#1 Violent Pleasure

BEFORE YOU READ

Some debts can’t be paid with money.

This story features a possessive anti-hero, kidnapping, and gun play. It blurs the lines between fear and arousal. If you enjoy dangerous men who take exactly what they want, welcome to Roman’s world.

(***)

Mia

"Open the door, you fucking asshole! Let me out!" I screamed, pounding the solid wood until my knuckles burned.

The silence on the other side was absolute, dense. Defeated by exhaustion, I stepped away from the entrance, running my fingers through my messy hair in frustration.

"Are you done throwing a tantrum?"

The voice, deep and gravelly like distant thunder, resonated behind me. I jumped in place, spinning on my heels.

I was in a luxury suite, with Persian rugs and mahogany furniture. It was nothing more than a gilded cage. I had been locked up for forty-eight hours, being the "collateral" for a debt my father could never pay. I thought they would take me to an abandoned warehouse, but the man who kidnapped me just looked at me and declared, “She’s coming with me.”

Roman's presence sucked all the oxygen out of the room. He was immense. The black dress pants and white designer shirt barely contained the violence of his imposing frame.

He didn’t look like a street thug, even though he had tattoos on his fingers and another on his neck. He looked like a corporate predator, a man who signed death warrants with a fountain pen.

But I knew what lurked beneath that elegance.

"I brought you dinner," he said, kicking the door shut while balancing a tray in one hand. His tone was casual, insultingly calm.

My fingers instinctively closed around the cold handle of the table knife I had stolen that morning. I had it hidden in my sleeve, grazing my wrist. It was a laughable weapon against a beast like him, but it was the only thing standing between me and total submission.

"I’m not hungry," I spat. My voice trembled, not from fear, but from pure adrenaline.

Roman set the tray on a side table and turned toward me. His eyes, the color of dirty ice, swept me up and down with a lascivious slowness, making me feel naked beneath my wrinkled clothes.

"Eat, Mia. Your father needs you alive for the threat to work." He took a step toward me.

It was my moment.

I didn’t think, I just acted. I lunged at him, pulling out the knife and aiming for his chest, at that perfect torso covered in expensive fabric. I was fast, driven by desperation. But he was lethal.

He didn’t even blink.

Before the blade could touch him, his large hand intercepted my wrist in mid-air. His fingers closed like steel claws, stopping my momentum cold with a force so brutal that pain shot up to my shoulder.

"Bad idea," he murmured. His breathing hadn’t even sped up.

He squeezed. A moan of pain escaped my throat, and my fingers opened by reflex. The knife fell, disappearing into the thick carpet.

Roman didn’t let go. He used my imbalance to yank me toward him, slamming our bodies together with violence. The impact knocked the wind out of me. I felt the hardness of his chest against my breasts and, lower down, the firmness of his stone thighs immobilizing mine.

He forced me to look at him. In his cold eyes, a dark spark ignited. It wasn’t anger. It was amusement. And hunger.

"You have fire, devochka," he whispered against my face. His breath, an intoxicating mix of expensive whiskey and tobacco, hit my senses. "Too bad fire burns."

I tried to knee him, but he anticipated it with humiliating ease. With a fluid movement, he swept my legs. The world spun, and suddenly I found myself on my back against the floor, with all of Roman's massive weight crushing me, sinking me into the carpet.

I tried to fight, to squirm, but it was useless. He was a mountain of solid muscle. He trapped both my wrists with just one of his large hands and pinned them above my head with almost humiliating ease, leaving me helpless.

We were both panting. The struggle had spiked my heart rate, but then something happened that terrified me more than his violence. My body betrayed everything.

Feeling his dominant weight on top of me, his scent of danger and testosterone invading my lungs, awakened a sick response in my lower belly. My core contracted involuntarily, releasing a wave of hot wetness that soaked my underwear. I hated feeling this way. I hated that my thighs clenched with a sick anticipation.

Roman noticed. He saw my pupils dilate. He saw the flush on my cheeks.

"Does violence turn you on, Mia?" he asked softly, leaning down until his nose brushed my jawline.

"Go to hell," I gasped, though I was short of breath.

He smiled, a cruel curve that didn’t reach his eyes.

He reached his free hand behind his back. The sound of metal grazing against leather was unmistakable. He pulled out a black Beretta, heavy and menacing. I stopped breathing.

Roman didn’t point it at my head. Instead, he pressed the muzzle of the gun against the pulsing skin of my throat. The contrast of the icy metal against my feverish skin sent a violent shiver down my spine that ended up throbbing between my legs.

Slowly, torturously, he began to slide the weapon down.

The cold barrel traced a line from my neck, down my collarbone, until it stopped dangerously at the swell of my cleavage. He used the tip of the gun to push aside the fabric of my blouse, exposing the soft skin of my breasts to the cold air and his gaze.

He looked down at me, absolute power shining in his predator eyes. He had my life, and my body, literally in his hands.

"You have two options to pay your father's debt," he pronounced, his voice husky and dark vibrating against my chest, making me clench my thighs. "With money, which you don't have... or with obedience."

He pushed the barrel a little harder against my skin.

"Choose now, Mia.”