Author: Lime Craven
Genre: Dark Romance
The name's Aeron Lore. And you are...? Such a pleasure to meet you, sweetheart. Is that a southern accent? Gorgeous.
You fucking bitch.
Why so surprised? I control a billion dollar fortune. I control the news. Give me five minutes and I'll control you, too. If you could read my mind, you'd probably call me perverted. Unnatural. Manipulative. But I've learned to blend in, to be funny and charming. A predator in a designer suit.
I have no conscience. No shame in taking the things I want. And what I wanted was for Leontine Reeves to sell me her boutique tech firm so I could exploit the fuck out of it. Maybe exploit the fuck out of her, too, because desire haunts me in shades of scarlet, and I desire Leo most of all.
I never meant for this to be a love story. I fought it kicking and screaming, the same way Leo fought me. Now we're bleeding into each other, making a mess. A chaos. There's no control here. And what do monsters like me do when control leaves the building?
Often, at this time of night, I go into my gym room and pound out a few miles on the treadmill. Work on the weights. Not tonight, though; not after the meeting. I'm hungry for other things.
A long hot shower is where the build-up starts. I rub at my thighs with soapy hands. Take deep lungfuls of steam. Watch my cock harden as the water beats down, making it bounce and bob. I don't allow myself women often—I'm too easily distracted by the ripe promise of flesh. But Miss Reeves and that ass. Jesus. I have to seduce her into selling her business; may as well go the whole nine yards and seduce her into other things, too.
In the bedroom, I don't wait to dry myself, so my damp skin sticks to the sheets. No matter. I wrap a lubed hand around my cock and just squeeze intermittently. Teasing. This is what her pussy will feel like, this tight, ebbing grip. Breath slips through my teeth in a cold hiss.
Leontine told me that her name means lion, and it makes for a pretty line but it's not what she is. Beyond those bedroom eyes and that surly, almost submissive manner, I know her type exactly; she's the kind of girl who'll let me play with her pussy until she's wetter than an April morning, who'll look pained and keep still while I lick her overripe clit. She won't want it, not really, will keep the fight inside and pretend it isn't happening. And then her orgasm will come from nowhere—desperate and aching—and she'll claw at me while I claw at her sweet spot, fingers jabbing harder than she ever thought she'd like.
The words she'll say in that accent. The haughty, breathy hitch in her voice when she comes—now that's my kind of drug. Why has nobody figured out how to charge for that yet? Hookers don't come like good girls; they rarely come at all, actually, but even when they do, it's always spoiled with fake gratitude afterward. I don't care if a girl thanks me for her orgasm, and I prefer it when she's still too traumatised to get the words out, but Jesus. Sex is all about honesty—that's what makes it sexy. And sex is one of the few things I can actually be honest about.
Which is why I don't have it too often.
I stroke myself; long pulls, short twists at the head. The throb of impending orgasm climbs the muscles of my inner thighs. With each new streak of heat, I lean further into the pillows, back braced, chin tipped. Eyes squeezed shut. In the darkness, Leontine comes back into view, walking away from me in the lobby with her perky, sculpted ass bobbing in goodbye. The mere thought of it bare sets my teeth on edge; I can see her bent over, ass high, her pussy peeking out beneath like a split peach. She'll want to be fucked when I'm done with my tongue and fingers. She'll want to be full, to feel something else. Something risky. Bloody. Ah.
She looked almost frightened of me earlier. If I had a conscience, I'd feel bad for thinking of her like this: bent over, begging for it, trembling with pleasure and fear. But I don't. And when I spray half a hell of cum over my abs, groaning and panting with the force of it, there's no devil on my shoulder.
There's just an empty room, a damp bed, and the dark undertow of impending sleep pulling me down, down, down.
I like dysfunction. Broken people who can't fix each other, but fit together because they're missing the same pieces. One of my favourite songs declares, "take the sinner down to feed desire," and that's my MO. I write dirty psychological thrillers with strong elements of dark romance.
I love antiheroes. Female characters who don't just accept their faults, but downright exploit them. No nice boys. No shame. Mindfuckery for all.
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