chest and neck.

“I know,” I say, my voice a calm, steady rumble in the dim light. “You’re eager. You’re desperate.

But rules are rules, pretty girl. And you need to learn exactly who is setting the pace tonight. Roll over.”

She didn’t hesitate, the ginger waves of her hair falling in a messy halo over the pillows. She presses her face into the mattress. Delightfully, her breathing already shallow and fast.

“Up on your knees,” I command, watching her as she pushes herself up offering herself to me. The dip of her back and the swell of her ass make me feral with a punishing feeling. She shifts her weight nervously, her thighs trembling, exposed, vulnerable, and waiting for my consequence.

I take my time unbottoning my cuffs, rolling the sleeves of my shirt up to my forearms. The silence in the room stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the ragged sound of her breathing. I walk slowly around to the side of the bed, standing right beside her hips.

I trace a single finger down her spine, starting at the nape of her neck and dragging it agonizingly slow all the way down to the cleft of her ass. A

“Why are you in this position?” I ask, my voice dropping an octave.

“Because I disobeyed,” she murmurs into the sheets.

“Because you moved when I told you to stay still,” I correct her, letting my hand rest heavily on her hip. “Because you took when you were supposed to wait to be given. Understand?”

“Yes,” she whimpers.

I lift my hand. A feeling of power surges through my chest and I don’t give her a countdown, bringing my palm down in a sharp, stinging arc against her right cheek.

The smack echoes loudly in the quiet bedroom. A breathy gasp escapes and her she winces in pain as her hips jolt forward.

I don’t let her recover, I up the anti and I bring my hand down on the left cheek, perfectly matching the force.

“Keep your hips back,” I order, my voice authoritative, reassuring.

She forces herself backward, her hands gripping the sheets tightly, her knuckles turning white in contrast with her reddening ass.

I deliver three more strikes in quick succession, each one, she gasps, her body twisting slightly fighting the sting of the impact.

The contrast of the sharp pain against the agonizing build-up I’d put her through earlier is pushing her right to the edge. I know she is dripping.

“Such a pretty little mess back her now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Sir,” she manages but barely, hissing it through her pain.

I let my hand rest flat against the heated, stinging skin I just marked. It’s radiating warmth. I press down gently, soothing the sting with my palm, and she lets out a long, shuddering sigh, melting into my touch.

“Good girl,” I praise her softly, leaning down so my lips are right next to her ear. “You take it so beautifully.”

I drag my hand down, slipping between her thighs from behind. She is drenched, completely, the punishment only serving to heighten the intense ache.

“Now,” I whisper, my fingers finding that swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves that I had denied her earlier. “Let’s see if you can be a good girl and take what I give you.”

I press my thumb firmly against her clit, and she presses her face into the pillow and moans.

I tease her, circling her clit, and brushing it over the top slightly and then pulling away. I trace down to her entrance and press my middle fingertip inside, swirling, in and out. She remains still, not pressing back, but she is trembling and I know she wants to.

“Good girl, waiting for me to give you what you deserve.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I slide my finger all the way in, holding it there inside her, I curl my finger slightly and move it in and out of her.

I press down on her clit with my thumb, rubbing in tight circles. I slid my ring finger inside her along with my middle and she starts breathing harder, her body shaking, every one of her brain cells fighting with keeping still and thrusting back onto my hand.

“That’s it,” I tell her, increasing my pace, feeling the muscles inside her start to spasm and tighten around my fingers. “Give it to me. Let it go.”

“Please,” she sobs into the mattress, her entire body rigid, completely tethered to the movement of my hand. “Please, I’m right there...”

“Fall for me,” I command, pressing my thumb down harder. “You can move, now, baby girl.”

Her back bowed as wave after wave of intense release crashed through her. Her inner muscles bear down on my fingers and her hips press back onto my hand, soaking me as trembles violently through the climax.

I hold her there, not slowing down, forcing her to ride every single second of the high until she is completely spent, limp, and breathless against the bed.

I slowly slide my fingers out, trailing them down her thigh. I press a soft kiss to her shoulder, tasting the faint sheen of sweat on her skin.

“Perfect,” I murmur. “Now, turn around. It’s my turn.”

Chapter 4

“Princess.” Her tongue plunged into my mouth, deep. “Mmmm….greedy, girl,” I pulled back. Her eyes wide in the dark, searching.

“I want you,” she whispered. “Don’t you want me?” She wrapped her arms around my neck, leaning in. As she did, her sweetness enveloped me again. Her scent so intoxicating, I could taste it.

“Princess, you smell like a fresh baked cake.”

“I was helping in the kitchen before I came down here. We made pies, I should have brought you some…”

“I don’t want fucking pie right now, Princess.”

“Why do you call me that? Princess?”

“Because it’s what you are. Heir to throne. Feet don’t touch the ground.”

“You don’t know anything about me, if you think that.” she countered back.

“I know your skin is soft and I know your feet aren’t touching the ground right now,” I said as I dragged my calloused hands up the back of her thighs, gathering the thin fabric of her dress and burying my fingers deep into the curve of her ass. Grinding into her.

She moaned frantically into my mouth, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer as if she couldn’t physically get enough of me.

I hoisted her higher against the barn wall until her pelvis aligned perfectly with the aching bulge in my jeans.

“James,” she breathed against my lips, her voice a wrecked, breathless whisper.

“What am I going to do with you?” I growled, burying my face into her neck, her soft blonde hair.

“I need you,” she whimpered, her body shuddering against mine.

“Princess, you are a desperate little mess, aren’t you?” The edge in her voice destroyed whatever fragment of control I had left.

I hauled her away from the wall and carried her to the heavy wooden saddle rack in the center aisle.

I set her down on a saddle and looked down at her. She looked so small looking up at me. I bent down to kiss her and she wrapped herself around me, melting into me. I grabbed a fistful of her hair at the back of her neck. The slight dampness from her sweat drove me mad and I spun her around, bending her over the saddle, lifting her dress, using my boots to nudge her thighs further apart, widening her stance until she was fully exposed to me. The view sent a bolt of pure fire straight down to my gut.

I put one hand on the small of her back, circling around her waist and squeezing hard until she gasped.

“Put your ass in the air, princess,” I commanded, my voice dropping to an unyielding, gravelly rumble, sliding my hand down under her, coaxing her hips higher into the space between us. “That’s it. Right there.”

She arched her spine, letting out a soft, trembling sigh, her dress was pulled high over her hips.

“Have you ever been taken from behind, Princess?”

“No,” she said softly.

“Have you ever been spanked, Princess?”

She looked back over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed crimson, her eyes wide and dark with a dangerous, reckless heat. “Do it,” she whispered, her lips parted. “Spank me, James.”

My palm hovered over her skin, twitching with the urge. “Fuck, Princess,” I hissed, my dark gaze locked on her shivering frame. “I want to spank you so bad for slapping me earlier. I want to leave my handprint on this sweet ass.”

I raised my hand, my pulse hammering in my ears, ready to strike...

Creak.

The sound of heavy leather boots stepping onto the gravel outside the barn doors shattered the air like a gunshot. A low voice muttered somewhere down the driveway, followed by the metallic click of a barn latch.

We both froze instantly. The spell broken.

“Shhhh…It’s ok,” I whispered. Glad I hadn’t undone my belt buckle.

Before she could panic or utter a sound, I reacted, pulling her dress down and lifted her up, turning her around and hoisting her over my shoulder, carrying us down the dark corridor, bypassing the open stalls and slipping around the corner into the back hallway.

I pushed through the heavy wooden door of the main private tack room, stepping into the cool, dark sanctuary lined with polished bridles, oil-rubbed saddles, and the rich scent of treated leather.

I kicked the heavy oak door shut behind us with my boot, and the brass lock clicked firmly into place.

Chapter 5

The moment the lock clicked, the outside world ceased to exist.

“We should stop, Princess.” I said quietly, setting her down on the ground.

The private tack room was dark, smelling heavily of saddle soap, oiled leather, and pine.

“I don’t want to,” she said, reaching for me, pressing herself against me. Her body felt like fire.

“Fuck, you don’t make it easy, do you?” I laughed quietly.

“Just quick, just take me fast, I need to feel you inside me.”

“You want me to to take you to that workbench over there? Hmmm?”

“Yes,” she agreed instantly.

I scanned the room.

“It does appear to be the best option, Princess,” I said but my eyes were drawn to the sturdy timber frame stretching across the far wall.

“I could tie you up, whip you, like a naughty little filly.” I said.

Lacey was climbing up my body like a vine. Her hands framed my jaw, her small fingers digging into my hair as she scrambled to reach my mouth.

“James” she begged, her lips brushing frantically against mine. I kissed her back. She was intoxicating in her need.

I set her feet back on the cool floor, but kept my hands locked tight on her hips. “Patience, Princess,” I murmured, my thumb tracing her lower lip.

She looked up at me. The sudden realization of her own desperation hit her, and the sweet timidity took hold. She bit her lip, lowering her eyes as a soft stammer escaped her.

“I... I know I’m not as experienced as the women you’re used to,” she breathed, her chest heaving against mine. “But I want to be. I want to know.”

I loved when she blushed like that. It drove me out of my mind, the stark contrast between her innocent modesty and the raw heat radiating from between her thighs.

“What do you want me to teach you, baby girl?” I asked, my voice dropping an octave, low and heavy with promise.

“Everything,” she whispered without hesitation, her eyes locking back onto mine with a sudden, fierce resolve. “Teach me to be yours.”

A sharp, dark laugh pulled from my chest. “You’re not ready for that, Lacey.”

“Make me ready,” she shot back, stepping closer until her soft breasts pressed against my shirt.

“Tie me up. Whip me like a filly.”

A white-hot fire lit in the pit of my belly. The sheer innocence sent a surge of possessive hunger straight to my groin.

I knew damn well she wasn’t ready for the kind of darkness I was capable of. But seeing her throw down a challenge, terrified yet eager, made it impossible to walk away.

“Careful what you ask for, Princess,” I whispered, my dark gaze holding hers hostage. “Because once I start...”

“I trust you,” she whispered.

“Arms up for me. That’s it. Let it drop.”

She stepped out of the dress, standing before me in nothing but her tiny lace thong. I stepped back and watched as she fought to keep her arms at her side.

My eyes drank her in as my cock strained against my jeans.

I could see the subtle tremble in her knees. I could see the faint flicker of genuine fear dancing in her wide eyes.

It delighted me and it made but I forced myself to maintain absolute control. I had to go slow. My usual appetite had to be tamped down.

I turned to the rack on the wall. I’d done this a few times before but never to someone so completely untouched by this unholy game.

I picked up two soft, braided cotton lead ropes. “Hands behind your back,” I instructed gently, taking her wrists. “I’m using soft cotton. It won’t bite into your skin, but you won’t be able to move. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she swallowed hard, her voice barely a whisper as I bound her wrists behind her waist, securing the knot with practiced efficiency.

“Princess, I admire you for this, but we’re not doing this, not tonight, not here, not yet.”

“Please spank me, James. Please....”

My cock was so painfully hard against my jeans it felt like concrete. I slid my fingers beneath the waistband of her thong, pushing the wet fabric aside.

My fingers slipped in so naturally. She was soaked for me.

“Look at you,” I growled into her neck, “Dripping for me...”

Rattle.

The brass door handle violently jiggled from the outside.

A heavy shoulder slammed against the oak door, making the frame groan against the lock.

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support My Work

My work is for fans of dark romance fiction with morally grey characters. I write about billionaire bad boys and masked Mafia men, stable hands with a dark pasts, reverse harems, contracts, forced marriages, supernatural, werewolf, breeding, kinks, D/s, BDSM…

How’s that song go?

Yeah, I got issues, you got ‘em too, so give ‘em all to me, and I’ll give mine to you.

Serial Fiction -

Belgravia Burning - Your next Mafia Dark Romance obsession featuring real life bookstagram couple Charlotte Marchetti, 35 & Damien Thorne, 43. Morally Grey MMC & FMC. Violence. Open Door Spice. Possessive couple. Loyalty. Chosen Family. Plot twists. Tension.

Read about our project, the world’s first Tri-Account Narrative

The Bond in the Breaking - Possessive, morally grey billionaire stalker, Lukan Blackmoor, 40 has particular tastes and he will go to any lengths to satisfy his cravings, whatever they may be. Svana Vale, 37, contract attorney, has rescued her twin brother, Sven from everything her whole life, so when Lukan Blackmoor offers to erase his debt with the cartel, Svana signs on the dotted line. She has no idea what she is getting herself into and Lukan wastes no time leading her into his shadowy underworld. Stalker. Possessive. BDSM. Mind games. Slow burn. Open door. Heavy spice.

Reckless She’s the boss’s daughter, fresh out of high school. He’s older, 27, morally grey and worldly. James and Lacey can’t keep their hands off each other since the moment they meet. But Jame’s has a past that threatens in the shadows. He pulls her close and then pushes her away. She thinks she is in love. It’s a mess and there’s lots of super hot talk her through it scenes. He’s dominate, she’s willing to learn. He likes it rough, he tries to keep it soft, she begs him to show her the real him. Is it getting hot in here?

Triple Threat Masked, Morally Grey, Reverse Harem. Crimson, Kael & Rourke are absolutely feral for each other. A sacred bond in and out of the bedroom. Their connection is psychic and intense. Kael & Rourke dominate her in the bedroom, but they both worship at the foot of Crimson’s throne. This is a series of snapshots, no story arc, so you can read them at random.

The Purchased Vows A forced marriage, a family with secrets, a naive FMC and a morally grey MMC who falls first. Set in the same universe as The Bond in the Breaking.

SMUT PNP aka p0rn no plot

BDSM D/s dynamics explored. Everything here is either a short story or a single written chapter that will eventually get serialized. Maybe.

Reverse Harem MMF &MMMF Like your men to be lusty and to come in sets? Everything here is either a short story or a single chapter or two that will eventually get serialized. Maybe.

Morally Grey Masked Men - They wear masks, they are morally grey, they make no apologies, & you love it, don’t you, good girl.

Short Smut Stories -Kind of a grab bag, a blind date, if you will. A catch all category for one off tropes and I got horny thinking about it, so I wrote a story for myself and then shared with the class.

Supernatural Smut - if you’re a “jokes on you, I fuck monsters” kind of girl, this one is for us.

Non-Fiction - sometimes using the academic voice is an itch I need to scratch.

About Me

Red hair, don’t care. MA in creative writing. I’ve got big plans and they all involve smut and morally grey characters.

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support My Work

Chapter Five Damien: Angels Weep

“Let’s dismantle them, Marchetti,” I muttered, the iron walls of my discipline snapping back into place as three more men rounded the far corner of the wing, weapons raised.

We didn’t need to coordinate. It was pure, visceral instinct.

I lunged forward, dropping my shoulder and using my mass to slam the first man into the wainscoting, the bone-crushing impact echoing through the narrow space. I didn’t look back. I didn’t have to. The sharp, controlled bursts from Charlotte’s weapon barked right over my shoulder, dropping the second shooter before he could even center his barrel on my chest. I drew my Sig Sauer, driving a round into the final intruder’s throat with clinical precision.

The hallway went dead silent, save for the rhythmic, dripping hiss of a ruptured water line and the wail of the sirens outside.

“Study,” I barked, grabbing Charlotte’s elbow and spinning her back through the ruined double doors.

The room was in shambles. The heavy mahogany desk was splintered, and the scent of expensive cigars had been entirely replaced by the coppery stink of fresh blood. My heart stopped.

Anthony was slumped on the floor behind the desk, his hands clutching a ragged, crimson stain spreading rapidly across his chest.

“Papa!” Charlotte dropped her weapon, the cool, detached soldier vanishing in an instant as she threw herself onto the floor beside him.

“Anthony,” I knelt on his other side, my large hands immediately pressing down over his to stem the flow. The blood was hot, pumping too fast between his fingers. He’d taken three to the chest. “Sal! Get the medical team down here now! Move!” I roared toward the hallway.

The old Don’s eyes cracked open, unfocused and clouded with pain, but the second they fixed on my face, a terrifying, desperate strength returned to his grip. He bypassed his daughter, his blood-slicked fingers latching onto the lapels of my suit jacket, pulling me down until his breath rasped directly against my ear.

“The family... compromised,” Anthony hissed, a streak of red staining his lips. “Consigliere... capos... I don’t know who bought the bullets. No one protects her but you.”

“Boss, the medics are…”

“No!” He coughed violently, his grip tightening with a dying man’s final command. “Take her. Get her out of London. Tonight. Do not tell the family where you are going. Cut the phones. You protect her with your life, Damien. She is everything I have left.”

“On my life, Boss,” I said, the heavy vow sealing my throat like an iron collar.

“Go,” he whispered, his eyes closing as his head fell back against the ruin of the floorboards.

“Papa, no!” Charlotte cried, her hands trembling as she tried to find a pulse.

Sirens were echoing in the courtyard now—local police we hadn’t paid off, or worse, a second wave of attackers coming to finish the job. We were out of time.

“Charlotte, we have to go,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble as I grabbed her upper arms, forcing her up away from his side.

“No, I’m not leaving him!” She fought me, her Goju-ryu training flaring up as she tried to twist out of my grip. It was like trying to hold onto a wild, beautiful storm, but I was bigger, heavier, and driven by a promise I would die before breaking.

“He’s alive, but if we stay, we both die and his sacrifice means nothing,” I snapped, pulling her flush against my chest, locking her arms to her sides until her dark eyes flared with a mix of fury and stark reality. “We leave. Now.”

She went rigid for one heartbeat, processing the clinical truth of the numbers, before she gave a single, tight nod. “My coat. My stylus is in it.”

I grabbed her black wool coat from the floor, throwing it over her shoulders, and snatched the fallen submachine gun. We didn’t use the front doors. I led her through the hidden service corridor behind the study, down a steep flight of stone steps that opened into the rain-slicked alleyway behind the Belgravia estate.

I tore my phone out of my pocket, dropping it into a puddle and crushing it beneath the heel of my boot. “Phones out. Battery, SIM card, everything. Destroy them.”

Charlotte didn’t hesitate. She produced a sleek European device, cracked it over the edge of a brick wall, and tossed the pieces into the dark water of the gutter.

A non-descript, black sedan I kept stationed for emergencies sat idling in the shadows of the alley. I threw open the passenger door, shoving her inside before vaulting over the hood and sliding into the driver’s seat. I slammed the car into drive, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt as we tore away from the burning kingdom, plunging straight into the cold, blinding downpour of the London night.

We were officially dead to the world, entirely on our own, and the only place left to hide was a hidden, frozen safehouse on the edge of the wilderness.

Chapter Six Damien: Kingdom Come

The tires screamed against the wet asphalt as I threw the sedan into a hard, blind corner, plunging us deeper into the blinding sheet of the London rain that was turning to snow.

Behind us, the world was burning. The smoke from the Belgravia estate was a distant, oily smudge in the rearview mirror, swallowed up by the pitch-black sky.

Inside the car, the air was suffocating, thick with the sharp stink of spent gunpowder, ozone, and the raw, heavy coppery taste of fresh blood.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight the leather groaned. My knuckles were white, the hyper-realistic lion etched across my right hand flexing into a tense, rigid knot. My chest was heaving, a violent storm of adrenaline clashing against a cold, hollow void that was rapidly opening up in my gut.

Anthony. My Don. The man who had taken me out of the gutters and given me a purpose, a code, a life.

He’s gone. The thought hit like a physical blow to the ribs, but I forced it down, clamping my jaw until my teeth ached. A leader couldn’t bleed. An enforcer couldn’t grieve. Not while the wolves were still hunting.

Beside me, the silence was deafening.

I cut a sharp look to the passenger seat. Charlotte was staring straight ahead through the swept paths of the windshield wipers. She sat perfectly rigid, her spine a straight, unyielding rod against the leather. Her black wool coat was clutched tight around her, but her hands, the hands that had just methodically taken a man’s life in the corridor, were trembling so violently she had to lace her fingers together to force them still.

The clinical, detached soldier I had seen back-to-back in the smoke had vanished. In her eyes, reflected in the green glow of the dashboard lights, was the stark, shattering realization of a daughter who had just left her father to die in his own blood.

“He told me to take you,” I muttered, my voice a low, gravelly rasp that barely cut through the roar of the downpour against the roof. “He said the family was compromised. From the inside. We couldn’t trust anyone, Charlotte. Not the capos, not the consigliere.”

“You left him,” she whispered.

The words were quiet, but they sliced through the air like a razor. She didn’t look at me. Her gaze remained locked on the dark, twisting ribbon of the country road we were tearing down.

“I did what he ordered me to do,” I snapped, the raw, ugly emotion finally bleeding through the cracks of my iron discipline. “He was bleeding out, Charlotte! Three to the chest. If I stayed to fight a second wave or wait for a medical team that might have been bought by Kristof, we’d both be lying on that mahogany floor next to him. I had a vow.”

“He is my father!” She suddenly whipped her head toward me, her dark eyes flashing with a terrifying, breathless fury that made her look breathtakingly lethal and utterly broken all at once. “He was my father, Damien! And we ran like cowards while he breathed his last breath in the dust!”

“We ran so his sacrifice meant something!” I roared back, slamming my palm against the steering wheel. The car swerved slightly before I wrenched it back into the center of the lane. “Look at me! Look at the numbers! If we die, the Marchetti bloodline ends tonight. Kristof wins. The Albanians take the city, and your father’s legacy is reduced to ashes. Is that what you wanted?”

She flinched, the harsh utility of my words striking her exactly where it hurt. She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing as she pulled her knees up toward her chest, curling inward as if trying to shield herself from the sheer velocity of the grief.

“He was all I had left,” she said, her voice cracking, dropping into a fragile, hollow register that tore at something buried incredibly deep in my chest.

I looked away from her, fixing my eyes back on the road as the city lights faded completely, replaced by the oppressive, towering silhouettes of the ancient trees flanking the highway. The rain was turning into a freezing slush, ice tapping against the glass like skeletal fingers.

“You have me,” I said softly, the vow settling over the dark interior of the car like a heavy shroud. “I don’t care if the entire syndicate turns on us. I don’t care if we have to burn the whole UK underworld to the ground to keep you breathing. I got you, Marchetti. He gave you to me, and I don’t lose what’s mine.”

Charlotte let out a shaky, trembling breath, her head leaning back against the headrest. She didn’t argue. She didn’t throw my last name back in my face. She just closed her eyes, the exhaustion of the adrenaline crash finally dragging her down into a heavy, suffocating quiet.

We drove for another hour in total silence, watching the digital clock on the dashboard tick away the minutes of our old lives. We were ghosts now. No phones. No empire. No family. Just a man, a woman, and a black sedan hurtling through the freezing dark toward a hidden, isolated cabin on the edge of the wilderness.

And as the headlights caught the stark, wooden sign for Ashwood Forest up ahead, a low, cold ache flared in my left shoulder. The shrapnel was finally biting through the numbness, a sharp reminder that the violence wasn’t done with us yet.

Chapter Seven Charlotte: The Bleeding Lion

The storm didn’t stop when we reached Ashwood Forest; it only changed shapes, trading the slick, concrete rain of London for a heavy, suffocating snowfall that swallowed the headlights of the sedan.

By the time Damien killed the engine outside the cabin, the world was a silent, freezing void.

He didn’t wait for me. He was out of the car and moving with that same brutal, calculated efficiency, unlocking the heavy oak door and clearing the perimeter before waving me inside.

The safe house was a jarring contradiction. My father’s money had touched it, that much was obvious. The air smelled of cedar and expensive dust. Moonlight filtered through the snow-caked windows, catching the gleam of crystal decanters on a dark mahogany sideboard, heavy cashmere throws, and a fully stocked tactical medical bay built seamlessly into the wood paneling.

It was luxurious, but it was suffocatingly small. A single, open-concept space meant for a ghost to lay low for a few nights. And dominating the far side of the room, positioned near a stone hearth, was a single, heavy wrought-iron bed.

One bed.

I pushed the thought away, shivering as I dropped my ruined black wool coat onto a leather armchair. “We need to get a fire going before the temperature drops any further,” I said, my voice sounding entirely too loud in the quiet space.

Damien didn’t answer.

I turned around. He was leaning heavily against the reinforced door he had just deadbolted, his head tipped back against the thick wood. The iron discipline that had kept him upright for the last two hours was finally fracturing. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven hitches.

And then I saw it. The dark, wet stain was spreading across the left shoulder of his charcoal suit jacket, nearly black in the dim light.

The tactical soldier vanished. My medical training kicked in, cold and absolute.

“You’re hit,” I said, crossing the room in three rapid strides.

“Shrapnel,” he gritted out, his jaw tight. “From the breach. It didn’t hit an artery.”

“Sit down,” I ordered, pointing to the edge of the leather sofa. When he hesitated, his dark eyes flashing with a stubborn, primal need to remain standing, I didn’t back down. I stepped into his space, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze.

“You told me you were going to protect me, Thorne. You can’t do that if you bleed out on the floor of a cabin. Sit.”

For a long second, the air between us crackled with a violent, unspoken tension. Then, with a low grunt of pain, he pushed off the door and lowered his massive frame onto the sofa.

I went straight to the paneling, dragging out the trauma kit, gauze, antiseptic, sterile tweezers, and sutures. When I turned back, he had managed to strip off the ruined suit jacket and was pulling his ruined dress shirt over his head.

The breath completely left my lungs.

I knew he was large. I had felt the sheer, immovable weight of him when we were back-to-back in the corridor. But seeing him stripped of the bespoke armor was something else entirely.

Damien was built like a weapon forged for a singular, violent purpose. His shoulders were impossibly broad, tapering down into a heavily muscled, tightly corded torso. Thick, ropy veins tracked down his biceps and forearms, mapping the sheer physical power coiled beneath his skin. A heavy silver chain hung around his thick neck, the dull metal dog tags resting against the dense, dark hair that roughened his chest and trailed down over a deeply etched, punishing six-pack, disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.

But it was the ink that kept my eyes locked on his skin.

Harsh, tribal-style flames and sharp, dark arcs slashed across both of his collarbones, framing his chest like a warning. On his left side, right beneath the ribs, an intricate, circular Celtic knotwork design was carved into his obliques.

I stepped closer, my knees brushing against his as I examined the wound on his upper left arm. The shrapnel had torn through the edge of a dense, overlapping tattoo of dark dragon scales that sleeved his shoulder.

He was perfectly still as I hovered over him, his dark eyes locked onto my face. Up close, I could see the heavy dusting of silver and white threaded through the dark scruff of his beard, a stark reminder of the years he had spent surviving a world that killed most men before they turned thirty.

“It’s deep,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a low, quiet register as I snapped a pair of black latex gloves onto my hands. “But it looks like a clean entry. I’m going to have to dig the metal out. I don’t have local anesthetic.”

“Do it,” he rasped.

I poured the antiseptic directly over the wound. He didn’t even flinch. His muscles turned to granite under my hands, but he didn’t make a sound.

I worked quickly and methodically, my fingers slick with his blood. The forced proximity of it, standing intimately between his spread knees, my hip brushing against the heavy, hyper-realistic roaring lion tattooed across his right forearm—sent a sharp, dangerous spike of heat straight through the frozen shock in my veins.

I could feel the violent thud of his heart against my knuckles as I braced my hand against his chest to steady myself. The scent of him was copper, sweat, and that lingering, dark cedarwood. It was intoxicating. I found myself focusing on it instead of the grief that threatened to take me under every other moment.

Just ground myself in that scent. Breath it in. Masculine. Safe. We were safe.

“Got it,” I breathed, pulling a jagged, blood-slicked piece of door casing free with the tweezers. I dropped it into a metal tray with a sharp clink.

I grabbed the needle and thread, my eyes flicking up to his for the first time since I’d started. He was already watching me. His gaze was heavy, dark, and intensely focused, tracking every minute shift in my expression. The raw, primal magnetism rolling off his skin was suffocating.

“You have a steady hand, Marchetti,” he murmured, his deep baritone vibrating right through my fingertips where they rested on his bare chest.

“I have a lot of hidden talents, Damien,” I replied, pulling the first suture tight.

His eyes dropped to my lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second before lifting back to my eyes. The temperature in the freezing cabin seemed to spike by ten degrees.

“I’m starting to realize that,” he whispered.

I tied off the final stitch and taped a thick white bandage over the dragon scales on his shoulder.

When I finally pulled my hands away, the absence of his heat against my palms felt like a physical loss.

I stripped off the gloves, throwing them into the tray, and took a deliberate step back, trying to put oxygen between us.

“You need to rest,” I said, my voice betraying a slight tremor that I cursed myself for. I gestured toward the far side of the room. “Take the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

Damien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the heavy dog tags swinging from his neck. He looked at the single bed, then looked back at me, the ghost of a dark, knowing smirk playing at the edge of his silver-flecked beard.

“I’m the security detail, Charlotte,” he said, his voice dropping into a rough, possessive register that sent a shiver straight down my spine. “I don’t sleep while you’re exposed. You take the bed. I’ll watch the door.”

Chapter Eight Damien: The Ghost of the King

The adrenaline was finally bleeding out of me, leaving nothing but the cold, hollow ache of reality and the throbbing pulse of my stitched shoulder in its wake.

I watched Charlotte step back from me, the distance between us suddenly feeling a mile wide despite the cramped confines of the cabin. She was trying to build that impenetrable, clinical wall around herself again, but I could see the hairline fractures forming in her composure. The shock was wearing off, and the grief was waiting just beneath the surface to drag her under.

“There’s a bug-out bag in the trunk of the sedan,” I said, my voice a rough, gravelly rasp that cut through the heavy silence of the room. “Cash, clean passports, a duffel of my clothes.”

She wrapped her arms around her midsection, her dark eyes hollow as she looked at me.

“I need to grab it,” I continued, pushing myself off the edge of the sofa and ignoring the sharp bite of pain from my left arm. “But you don’t need to worry about supplies. Anthony had me stock this place for you two years ago, when the syndicate first started showing cracks.”

Charlotte’s brow furrowed, her lips parting slightly. “He what?”

“There’s a false panel under the Persian rug by the hearth,” I told her, holding her gaze. “It’s loaded. A full wardrobe in your size, multiple passports, offshore bank cards, clean IDs, and enough liquid cash to disappear on any continent. He had me put it together just in case things ever went sideways.”

A fresh wave of anguish rippled across her face.

That was Anthony. It was the exact reason he had built the empire from the ground up, and the reason he had managed to keep the crown on his head for four decades. The Don was always a step ahead of his enemies, and sometimes more. He had foreseen his own kingdom burning, and his only priority had been ensuring his daughter could walk out of the ashes unscathed.

“I’m going out to the car,” I said, grabbing my sidearm from the table and racking the slide.

“Throw the deadbolt behind me. Do not open it until you hear me knock twice, pause, and knock once.”

She gave a single, tight nod. I stepped out, pulling the heavy oak door shut, and listened until I heard the heavy, metallic clack of the deadbolt sliding into place.

The second I turned around, the wind howled through the pines, biting into my exposed chest.

The snow was falling heavier now, a blinding white curtain that would bury our tire tracks by morning. I welcomed the brutal, freezing sting of it. I needed the ice to cool the violent, chaotic heat she had sparked inside me.

I moved to the sedan with absolute tactical precision, my eyes scanning the pitch-black tree line, searching for thermal anomalies or movement. Focus, Thorne. I repeated the mantra in my head, forcibly shoving the memory of her hands on my skin into a steel box in the back of my mind. I couldn’t afford the distraction. I was a soldier, an executioner, and currently the only thing standing between the woman inside that cabin and an army of Albanian mercenaries.

I popped the trunk, hauled out the heavy black canvas duffel, and slammed it shut, keeping my weapon raised as I backed toward the cabin porch.

I gave the rhythmic knock—tap-tap, pause, tap—and a second later, the deadbolt slid back.

Charlotte stood in the doorway, shivering in her thin blouse, looking small against the heavy, dark timber of the room.

“Lock it back up,” I murmured, brushing past her and dropping the duffel near the sofa. “There’s a hot water tank in the back. Go take a shower and get the blood off you. I’ll get a fire going and pull out Anthony’s stash.”

She looked like she wanted to argue, her pride warring with her exhaustion, but the sheer, bone-deep weariness won out. She nodded wordlessly and disappeared behind the heavy wooden door of the bathroom.

A moment later, I heard the pipes groan as the water turned on.

I went straight to the stone hearth. I worked mechanically, stacking the dry birch logs and kindling, striking a long match to ignite the paper. As the flames caught, casting a flickering, warm golden light across the dark wood of the cabin, I stripped off the ruined, blood-stained trousers of my suit. I pulled a pair of black tactical cargo pants and a dark, long-sleeve Henley from my bag, the soft cotton pulling tight across my chest and hiding the fresh bandages on my shoulder.

I knelt by the fire, stoking the embers, trying to map out a survival strategy for the next forty-eight hours.

But then I heard it.

It was a small, shattered sound that barely carried over the hiss of the showerhead, but in the quiet of the cabin, it hit me with the force of a physical blow.

Charlotte was crying.

It wasn’t just crying. It was the desperate, breathless weeping of a woman who had just watched her entire world bleed out on a mahogany floor. The iron discipline she had relied on to survive the night had completely collapsed the second she was alone behind a locked door.

Every protective instinct I possessed flared to life. My hands curled into fists on my thighs, the muscles in my jaw ticking as I stared into the fire. I wanted to break the door off its hinges and pull her out of there, but I forced myself to stay rooted to the floor. She needed this. She needed to let the poison out.

I sat there in the flickering light, listening to her sob, feeling my own heart fracture right along with hers.

Ten minutes later, the water shut off.

I stood up, my senses dialed up to ten. I waited. One minute passed. Then two. Then three.

The silence stretching from the other side of the bathroom door became suffocating. The paranoia of a man who had survived a hundred ambushes started whispering in my ear. Was she in shock? Had the adrenaline crash taken her legs out from under her?

I couldn’t take the silence anymore. I crossed the room in long, silent strides and stopped in front of the heavy wooden door. I raised my knuckle, intending to knock softly, to just ask if she was still breathing.

My knuckles never touched the wood.

The door unlatched and swung inward at that exact second.

Charlotte stood in the doorway, clutching a white towel around her body. Her dark, wet hair was plastered to her collarbones, water dripping down the elegant slope of her neck. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face pale and streaked with tears, her lips trembling as she looked up at me. She looked entirely stripped of her armor, raw and devastatingly fragile.

She didn’t say a word. She just let out a fractured, broken breath, her knees buckling slightly as the last thread of her strength snapped.

She fell forward.

I caught her instantly. My arms wrapped around her wet, trembling body, pulling her flush against my chest as I absorbed the impact of her collapse. She buried her face into the curve of my neck, her hands gripping the fabric of my shirt like she was drowning and I was the only solid thing left in the world.

She shook violently against me, a fresh wave of ragged, agonizing sobs tearing from her throat.

“I’ve got you,” I rasped, my voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t swallow down. I closed my eyes, burying my face in her wet hair, one hand wrapping securely around her waist while the other cradled the back of her head, pressing her closer to my racing heart.

I didn’t care about the cold. I didn’t care about the pain radiating from my shoulder, or the empire that was burning to the ground hundreds of miles away.

As I held the weeping princess of the Marchetti syndicate in the dark, feeling her tears soak into my shirt, my vow solidified into absolute iron. I would be her shield. I would be her weapon. I would honor the dying wish of the only father I had ever known, and I would burn the rest of the world to ash before I ever let anyone hurt her again.

Read Chapter 9

Masked, Morally Grey, Reverse Harem. Crimson, Kael & Rourke are absolutely feral for each other. A sacred bond in and out of the bedroom. Their connection is psychic and intense. Kael & Rourke dominate her in the bedroom, but they both worship at the foot of Crimson’s throne. These characters & their life will be recurring here on A.M. Torric’s Dark Romance, but their stories will be presented as snapshots not actual chapters or story arc. The POV switches between characters for each snapshot.

CRIMSON POV

The steel door groaned shut, the deadbolt throwing with a heavy clack that sealed the night out. The loft was dark, lit only by the bleeding amber glow of the city through the grid of dirty factory windows. We moved through the space like a single unit, the adrenaline of the job still humming in my veins as we began to shed the weight of our gear.

Kael dropped his rifle on the table first. His vest followed, hitting the concrete with a dull thud. He was all thick, brutal muscle, his skin a canvas of dark ink that crawled up his neck and over his knuckles. Rourke was quieter, more methodical. He unstrapped his own gear, his shoulders rolling as he freed himself from the weight of Kevlar and steel.

I stood in the center of the room, my own mask pulled down and hanging loose around my neck. I could feel my red hair, long and damp, spilling over my shoulders, catching the city light like a thread of fire. I was still in my kit. My heavy combat boots on the floor, my fishnets torn in places and glistening with the night’s rain, my shorts tight over my hips and riding high on my thighs.

Kael crossed the space in three long strides. He didn’t stop until he was right in front of me, his massive frame blocking out the light. His hand came up, palm flat against my throat. He wasn’t squeezing, just resting it there, a gentle and ever present claim. My pulse jumped against his skin, fast and wild.

“You’re alright,” he said. His voice was a low rumble. I leaned into it. Letting the rumble sink into my soul.

I nodded, my eyes locked on the dark voids of his mask. Behind me, I felt Rourke move in, the heat of him pressing against my back. His arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me into the cage of his body. I was held, perfectly, between them.

Rourke’s hands worked the buckle of my vest, he removed it from me and turned to put it on the table. His fingers slid up under my shirt, finding my skin, tracing the line of my ribs. Kael was watching, his thumb stroking the line of my jaw.

“Off,” Kael commanded.

I pulled my shirt over my head, the air hitting my skin, cool and sharp. Rourke’s mouth was on my shoulder, my neck, kissing the salt and grit away. His hands slid down, pushing my shorts over my hips until they fell to my ankles. I stepped out of them, leaving me in nothing but the torn fishnets and my heavy boots.

Kael pushed me back against Rourke’s chest, his own body following. He dropped to his knees in front of me, his hands gripping my thighs, thick fingers digging into me. He spread me open, the fishnets tearing easily under his rough hands.

He didn’t wait. He leaned in, his mouth covering me. His tongue was broad and flat, dragging through my wetness in long, possessive strokes. My head fell back against Rourke’s shoulder, my fingers tangling in Kael’s short hair. Rourke held me upright, one hand heavy on my shoulder, the other drifting down my spine, over the curve of my ass.

Rourke gently turns my head over my shoulder to kiss him. His tongue and pressure in my mouth match the timing of Kael as he ravishes my pussy. I dissolve into them, completely weightless and consumed.

I felt Rourke’s finger teasingly and slowly start to trace my tight hole. I clenched around nothing as Kael’s tongue worked my clit. I heard the click of a cap, and then the cold drip of lube made me gasp against Kael’s relentless mouth. Rourke’s slick finger pressed slowly inside my ass. It wasn’t demanding; it was just filling, teasing, anchoring me in the perfect space between two men who loved me.

Kael stood up, dragging his mouth from my pussy. The wetness glistened on his lips. His cock was heavy and hard, freed from his tactical pants. He wrapped a hand around the base, slicking the head with my wetness.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded, his voice soft but absolute.

I looked. His eyes held mine. They were dark, hungry, and filled with a softness only I ever saw.

He pushed in.

It was a deep, consuming fullness. His cock stretched my pussy, sliding home in one smooth, powerful thrust. My body bowed, held perfectly between them. Rourke’s finger curled inside my ass, a slow, deep press that matched the rhythm Kael was setting in my pussy. It was a dual invasion, a perfect, overwhelming possession that left no room for thought, only sensation.

Kael fucked me with a deep, deliberate rhythm. Not fast, but heavy. Every thrust drove me down onto Rourke’s finger.

“More,” I gasped. “Please.”

Rourke withdrew his finger, replacing it with the blunt tip of a small plug. He pressed it in slowly, a bright, stretching pressure that made me cry out. Kael caught the sound with his mouth, kissing me deeply. His hand was still on my throat, a steady, grounding pressure that tethered me to the moment.

“That’s it, baby,” Rourke murmured against my ear. “Take it. Take us.”

The rhythm intensified. Kael’s hips snapped against mine. Rourke held the plug perfectly in place, his thumb circling my asshole.

My pussy was involuntarily squeezing Kael’s cock as they both fucked a slow, deep and long orgasm from my body shuddering in the cage of their arms.

The feeling of me coming triggered his. He drove deep, buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing hot inside me. His forehead pressed to mine. Rourke held us both, his hands gentle on my hips, his body a solid wall at my back.

Rourke eased the plug out slowly, watching my face. Kael cleaned me with a warm cloth he’d fetched from the bathroom. The masks were off now, my men, scarred, and utterly devoted.

I curled between them, my head on Kael’s chest, Rourke’s arm draped over my waist. The city hummed outside the grimy windows. The job was done. The blood was washed away. I was safe. We were home.

And in the dark of the loft, surrounded by the weight of their bodies and the truth of their devotion, I knew there was no place else I would ever want to be.

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support My Work

I take her hand, threading my fingers through hers, and lead her down the hallway. The light from the living room falls behind us, leaving the bedroom in warm shadow. She follows without hesitation, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. I can feel the slight tremor in her fingers. She knows what’s coming. She’s been aching for it all night.

I stop at the foot of the bed and turn to face her. The dim light catches the red in her hair, the way her green eyes glint up at me, half-lidded, already hungry. She’s wearing that thin summer dress, the one that hugs her hips and leaves her shoulders bare. I reach out and brush a strand of ginger hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. She leans into my touch.

“Strip for me,” I say, my voice low. “Slow.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Her hands go to the straps of her dress, sliding them down her shoulders. The fabric pools at her waist, and she shimmies it over her hips, letting it drop to the floor. She steps out of it, leaving her in just a pair of black lace panties. Her nipples are already hard.

I don’t move. I just watch her, letting the silence stretch. She shifts her weight, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. She knows I’m waiting for more.

“Everything,” I say.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her panties and pushes them down, bending slightly to step out of them. Straightening, she stands before me completely naked, her hands at her sides, her chest rising and falling with quickened breath. She’s exposed, vulnerable and trusting.

I take a step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her skin. I don’t touch her yet. I let my gaze travel down her body, slow and deliberate, from her eyes to her lips to the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the soft thatch of ginger hair between her thighs. She squirms under the inspection, a soft whimper catching in her throat.

“Turn around,” I say.

She obeys, pivoting on her heel. I study the line of her spine, the swell of her ass, the way her shoulders are slightly hunched, waiting. I step up behind her, close enough that my chest almost brushes her back, but I still don’t touch. I let her feel my presence, the heat of my body, the weight of my height.

“Put your hands on the wall,” I murmur, my lips near her ear.

She presses her palms flat against the wall beside the bed. I trail my fingers down her arms, feather-light, then back up, tracing the curve of her shoulders. I let my hands glide down her sides, over her ribs, until I reach her hips. I grip them firmly, pulling her back against me, so she feels the hard line of my cock through my jeans.

She gasps, her head falling back against my shoulder.

I hold her there for a long moment, just breathing, letting her feel the tension build. Then I release her and step back.

“Face me,” I say.

She turns, her eyes dark, her lips parted. I cup her face in my hands, tilting her chin up, and I kiss her deeply and slowly, my tongue sliding against hers, exploring her mouth like I have all the time in the world. She melts into me, her hands coming up to grip my shirt, pulling me closer. I let her have the kiss, let her get lost in it, before I pull back just enough to break the seal of our lips.

“Not yet,” I whisper against her mouth. “I want to look at you first.”

I guide her backward until the backs of her knees hit the bed. She sits, then lies back, her hair fanning out on the pillow. I stand over her, still fully dressed, and take my time looking at her. She’s spread out for me, her legs slightly apart, her chest rising and falling.

I kneel on the bed, positioning myself beside her, and I lower my hand to her breast. I cup it, my palm covering the entire mound, feeling the weight of it, the softness. I squeeze gently, then roll her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. She arches into my touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

I switch to the other breast, giving it the same attention. I lean down and take her nipple into my mouth, sucking lightly, flicking my tongue across the tip. She gasps, her fingers threading into my hair. I let my teeth graze her, just a hint of pressure, and she bucks beneath me.

I release her breast and trail my hand down her stomach, over her belly, until I am between her legs. I let my palm rest there, flat against her, the heat of her sex radiating through my hand. I don’t move. I don’t press. I just let it sit, let her feel the warmth of my palm against her most sensitive place.

She whimpers, her hips rolling, trying to press into my hand. I hold firm.

“Don’t,” I say softly. “Just feel.”

She holds her breath. She stays still, her eyes locked on mine. I hold her gaze as I let my hand remain there, unmoving, for a long, agonizing minute. The only sound is her ragged breathing, the rustle of sheets.

I shift my hand, tracing a single fingertip along the outer edge of her pussy lips, not entering, not even parting them. Just a slow, deliberate line, from the top of her slit to the bottom, barely grazing the sensitive skin. She shudders, a desperate sound rising from her throat.

“Please,” she whispers.

“Please what?” I ask, my finger still tracing that same path, back and forth, back and forth.

“Please touch me. Please touch my clit.”

I stop. “Not yet. Beg prettier.”

She swallows, her eyes glistening. “Please, I need you to touch me. I need your fingers on my clit. I’ll do anything, I’ll be so good, just please...”

“That’s better,” I say, and I let my fingertip rest on her clit, just the barest pressure, still not moving. She gasps, her hips jerking.

“Please,” she says again, her voice breaking. “Please move it. Please.”

I press down slightly, a slow circle, and she moans, her eyes fluttering shut. My finger circles her clit as I watch her face, the way her lips part, the way her breath comes in short, shallow gasps. I can feel her slickness against my fingertip, the heat of her arousal.

I pull my hand away, and she cries out in protest.

“Shh,” I say, smiling. “I’m not done.”

I bring my finger to my lips, tasting her, savoring the salt and sweetness. She watches me, her eyes dark with need.

“Put your arms above your head, good girl,” I growl low as I lean down and kiss her again. I feel her forcing herself to keep her arms pinned in place as my hand circles her throat, squeezing gently as my tongue dives deep into her mouth.

She whimpers into me as she kisses me back, desperately as my other hand slides over her breasts, down her stomach and onto her into her inner thigh. I grip the soft, tender flesh in my hand, while intensifying the grip around her throat.

I consume her. “Don’t you dare move, pretty girl.” She forces her body to go rigid. “Relax,” I command, moving my hand between her thighs again.

This time letting my fingertip rest at the entrance of her pussy, just the tip, barely pressing inside. She’s so wet, so ready... I push in just a fraction of an inch, then stop.

“More,” she begs. “Please, more.”

I slide in a little deeper, just to the first knuckle, feeling her tighten around me. She’s trembling, trying so hard not to move that her body revolts, shaking under my touch.

“Please,” she says, her voice desperate. “Please, I need more. Put your whole finger in. Please.”

I pull out entirely, leaving her empty. She whimpers, her eyes flying open.

“Please,” she says again, tears brimming. “I’m begging you. Please fuck me with your fingers. Please, I need it.”

I press my finger against her entrance again, not entering, just letting the tips rest there. “Say it again.”

“Please. Please, I need you inside me. I need to feel you stretch me. Please, I’ll do anything.”

I push in, my finger sliding deep into her, buried, and then stop moving completely.

“Like that?” I ask.

“Fuck me,” she gasps weakly.

I slowly and deliberately slid my finger out and watched her come undone. She couldn’t help herself, her hands came to my face and she pulled her lips to mine.

“Oh bad girl,” I murmur against her lips, giving her a small soft kiss, “now you know I am going to have to give you a spanking for disobeying me.”

Continue to Part 2 Read for Free

“You look beautiful, mia cara,” my father said, leaning back into his heavy leather chair. He didn’t look like a terrifying mafia don right now; he just looked like a man who was glad his daughter was within arm’s reach.

“And you look like you haven’t slept since we had dinner in Vienna last month,” I replied, stepping around his desk. I leaned down, pressing a light kiss to each of his cheeks in the familiar, European style we’d used every time he flew out to visit me during my travels. “You promised me you were stepping back from the day-to-day logistics, Papa.”

Anthony chuckled, a dry, raspy sound, but his eyes softened as he patted my hand. “A man doesn’t just walk away from an empire, Charlotte. But tell me about the temple in Chiang Mai.

Did you find the quiet you were looking for?”

“I found focus,” I said, a faint smile touching my lips as I thought of the early morning mist over the mountains and the brutal, exhausting hours spent under the watchful eye of the master.

“And a very deep appreciation for western plumbing.”

He laughed out loud this time, but the sound was instantly cut short.

The heavy, reinforced glass of the study’s bay windows didn’t just shatter—it exploded inward.

A deafening, rhythmic thud-thud-thud of automatic gunfire ripped through the rainy night, immediately followed by the high-pitched, piercing wail of the estate’s tactical alarms. Red emergency lights saturated the room in a bloody glow.

“Down!” my father roared, his instincts as a survivor kicking in as he lunged across the desk, trying to shield me.

But I was already moving.

Years of martial arts conditioning—of having my reaction times tested until my muscles reacted before my brain could even process the threat—took over completely. I didn’t dive for cover like a frightened civilian. My weight dropped, my center of gravity shifting perfectly as I rolled out of the direct line of fire from the window, coming up on one knee behind a heavy mahogany bookshelf.

The study doors burst open, and two of my father’s personal guards rushed in, weapons drawn, faces pale with panic. “Don Anthony! We have to move you to the bunker now! The front gates are completely...”

Before the guard could finish the sentence, a heavy concussive blast rocked the hallway behind him. The shockwave blew the doors completely off their hinges, throwing both guards to the floor in a cloud of plaster and smoke.

Through the haze, I saw the silhouette of an intruder stepping into the doorway. He was dressed in tactical black, a submachine gun raised, sweeping the room to finish the job.

He didn’t see me. He was focused on my father.

I didn’t hesitate. I slipped my hand into the inner pocket of my wool coat, my fingers locking around the cold, heavy steel of my weighted stylus. With a quick, fluid snap of my wrist born from thousands of repetitions, I launched myself forward, sliding low beneath his line of sight.

Before the shooter could pull the trigger, I drove the palm of my left hand upward, striking his chin with a devastating Goju-ryu open-palm strike that shattered his jaw and sent his helmet flying backward. As he stumbled, gasping, I spun behind him, wrapped my arm around his neck, and used his own momentum to execute a flawless hip throw. He hit the hardwood floor with a bone-crushing thud, the breath leaving his lungs in a violent whoosh. I brought the weighted stylus down, hard, directly into the nerve cluster at his shoulder, instantly paralyzing his right arm. He went limp.

“One down,” I muttered, snatching his dropped submachine gun off the floor and flicking the safety off with a practiced click of my thumb.

Heavy, rapid boots echoed down the corridor outside, too many to be friendly. They were flanking the study from the western wing.

I vaulted over the fallen tactical gear, stepping out into the smoke-choked hallway to cut them off before they could reach my father. Another armed man rounded the corner, his weapon raised. I didn’t blink. I dropped low, sweeping his legs out from under him with a brutal kick, firing a controlled three-round burst into the chest of the man directly behind him.

The chaos was absolute. Smoke, gunfire, the scent of cordite and blood thick in the air.

Suddenly, a massive, heavy shadow loomed up right behind me. My instincts screamed danger.

I whirled around, my weapon raised, ready to drive the barrel into the intruder’s throat—

A solid, unyielding hand clamped down on the top of my gun, tilting it harmlessly toward the ceiling, while a massive, muscle-bound body slammed hard against my back.

“Don’t shoot, Marchetti,” a low, gravelly baritone growled directly into my ear.

Thorne.

I let out a sharp breath, my body instantly recognizing the sheer, protective gravity of his presence. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I pressed my spine directly against the solid wall of his chest, our shoulder blades locking together as we formed an unbroken, defensive circle in the center of the burning corridor.

“You’re late, Thorne,” I breathed, my eyes scanning the smoky hallway ahead of us, my finger steady on the trigger.

“You’re supposed to be in the bunker,” Damien growled back, his massive frame shifting slightly as he raised his own weapon, guarding my blind spot. “Who the hell taught you how to take down a tactical team?”

“I took a few elective courses in Paris,” I replied coolly.

Behind me, I could feel the rapid, violent thud of his heart against my back, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to spring. We stood perfectly back-to-back, watching each other’s six as the next wave of boots echoed through the house.

Read Chapters 5-8

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support My Work

The “Puritanical Smut Writer” is a contradictory creature and I suppose that they have existed as long as the genre itself.

To me, it is a bizarre form of gatekeeping where people playing in the exact same wickedly fun sandbox suddenly decide they need to build a high horse out of the sand.

But I also have never been the woman who tells other women what they should do with their bodies.

Wear a hijab, habibi, if that’s what YOU want to do. Or dance around in your underwear for fire and devil emojis in your comment section.

I’m in my lane doing me and I swear to all that’s holy I am in competition with absolutely NO ONE but who I was yesterday.

Yes, I know it’s mind blowing that explicit content drives rapid audience growth in an explicit genre.

It’s like opening a bakery, putting sugar in the cakes and allowing the smell of fresh baked goods to waft out onto the streets and tempt those citizens interested in baked goods to wander inside.

How dare they bake their goods to market to people who like baked goods. How very dare.

Let’s talk about this anomaly that occasionally wanders onto the timeline and into the comments section: The Prudish Erotica Author.

You know the exact type. They write in the spicy romance space, yet somehow, they’ve managed to saddle up a high horse to look down on the rest of us. Lately, there’s been a familiar, rumbling grievance echoing through certain corners of the community: “Your account is only growing so fast because you post actual smutty content.”

To which the only logical response is: Yes. Obviously. Welcome to the genre.

It’s a genuinely spectacular brand of irony. We are all here writing the same delightfully unhinged, dark, and heavy-hitting romance, but suddenly, because an audience is expanding rapidly and engagement is on fire, someone is no longer considered a “real writer” by the self-appointed literary police.

Let’s break down the sheer absurdity of this attitude:

Seriously. If an author persona who writes about hand necklaces is perpetually clutching its metaphorical pearls, I have to wonder if the characters are doing the same.

Exceptional spice requires letting go of the ego, shedding the pretension, and fully embracing the shadows. If a smut writer is policing the timeline and adjusting an invisible halo to do that, the scenes are probably lacking a certain... bite.

Writing dark, explicit romance takes skill, lack of shame, and an absolute refusal to apologize for what your readers want. If being a “real writer” means watering down the product to feel superior at dinner parties, keep the title.

We have a rapidly growing and paying readership to entertain.

I stood by the bank of surveillance monitors in the basement security hub, my fingers methodically adjusting the top button of my shirt. Right up to the throat. It was a habit of discipline, a physical boundary between myself and a world that constantly tried to bleed across the lines.

“We swept the perimeter twice, Boss,” Salvatore said, stepping into the concrete room, his boots squeaking against the floors. “The tech guys just finished the first-floor sweep. No bugs. Belgravia is clean.”

“Check it again in three hours,” I said, my gaze fixed on the quiet, black-and-white feed of the foyer. On the screen, the empty space where Charlotte had stood only minutes before seemed to linger. “The Albanians managed to slide into Soho without tripping a single alarm. They’re getting their intel from somewhere.”

Salvatore nodded, pulling an encrypted sat-phone from his pocket. “Speaking of which, Manchester and Palermo are on standby. The outfit heads want to know if the London supply lines are going to fracture before the winter shipments arrive.”

“Tell them the docks are locked down. If a single crate shifts out of place, I’ll personally answer for it.” I reached out, turning over a hand-written log of the airport convoy. “And Salvatore?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell the transport detail to change their routes for tomorrow. We aren’t using the M4 again. It’s too predictable.”

Salvatore frowned, squinting at the log. “Predictable? Boss, we’ve used that corridor for three years without a hitch.”

“Stagger the intervals,” I commanded, my voice flat, leaving no room for argument. “If someone wants to compromise a convoy, a standard flanking maneuver on a predictable route is all it takes. Move them to the back roads.”

Salvatore stared at me for a beat, surprised by the sudden shift in logistics, before nodding.

“Understood. I’ll update the capos.”

Before he could turn, the heavy burner phone on the steel table vibrated, a low, harsh buzz cutting through the hum of the servers. The caller ID was a string of untraceable zeros.

I picked it up on the third ring. “Thorne.”

“You have a very beautiful city, Damien,” a thick, low voice rasped through the static. Kristof.

The leader of the Albanian push. “It would be a tragedy to see it turn to ash.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Kristof,” I said, my posture perfectly still, the muscles in my back coiling tight. “Soho was a mistake. You don’t have the numbers to hold a single street corner in the West End, let alone the river.”

A cold chuckle echoed over the line. “We have enough to make the Old Man bleed. And I hear the Marchetti bloodline just flew back into Heathrow. A princess makes a very fragile shield.”

A sudden, violent wave of heat slammed into my chest, fracturing the icy detachment I had spent fifteen years perfecting. My grip tightened on the phone until the plastic casing groaned under the pressure. It wasn’t just tactical annoyance; it was a raw, primal rage that surged straight to my throat.

“If you so much as look in her direction,” I murmured, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, vibrating with a lethal passion I had never permitted myself to feel, “I will not just kill you, Kristof. I will unmake you. I’ll bury you alive beneath the concrete of the very docks you’re trying to steal, and I will personally watch the air leave your lungs.”

I slammed the phone down onto the desk, ending the call before he could utter another word. My chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged breaths, my knuckles white against the steel table.

Silence stretched through the basement, thick and suffocating.

I looked up. Salvatore was staring at me, his eyes wide, his entire posture frozen. For a man who had seen me execute rivals without a single flicker of emotion, this was uncharted territory.

I was a cold-blooded killer, an executioner who treated violence like simple mathematics. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t threaten people with heat.

“Boss,” Salvatore said softly, his voice careful, completely devoid of disrespect but laced with genuine shock. “I’ve never heard you talk to anyone like that before. Not even when the

Russians tried to blow up the warehouse in Southwark.”

I forced my fingers to uncurl from the desk, pulling the iron walls of my discipline back into place with sheer force of will. “Tensions are riding high, Sal. Her return is a massive security liability, and the timing couldn’t be shittier. If they get to Anthony’s daughter, the family falls apart. That’s all it is.”

“Right,” Salvatore murmured, though his eyes lingered on me a second too long. “Of course. It’s just... the importance of the asset.”

“Exactly,” I muttered, turning back to the monitors.

But it was a lie, and we both knew it.

My mind was entirely compromised, and it had been from the second she walked into the foyer. I couldn’t shake the image of her. She wasn’t a fragile princess. In those brief seconds, I had fully clocked the way she held herself—her weight perfectly balanced over her hips, her posture completely centered. It was the stance of a fighter, someone trained to take a blow and return it tenfold. And those dark, intelligent eyes hadn’t just looked at me; they had stripped me down, analyzing my jaw, my posture, my weapons. She had brains, she had ability, and she carried herself like an heir who fully intended to take her proper place on the throne.

A slow, possessive pull tugged at my gut, an attraction I had absolutely no right to feel.

Suddenly, the red emergency light on the console began to pulse violently, accompanied by a piercing, rhythmic blare.

Salvatore scrambled for the primary keyboard, his fingers flying over the keys. On the main monitor, the black-and-white feed of the upper hallway flashed violently as three loud, muffled concussions rattled through the basement floor.

“Damien!” Salvatore yelled, his face draining of all color as he stared at the screen. “Front gates are breached. We’ve got multiple heavily armed teams moving into the courtyard. They aren’t trying to starve us out—they’re inside the house.”

Continue to Chapter 4

The leather seat of the Mercedes was cold, but not half as cold as the city I’d orchestrated my return to. I hadn’t returned on my father’s timeline, nor at his invitation; I had waited for the rot in the foundation of his empire to become visible enough to force his hand.

I looked out the tinted window as the car glided past the pristine, stucco-fronted townhouses of Belgravia. Outside, the London rain was relentless, washing over the pavement in slick, dark sheets. To anyone else, this neighborhood looked like old money and quiet privilege.

To me, it looked like a fortress built on secrets, blood, and a hierarchy I hadn’t been fleeing, but preparing to conquer.

The driver, a hulking enforcer named Franco that I had known since I was a kid, kept his hand subtly resting near his left armpit. He had tried to make small talk when he picked me up from the private terminal at Heathrow. I had answered him in smooth, perfect English, consciously slowing my cadence and swallowing the sharper, clipped inflections I’d grown accustomed to over months spent in the high-altitude villages of East Asia.

He treated me like glass. A fragile, upper-class princess returning from an expensive European holiday.

I let him believe it. It was the exact same lie I’d been feeding my father’s handlers for ten years.

My father’s dossiers likely painted a picture of a grieving woman bleeding Marchetti money on art history degrees in Paris and Vienna. He had no idea the degrees were a ghost—a carefully constructed digital veil. While his spies tracked fake gallery openings, I was vanishing into the brutal dojos of Bangkok and studying behavioral psychology in the States, tearing down the weak, terrified woman I used to be until nothing but steel remained.

Silence was a discipline I’d spent years mastering, and there was a distinct tactical advantage in being underestimated.

The car slowed to a halt outside my father’s residence, the wrought-iron gates swinging open with a heavy, mechanical groan. I adjusted the lapels of my jacket. I was dressed entirely in black—a sleek, fitted ensemble of expensive travel wear engineered to ride the bleeding edge of tactical gear, prioritizing mobility over the restriction of designer coats and heels. My fingers automatically brushed the hidden, inner pocket where a thin, weighted steel stylus sat flat against my ribs.

In my hands, it might as well have been a karambit. Carrying it was a habit I’d learned on the streets of Bangkok; a habit I doubted I’d ever break.

“We’re here, Ms. Marchetti,” Franco said, rushing around to open my door, holding a massive golf umbrella over my head.

“Thank you, Franco,” I murmured, stepping out onto the wet cobblestones. I didn’t rush.

My posture was perfectly straight, my weight centered evenly over my hips, a foundational stance that had been beaten into my muscles over thousands of hours on splintered dojo floors until it was as natural as breathing.

The massive oak front doors shifted open before I could reach for the handle.

Stepping into the grand foyer was like stepping back into a museum dedicated to my father’s absolute authority. The scent of beeswax, old paper, and expensive cigars hadn’t changed. And the man standing at the base of the sweeping marble staircase, he wan’t new, but he was different.

Damien Thorne.

I stopped, my boots clicking softly against the marble floor. The last time I had seen Damien, I was twenty-five, a grieving, chaotic mess hiding behind thick glasses. Back then, he had been a lethal, silent ghost in the background, a street enforcer my father had taken in the year after my mother and older brother were killed in a plane crash. He had been large, violent, and entirely indifferent to my existence.

Now, in his early forties, he was at the absolute peak of his power. The sheer gravity of his presence hit the room like a physical weight. He wasn’t wearing a suit. He wore a fitted black button-down shirt that stretched across the broad, dangerous slope of his shoulders, paired with dark tactical pants and heavy footwear.

We were dressed like two sides of the same violent coin.

His dark hair was immaculate, but it was his eyes that caught me, sharp, piercing, and devoid of warmth. But I saw the humanity I had been trained to spot. For a fraction of a second, as his gaze locked onto mine, I saw a flicker of something break through his iron composure. A sudden, microscopic widening of his pupils. Surprise.

He had expected the broken, weeping woman from his memories and the doctored files. He hadn’t expected this.

“Charlotte,” Damien said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that vibrated right through the quiet of the foyer. He didn’t move toward me, maintaining a strict, professional distance that felt entirely deliberate. “Welcome home.”

“Damien,” I replied, keeping my tone perfectly level, entirely stripped of the fragile, broken woman I had been a decade ago.

I didn’t just see a dangerous man; my training in behavioral psychology noted the slight tension in his jaw, the way his weight shifted subtly to his back foot, and the minute adjustment of his cuffs over a faded scar on his knuckles. He was on high alert. The house was locked down.

“Your father is waiting for you in the study,” Damien said, his eyes boring into me, as if he were trying to find a trace of the woman he used to know. “We were just discussing the security protocols. The city is... volatile right now.”

“I gathered as much from the three-car detail at the airport,” I said, a faint, cool smile touching my lips. “Though I imagine if someone truly wanted to compromise a convoy on the M4, a standard flanking maneuver would have sufficed. You should consider staggering the arrival intervals next time.”

Damien’s eyebrows twitched upward, a shadow of skepticism crossing his features. He clearly thought I was repeating something I’d read in a thriller or overheard from my father. “The protocols are vetted, Ms. Marchetti. You don’t need to concern yourself with the logistics.”

“Of course,” I said softly, stepping past him toward the study doors. As I brushed past his shoulder, the scent of his cologne, cedarwood and rain, mixed with the sharp tang of gunpowder that lingered faintly on his clothes. He’d been at the firing range recently. Or somewhere worse.

I paused at the heavy double doors, turning back to look at him over my shoulder. He was still watching me, his gaze intense, calculating, and fundamentally confused by the woman standing in front of him.

“It’s good to see you again, Damien,” I said, my voice quiet but entirely steady. “Let’s see what my father has to say about how safe this house really is.”

Continue to Chapter 3

“The Albanians are pushing past the river, Damien,” Anthony said. His voice was a low, dry rasp, aged by forty years of unfiltered tobacco and the constant weight of a crown. “They took out two of our slots in Soho last night. Clean. No noise. It’s not a turf grab anymore. It’s a declaration.”

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of Anthony Marchetti’s private study in Belgravia, watching the water streak down the glass, blurring the streetlamps below. The rain in London always tasted like coal and wet iron.

“We bottle them up at the ports,” I replied, my voice flat, devoid of the emotion Anthony hated.

The study was a fortress of gothic luxury, oppressive and still. It smelled of ancient paper, the sweet decay of heavy velvet drapes, and the perpetual aroma of Anthony’s unfiltered tobacco settling into the dark mahogany walls. On the desk behind me lay a map of the docks, a scattering of surveillance photos, and a heavy crystal tumbler of Scotch that neither of us had touched.

“They’ll see that coming,” the Don barked. “Kristof and his gang don’t follow any of the old rules.

They have no respect for honor, for family...” his voice trailed off.

I turned around. In the darkened glass of the window, my reflection stared back. I was a man encased in the sharp armor of a fitted black button-down shirt, dark pants, and tactical footwear.

It was a flawless veneer, but as I adjusted my cuffs, the fabric brushed against the faded, jagged scar spanning my knuckles.

A decade ago, I walked into this house with blood on my hands and holes in my shoes. I had earned my place by starting the fires in the streets; now, I was the Don’s right hand, the man who put them out.

“I’ve already spoken to our contacts at Custom House. If a single shipment of theirs hits the tarmac, it gets seized before they can blink. We starve them out before we bleed them out.”

Anthony nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the edge of a gold signet ring. But he wasn’t looking at the maps. His dark eyes were fixed on a small leather-bound calendar on his desk.

“Good. Handle it quietly,” he muttered. “I don’t want a war on the streets. Not this week.” He paused, clearing his throat, a rare flash of human vulnerability breaking through his concrete exterior. “Charlotte sent word this morning. She’s touching down at Heathrow in three hours.”

Charlotte. The name was often uttered, but the woman herself was a phantom in this house. She left behind Belgravia a decade ago and seemingly never looked back. Anthony met up with her across Europe, Paris, Vienna, wherever she landed, over the years, but I stayed. I held the helm in the Don’s absence.

I’d flagged the gaps in Charlotte’s profile years ago, but Anthony made it clear: his daughter’s life in Europe was off-limits for internal review. I respected the Don’s command. I didn’t question why he wanted her kept in the dark, and I didn’t question why he kept me from digging.

“I’ve arranged for a three-car detail to pick her up from the private terminal,” I continued, though a cold needle of suspicion pricked at my mind. The timing wasn’t just a homecoming; it felt like a calculated maneuver, an arrival synchronized perfectly with our weakest moment. “They’ll bring her straight to the manor in Surrey. She’ll be safe there until we clear the Albanians out of the West End.”

“No,” Anthony sighed, leaning back into his leather chair. “Bring her here first. I want to see her. It’s been too long, Damien. A man gets old, he starts wanting his blood to be close.”

“She’s been in Europe for a decade,” I said, my voice hardening. “She’s completely insulated from the reality of this life. Bringing someone that disconnected into the middle of a turf war isn’t just a distraction, it’s a tactical risk we can’t afford.”

“With respect, Boss,” I continued, pressing in a way few were allowed to, Belgravia is a target right now. Keeping her in the city is a risk we don’t need.”

“She’s my daughter,” Anthony snapped, a sudden spark of the old, terrifying Don flaring up.

“She stays where I can see her. Just ensure the perimeter is locked down. I trust you with the security, Damien. You’re the only one in this damn house who doesn’t look at my chair like they want to sit in it.”

“Understood,” I said.

I didn’t argue. In our world, you didn’t question the Don, even when his sentimentality compromised his logic. I looked back out at the rain, already calculating the shifts for the guard rotation.

Charlotte Marchetti was returning to a city that was about to burn, and my only job was to make sure the ashes didn’t touch her. I didn’t care about the woman she had been when she left, and I certainly didn’t care about the scholar she’d become. She was just another piece on the board I had to protect to keep Anthony’s empire intact. My loyalty was to the Don, if he wanted Charlotte near, so be it.

I checked my watch. 5:15 PM.

In less than three hours, the princess would be home, and I’d have to map out an execution order for a rival cartel while she slept down the hall.

I should have known right then that the universe doesn’t give a damn about a perfect plan.

Continue to Chapter 2

Lukan POV

I watched her as she sat across from me. She was a picture of professional grace, her spine straight and her hands folded precisely in her lap. The slate gray dress was exactly what I had envisioned. It played off her coloring and made her look like the sharp, dangerous legal mind she was, while simultaneously signaling her place as mine.

The man across from us, a shark in his own right, didn’t suspect a thing. He saw a beautiful, capable attorney. He didn’t see the invisible collar I had just tightened around her neck in the car.

“Do you want me to review the preliminary briefs for this meeting, Sir?”

The way she said it was perfect. To an outsider, it was just the formal address of a high-powered attorney to an even higher-powered client. But I saw the way her green eyes flared when she said the word. She was using the rules as a shield, pushing back with the very language I had forced upon her.

I felt a genuine pull of amusement. She was testing the boundaries of the cage.

“Not necessary, Svana,” I told her. I let my gaze linger on her just a second too long for it to be purely professional. “I have everything under control.”

I turned my attention back to the deal, but I was acutely aware of her every breath. The table was small enough that if I shifted my leg, I would brush hers. I didn’t do it yet. I wanted her to sit in that tension. I wanted her to wonder if I would.

The lunch progressed with the usual posturing of men who moved millions of dollars around like chess pieces. Svana remained a silent, watchful presence. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t look away. She played the part of the devoted lead counsel to perfection, but I could see the way her knuckles whitened whenever the pinstriped man spoke to her with that casual, dismissive tone.

She was dying to speak. She was dying to correct him on a point of law I knew he was getting wrong. But she stayed silent because I hadn’t given her permission to join the conversation.

When the checks were settled and the pleasantries were exchanged, I stood up and felt her immediately rise with me. I was impressed by how quickly she was leaning into our arrangement, but I knew she had no idea what was really in store for her.

“We will speak tomorrow,” I told the other man.

I didn’t wait for his response. I placed my hand on the small of Svana’s back again, guiding her toward the exit. The velvet and brass of the restaurant felt smaller as we moved through it.

“You did well,” I said. My voice was low, intended only for her as we stepped out into the bright afternoon light. “The way you handled the title was... impressive. You almost made it sound like you enjoyed saying it.”

I looked down at her. The professional mask was still there, but her green eyes were bright with a defiance she couldn’t quite hide.

“I am an attorney, Sir,” she said. “I know how to use words to my advantage.”

Chapter 7 Coming Soon

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support the Flames

I’ve been locked away in a world of candlelight, shattered glass, and cutthroat betrayals, meticulously crafting a new story that is going to tear your heart out in the best possible way.

I am so thrilled to finally pull back the curtain on my newest Mafia Dark Romance: Belgravia Burning.

If you love morally ambiguous characters, suffocating tension, and a plot that demands your absolute attention, this one is for you. Let me introduce you to the FMC and the MMC.

Meet Charlotte Marchetti Charlotte is not your typical mafia princess waiting to be rescued. She is the survivor of a hollowed-out empire. After years of being trapped in the sprawling, ghostly halls of the Belgravia estate under the iron fist of her father, Anthony Marchetti, her entire world shatters overnight. When Anthony is abruptly assassinated, Charlotte is left holding the keys to a crumbling kingdom. Suddenly, she is the sole target for every rival family looking to carve up the Marchetti territory, and she has to figure out how to become the monster they all fear.

Meet Damien Thorne Damien is the kind of man who demands absolute control. He is ruthless, calculated, and entirely focused on taking what remains of the Marchetti empire for himself. He is supposed to be Charlotte’s greatest threat. But in a world where every loyal soldier is suddenly a suspect and every smile hides an agenda, Damien’s brutal, unapologetic nature might be the only honest thing left in her life.

Belgravia Burning is a story of power, survival, and the devastating line between enemies and lovers. When her father’s murder ignites a vicious war for the throne, Charlotte is forced into a high-stakes alliance with the only man her father trusted, but can she? It’s a ruthless game of chess, boundaries and blades.

Prepare for a romance that is gritty, obsessive, and built on the ashes of everything Charlotte thought she knew.

Belgravia Burning will be serializing exclusively right here on Substack. Make sure you are subscribed so you don’t miss the first official chapter drop, and let me know in the comments: are you ready to watch it burn?

Stay dark, A.M. Torric

Svana POV

The walk through the lobby was a blur of forced composure. Lukan did not touch me. He walked close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. It was a silent tether that kept me anchored at his side.

As we reached the revolving glass doors he stopped. His hand settled at the small of my back. It was subtle enough to go unnoticed by others but deliberate enough that it did not feel accidental. The contact sent a sharp awareness through me. It was immediate and unwelcome.

“I am not in the mood for your suit,” he said quietly. His voice barely carried over the noise of the street. “I prefer you in a dress today.”

I stilled.

“Does this need to be a rule? I would rather it be a given,” he continued. “That I decide what you wear.”

A black sedan pulled to the curb in front of us. The door was already opening. Inside a garment bag hung neatly against the leather interior. It was waiting for me.

“You will change in the car,” Lukan said.

He did not look at me as he spoke. He did not need to.

“We have a specific image to maintain.”

I felt the sting of humiliation. I controlled my outward reaction and I nodded once. The chauffeur was a silent man with a neutral expression. He held the door for me. The interior of the sedan was spacious. The idea of changing inside it with Lukan just outside and the driver in place set my nerves on edge.

I slid in and pulled the garment bag toward me before Lukan could follow. The leather seat was cool beneath my fingers. Lukan left the door partially open. He leaned against the frame with his attention on the street. He was positioned so that the interior remained visible to him.

Inside the bag was a simple and impeccably cut sheath dress in a cool slate gray. It muted me without softening me. A pair of matching low heeled pumps completed the set. It was practical and controlled.

I changed quickly and efficiently. I refused to let my movements betray my fear. The new dress fit perfectly. I was not surprised this time though. Not after the phone trick.

When I was finished I folded my clothes and placed them beside me. Lukan glanced in then. His gaze moved over me with quiet assessment.

“Better,” he said. He closed the door.

He walked around the car and slid in beside me. The vehicle pulled smoothly away from the curb.

“In public,” he continued. “When you are addressed and when you speak to me directly you will use Sir. No exception.”

My throat tightened. The word had been a command in private. Here it became something else entirely.

“It will sound appropriate,” he added. “That is all that matters.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The car arrived at the restaurant and movement took over immediately. Valets and hosts directed their attention toward Lukan as though his arrival had been anticipated. Le Couvert was all velvet and polished brass. It was a controlled opulence that mirrored him more than it impressed me.

We were seated without delay. I barely had time to settle before a man in a pinstripe suit approached. His expression shifted into familiarity the moment he recognized Lukan.

“Lukan. Are we ready to cut to the chase and get this closed today, old friend?” His attention flicked briefly to me. It was a quick and dismissive glance. “And who is this?”

Lukan remained seated.

“This is Svana. My lead counsel on the Veridian deal.”

The man extended a hand. His attention was already shifting back.

“Well, good luck. You will need it if you are dealing with Delacourt.”

I took the hand. I was steady and controlled.

“Thank you,” I said. I turned to Lukan. “Do you want me to review the preliminary briefs for this meeting, Sir?”

The word was crisp. It was professional and entirely in context. The way I held his gaze was not.

Lukan’s mouth curved slightly.

“Not necessary, Svana. I have everything under control.”

He turned back to the other man as if nothing had passed between us. The conversation moved on. I sat perfectly still. I had done exactly what was expected.

Continue to Chapter 6

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support My Work

The Era of Static Marketing is Over

Let’s be honest, the traditional way of launching a book is tired. An author writes a book in isolation, drops a cover, and hooks up with a few influencers to hold up a copy for a 7-second trending audio clip. It’s a transaction. It’s a billboard.

I’ve always believed that storytelling shouldn’t stop at the margin of the page. The dark romance, mask, and horror communities don’t just read books, we live in the atmosphere. We chase the tension. We treat social media like an extension of the lore.

So, instead of following the old playbook, I decided to build a new one.

Deconstructing the Tri-Account Narrative Collaboration Framework

Today, I am putting a flag in the ground for a deliberate, three-way co-creative marketing ecosystem that I call the Tri-Account Narrative Framework.

This isn’t an author hiring models. This is a synchronized, three-headed creative engine where the fiction and the real world feed into one another in real time. The framework is built on three unbreakable pillars:

• 1. Narrative Reverse-Engineering: Instead of writing a book and looking for faces to fit it, the narrative lore is built entirely around the authentic visual identity, aesthetics, and raw chemistry of specific, real-world creators.

• 2. Tri-Account Parity: The Author account, the Female Main Character (FMC) node, and the Male Main Character (MMC) node all act as primary creative capitals. No matter which door a reader walks through, they are seamlessly pulled into the wider, living ecosystem.

• 3. The Living Canon: We are blurring the lines between fiction and reality. When the characters face a massive paradigm shift in the text, the community will see the echo of that tension playing out across the creators’ digital spaces. It is an immersive, multi-sensory sandbox.

Meet the Living Muses: Charlotte & Damien

You don’t roll out a framework this revolutionary without the perfect visual architects to bring it to life. I am incredibly proud to announce the two creators who have stepped into this universe as the official, living faces of my next massive project.

If you have been paying attention to the mask and dark romance niches over the last few days, you already know their chemistry is completely undeniable.

• The MMC: Brought to life by the dark, masked presence of Damien Thorne.

• The FMC: The stunning Charlotte Marchetti, you will see she has already claimed her crown.

They are the living, breathing blueprint of the tension I am currently putting onto the page. They aren’t just acting out a script; their real-world dynamic is the very pulse of this book.

What’s Coming Next (The Ground Floor)

I am currently locked in my writing cave, tracking to have well over half the manuscript finished by the end of this week. Why the rush? Because I want you to have regular, seamless chapter drops right here on this Substack without interruption.

The title is locked. The cover is a masterpiece. But before I show you the wrapping, I wanted you to see the engine.

Go follow the architects of this universe, watch their latest joint reel, and get ready. The first pages drop soon, and you are officially on the ground floor of how dark romance changes forever.

This one is from the vault. I haven’t thought about Nyx for years.

She was the target I was paid to track, until the moment I decided to keep her. Nyx was an operative left for dead by the syndicate, a ghost in the crosshairs of a world that wants her silenced. I’m the shadow that had been watching her for months, waiting for the perfect moment to intervene. When her handlers finally pull the plug, I stepped out of the dark to claim what’s mine. Now, we’re trapped in the eye of the storm, a gritty, industrial sanctuary where the only thing more dangerous than the enemies hunting us is the chemistry consuming us. We’re both monsters of our own design, stripped of our covers and our armor, left with nothing but the raw, brutal truth of our desire.In the dark, we don’t just survive, we ruin each other. Read Tactical Devotion – where protection is a prison, and devotion is a weapon.

18+MDNI

Chapter 1

Six months I’ve spent in the shadows, tracking her. Watching Nyx embed herself with a syndicate that would butcher her the second they realized she was an operative. Tonight, her handlers pulled her plug and left her to drown. Her cover was blown.

I caught the chatter on the local frequencies and moved.

When I dropped from the fire escape into the alley, they already had her cornered. One of the syndicate cleaners was unrolling a heavy-duty black body bag. The other was shaking out a pair of steel handcuffs. Nyx was backed against the brick, her breath hitching, terrified but ready to fight.

They never saw me coming.

I hit the pavement, drawing the heavy iron crowbar from my tactical belt before they could even scream. The first enforcer lunged. I stepped inside his guard and brought the iron down, shattering his collarbone with a sickening crunch. He dropped, the handcuffs clattering against the asphalt. The second guy reached for his waistband, but I pivoted, driving the blunt end of the crowbar straight into his sternum, throwing his weight back into a stack of wooden pallets that collapsed over him. I stepped over the first man, pinned him with a combat boot, and clicked his own cuffs around the fire escape railing.

Done. Less than thirty seconds.

I slid the crowbar back into its loop, my chest rising and falling evenly under my layers of charcoal tactical gear. The adrenaline was a familiar, dark hum in my veins, but as I turned back to Nyx, my pulse spiked for an entirely different reason.

She was still pressed against the wall, but the terror in her eyes had melted into something primal. Something grateful.

“Are you hurt?” I demanded. My voice was a low, rough baritone, filtered through the black Nomex of my balaclava.

“No,” she breathed, her gaze locked onto mine. “No, I’m okay. Because of you.”

I closed the distance between us, my massive frame towering over her, completely cutting off the rest of the world. Up close, I could smell the sharp tang of her fear turning into pure, intoxicating relief.

“I knew someone was watching me,” she murmured, taking a tentative step into my space. The top of her head barely reached my chest. “I felt you. For weeks.”

“I was keeping you safe,” I growled softly.

I reached out, my thick, gloved hand cupping her jaw. I expected her to flinch from the stark contrast of my tactical gear, but instead, she leaned heavily into my palm, letting out a soft, shuddering sigh. Her hand came up, resting against my forearm. The muscle beneath her fingers was rigid as granite.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

The profound vulnerability in her eyes snapped the last thread of my discipline. I didn’t just want to protect her anymore; I needed to possess her. I crowded her against the brick, my heavy, armored chest pinning her gently but firmly.

“You’re safe now, Nyx,” I muttered, my head tilting down.

I didn’t take off the balaclava. Instead, I hooked my thumb under the edge, pulling the fabric up just enough to clear my mouth. When my lips found hers, it wasn’t a gentle reassurance—it was a bruising, demanding claim.

Nyx let out a sharp gasp into my mouth, her fingers instantly digging into the fabric of my combat shirt, pulling me closer. She tasted like adrenaline and sweet, desperate heat. I groaned, my free hand sliding down her waist, gripping her hip through her clothes and lifting her slightly to flush her pelvis against mine. The hard ridges of my tactical belt pressed into her, but she only arched closer, her thighs parting slightly, seeking the heavy pressure of my weight.

I kissed her deeper, my tongue forcing its way past her teeth, claiming every inch of her mouth while my gloved hand slid under her top, finding the soft, burning skin of her bare waist. She whimpered against my lips, her hands moving up to grip the back of my neck, pulling my massive body down as if she wanted to crawl inside my armor.

The heat between us in the freezing alley was suffocating. I ground myself against her, letting her feel exactly how much she affected me, how dangerous it was for her to trust a monster like me.

I pulled back just an inch, our ragged breaths mingling in the cold air. Her lips were wet and swollen, her eyes completely dark with desire.

“We have to move,” I rasped, my thumb wiping a stray drop of moisture from her bottom lip before dropping the balaclava back into place, hiding my face once more. “More will come.”

She nodded blindly, her hand trembling as I took her fingers into my large, gloved fist.

“Are you going to leave those handcuffs behind?” Nyx whispered, her voice still raspy from the kiss, her eyes darting over my shoulder to where the enforcer was pinned to the railing.

I looked down at her, a dark amusement curling in my chest. I hooked my thumb under my tactical vest, intentionally letting her hear the subtle, heavy clink of the high-grade restraints secured to my belt.

“I have my own, sweetheart,” I rasped through the fabric of the balaclava.

A wicked, breathless spark ignited in her eyes. She leaned in closer, her breasts brushing against my armored chest. “I like a man who comes prepared.”

Chapter 2

The heavy steel door locked out the world, but the silence inside the lair was deafening. The adrenaline that had carried us through the alley began to evaporate, leaving behind a cold, hollow exhaustion.

I walked over to the metal counter and grabbed a bottle of high-proof vodka, cracking the seal. Before I could even reach for a glass, Nyx stepped into my space. She snatched the bottle right out of my hand and lifted it to her lips. She took three heavy, desperate swigs, the burning liquid hitting her throat before she pulled the bottle away, coughing fiercely.

A breathless, fragile laugh scratched past her lips, her shoulders shaking as the sheer terror of almost being stuffed into a body bag finally caught up to her.

I stood there, completely captivated, watching her. For months, she had been a ghost in my crosshairs, a beautiful mark I was paid to track and stayed to protect. Now, she was standing in my kitchen. It was entirely surreal. In the dim overhead light, her vibrant green eyes were wide, and her long, dark red, almost black hair fell in tangled waves over her shoulders.

Slowly, her laughter subsided into a quiet, heavy focus. She reached for the hem of her shirt. I braced myself for her to pull away, but instead, she pulled the garment over her head and tossed it to the floor. Then she stepped closer, her hands coming to the buckles of my tactical vest.

She was undressing me.

It was absolute, maddening torture. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to take control, to pin her down and conquer the hunger that had been possessing me from the inside out for half a year. Instead, I forced myself to stand stoic, a silent monolith, allowing her fingers to unclip the armor, peel back the combat shirt, and bare my scarred chest to the room.

She looked up, her gaze tracing the rugged line of my jaw. “I don’t even know your name,” she murmured.

“Technically, I don’t know yours either,” I replied, my voice a gravelly rumble in the quiet room.

“I’ve been Nyx for so long it doesn’t matter anymore. That’s my name.”

“And I’ve been Grey for so long it doesn’t matter either.”

Nyx swallowed hard, her eyes softening. “Thank you. I was a dead woman tonight.”

“

You were,” I agreed bluntly.

She stepped closer, her bare skin radiating a heat that was begging to bridge the final distance between us. “Why did you start watching me? When did this start?”

“

You’re special, Nyx. The minute I saw you. No, the second.”

Her brow furrowed slightly. “Where?”

“The yacht.”

Nyx froze, her green eyes widening as the memory clicked. “That was months ago. You’ve been watching me that long?” Her expression melted, a mixture of profound disbelief and intense, swelling emotion flooding her face. “Why, Grey?”

I reached out, my bare hand finally cupping her jaw, my thumb wiping away the ghost of a tear at the corner of her eye. “Because you are the shadow I can’t outrun,” I rasped, the truth tearing out of my chest. “I’ll break every law to keep you mine. A beautiful transgression.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and binding. We stood there in the center of the kitchen, entirely nude, stripped of our secrets, our covers, and our armor. The vulnerability was thick, a quiet, protective dome descending over the room.

Nyx looked down at the counter, her fingers reaching out to pick up the vodka bottle again. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her eyes never leaving mine as she swallowed the heat. She set the bottle down with a soft click.

A dangerous, wicked spark returned to her green eyes.

“So,” she whispered, a slow smile pulling at her lips. “Where did those handcuffs go?”

Chapter 3

The metal of the handcuffs clicked against the concrete counter as I picked them up, the sound sharp and unforgiving in the quiet room.

I looked down at her, the dark hunger I’d suppressed for months finally slipping its leash. “I am a monster, Nyx,” I warned, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous rumble. It wasn’t an exaggeration. It was a fact.

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped right into the heat of my chest. “Then be my monster.”

“I tear people apart, sweetheart,” I muttered, my eyes tracking the line of her throat. “It’s best if I keep to the shadows.”

But even as the warning left my lips, our bodies were drawing closer, defying the space between us. Her hand reached out, her fingers sliding between mine, our hands finding each other in a slow, deliberate entwinement.

“I am only ever myself in the dark,” she whispered, her green eyes boring into mine, her fingers gripping mine tighter, anchoring herself to me.

“I know,” I rasped.

I squeezed her hand back, a brief, crushing pressure, and then I released her grip entirely. Before she could even register the loss of contact, I moved. My hands clamped around both of her wrists on each side, so fast and hard her breath caught in her throat.

“That’s why...” My voice trailed off, thick with a dark promise.

I let go of one wrist, my hand sliding up the smooth skin of her arm, my fingers wrapping firmly around the front of her throat. I didn’t squeeze to hurt, but I held her there, letting her feel the absolute authority in my palm. My other hand snaked across her lower back, digging into her hip and drawing her fully into me, erasing every last millimeter of air between us.

“Why what?” she breathed, her pulse hammering wildly against my hand, her eyes wide and dark with desire.

“Your darkness,” I muttered, looking down at her swollen lips. “It’s the same as mine.”

I slammed my mouth down on hers, a bruising, deep kiss that tasted of vodka and mutual ruin.

When I finally pulled back, my breathing was ragged, my chest heaving against her bare breasts.

“I’m not gentle,” I said, the words blunt, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.

“I don’t want you to be.”

I looked down at the heavy steel cuffs dangling from my index finger. “Do you really want me to use these cuffs on you?”

“I want you to, yes,” she whispered, her gaze unblinking. “Use them.”

I didn’t ask her twice. I slid my arm under her thighs and scooped her up into my arms, her head falling back against my shoulder as I carried her out of the kitchen. I kissed her the entire way, a relentless, claiming heat as I walked her into my massive, combined living and workspace. The room was a labyrinth of raw industrial bones. Exposed iron pipes running along the columns and workbenches of different heights offering endless opportunities.

I carried her to a heavy, cleared wooden workbench in the center of the space. I set her down on the edge, the height perfect, placing her mouth right at the level of my cock.

She looked up, a sudden spike of surprise flitting through her green eyes as I gripped both of her wrists and guided them up. With two swift, heavy metallic clicks, I chained her wrists to a thick, exposed iron pipe that ran vertically directly above her head.

Nyx pulled against the restraints, the steel rattling furiously against the iron. She looked at me, completely exposed, her chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow gasps.

“What are you going to do to me?” she asked, her voice trembling with a potent mix of anticipation and fear.

Chapter 4

“I don’t think you’re that innocent,” I teased, my voice a low rumble as I stood fully in front of her.

We were completely naked now, the heavy tactical gear and clothes discarded on the concrete floor. At the edge of the workbench, my erect cock was level with her face, throbbing with a desperate, heavy heat.

Nyx looked up at me, her green eyes wide as she took me in. “I do owe you,” she whispered, a seductive pull to her lips despite the rattle of the steel around her wrists.

“It isn’t about what’s owed,” I said bluntly.

A sudden blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks as she looked away, shifting uncomfortably against the wooden bench. “I know. I was just...”

I didn’t let her finish. I reached out, my fingers wrapping firmly around her jaw, forcing her face back up to meet my gaze. “Look at me.”

She did, blinking back sudden, unexpected tears. The sheer vulnerability in those green eyes melted something frozen deep inside me. I leaned down and kissed her again—a deep, grounding bruise of a kiss that tasted of absolute surrender. When I pulled back, my thumb brushed the edge of her jaw.

“It’s about if our demons play well together, Nyx.”

She let out a soft, shuddering sigh, her chest heaving against the cool air of the room. “I want you in my mouth,” she murmured, pulling hard against the handcuffs, the metal clinking furiously against the iron pipe.

I paused, taking a moment to fully admire her small, naked body. Her round breasts were tight, her pink nipples puckered from the chill of the lair. I reached out, my fingers playing with the sensitive tips, pinching them—not too hard, but just enough to make her gasp and arch her spine against the constraints.

My hand moved from her breast, fisting into her long, dark reddish hair. I brought my cock closer to her lips, pulling her head forward slightly to bridge the final gap.

“Do you want this to be yours? It’s yours, Nyx. Get to know every inch, baby girl.”

Her lips brushed the head of my shaft, and a low, involuntary moan tore from my throat. “Your lips are so soft...”

“Thank you for saving me, Grey,” she whispered against my skin.

Then she flicked her tongue over the tip, tracing the edges with a slow, deliberate heat. My hand tightened firmly in her hair, and she let out a small whimper that went straight to my groin.

“Good girl,” I growled as she dipped her head underneath, seeking the base to lick.

I guided her head down, completely flooded with a chaotic mix of intense emotion and raw physical sensation. The months of waiting, of watching her from afar, culminated in this exact second. Unable to hold back, I thrust my hips forward slightly. She moaned against my skin, her tongue licking all the way back up to the head.

With one hand still anchoring her head and the other gripping the base of my cock, I provided the guidance she needed while her arms strained against the cuffs above her. I was firm, pushing my length past her wet lips.

She opened wide, immediately starting to suck, her tongue swirling around the shaft. We both moaned, the sound echoing off the industrial walls. It felt too good, an addictive, agonizing pleasure. She looked breathtakingly beautiful beneath me, her eyes locked onto mine while her muffled, tight sounds urged me to push harder.

“I’m going to put it all the way down,” I warned, my voice thick and strained. “Take a breath, Nyx. Eyes on me. Look up at me.”

She followed the command instantly, her green eyes wide and unblinking as I slowly, steadily pushed all the way down her throat, burying myself to the hilt. I knew how difficult it was—the sheer physical limitation of it—but she took it beautifully, gracefully, and quietly, her throat stretching to accommodate every inch of me.

For several agonizingly hot seconds, I held her there. It was only when her body began to twitch slightly, her air cut off, that I finally pulled her off me.

Nyx immediately gagged, a harsh, ragged sound tearing from her chest. Stringy spit ran down her chin, and fresh tears spilled over her eyelids, completely ruining her dark mascara and leaving messy, black tracks down her flushed cheeks. She looked unhinged, undone, and entirely feral.

I reached down, wiping my wet cock over her face, leaving a slick trail across her skin.

“Pretty face,” I muttered out loud, my voice raw and completely detached from any sense of restraint. “I’m going to ruin you. I’m going to ruin you until you forget your name.”

I guided her head back, my hand fisting her hair. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. I pushed past her lips, giving her time to adjust and then pushing into her mouth again, all the way down. When I pulled her off again, she choked, gasping for air. “More...” she rasped.

“Good girl.”

More shallow this time, not all the way down, but all the way to the back of her throat. I pulled out and pushed back in. The small breaks gave her time to breathe, but barely.

I enjoyed watching her trying though. Sucking in air and then sucking my cock.

“Harder” She gasped. “Fuck my mouth, harder.”

“You want the monster, Nyx?”

I gave her what she asked fro. I began a brutal rhythm. The pace was unyielding. Nyx was crying from the continuous gagging, her body shaking as the handcuffs rattled violently against the iron pipe with every thrust.

She was entirely at my mercy, taking the punishing length over and over until the friction dragged me right to the edge of the precipice.

With a low, guttural growl, I pushed deep into her mouth one last time and came, filling her throat as my climax ripped through me in blinding, heavy waves.

I held her there for a moment, my chest heaving, the frantic ringing of the metal cuffs finally settling into silence. Slowly, I pulled away, my breathing ragged.

I reached up and unlocked the steel cuffs, freeing her wrists. Her arms dropped heavily, trembling from the strain. Without a word, I scooped her small, exhausted body up into my arms, her head resting against my chest as the tears and ruined makeup smeared against my bare skin. I kissed her. Tasting her lips, the salt of our bodies mixed in her mouth. I carried her out of the workspace and into the dark, quiet heat of the shower.

Currently my dark romance, serial fictions & smutty shorts are completely free & I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible, but I do appreciate people wanting to support my writing, erotic self photography and smut images so that I can do it more often! Any amount helps! Click the button below for my Stripe account if you are a fan of the flames.

Fan the Flames & Support My Work