Falling for the Villain

In his arms.

In his hands.

I tried to manage my emotions that were being solely governed by his voice, by his touch, by his erection that was still pressing into my ass.

“You’re going to come for me, Juliet. And then you’re going to thank me.”

His words were fueled by my fire.

My restraint to prove him wrong.

But it was impossible.

He was too skilled.

Too precise.

Easily playing me like I played the piano.

Holding me tighter, firmer, never wanting me to feel anything other than what he desired. He roughly and determinedly moved his fingers, making me groan out in frustration and surrender. He was going to make me do it just to show me that he could.

My legs trembled.

My core locked up.

My eyes rolled to the back of my head.

I couldn’t hold back any longer.

Resist it.

I saw stars as I came apart from the most intense orgasm I had ever felt.

“Good girl, Juliet,” he praised me as much as he punished, and I knew it was just the beginning.

I laid there against him, immobile, lax, complacent.

“Now, hold still.”

My body shuddered as he continued to mark me, cutting the ties of my hands.

When he was done, he once again stood in front of me before crouching to my level. For the first time, I could see him, really take a good look at him. His hair was dark and slicked back, emphasizing his chiseled cheekbones and five o’clock shadow. His broad shoulders and muscular chest were a few of the things I noticed as my gaze found the cross tattooed on his neck. That captured my attention the most, considering he was holding me hostage with a religious sacrament forever embedded onto his skin.

Bringing my attention back to his lips, he slid his wet fingers into his mouth and groaned in satisfaction.

My cheeks burned.

I was confused—both embarrassed and aroused.

Torn.

Sedated.

Was this his plan?

When he realized I appreciated his ruggedly handsome appearance, he grinned. It must have been my curious gaze that I couldn’t hide from him. Not when he’d just stolen another part of me which he now owned as well.

With his stare narrowed in, he looked deep into my eyes and bit, “I won’t love you. Ever.” His jaw clenched. “Make no mistake, though, your days as Juliet Sinacore are finished. But your days as my pet have only just begun.” He nodded toward the piano. Then ordered, “Play for me, Juliet, but first, where’s my thank you for making you come?”

Instead of fighting for my emotions, my freedom, my hatred for him, I gave in to his request. “Thank you,” I breathed out before turning to the piano.

Seeking refuge in music and not his wicked games.

CHAPTER TWO

Donovan

She did well. Better than I thought she would. After all this time, I finally had her. After four years of waiting for her, she was now a twenty-two-year-old woman.

A Sinacore.

I wanted her.

I had always, always wanted her.

Her innocence.

Her beauty.

Her body.

I’d been counting down the days to have her here with me. Away from everyone—her family, her friends—no one would find her. I made sure of it.

Images of Juliet flashed through my mind.

Her soft hair.

Her intoxicating scent.

Her sweet, salty pussy.

The way she cried.

Moaned.

Begged.

Mine.

Control wasn’t given. Power wasn’t handed. It was taken, exactly how I had taken her. My body relaxed, thinking about her in all the ways I shouldn’t.

Slowly, I rose to my feet, adjusted my tie, and made my way out of my office. It was morning, the next day. Twenty-four hours since I had my first taste of her, and already I was craving more. Fully aware that nothing would ever be enough when it came to her.

It never was.

With each step, I felt more and more like myself. The grand hall of my mansion was empty, and its gold-plated ceiling seemed to glisten as I let myself in the room where Juliet would be waiting for me.

Two guards stood by the door.

“Open.”

The guard jerked the heavy metal door to the side, and I walked in, nodding for them to close the steel door me. The entire room was blanketed in white, matching her complexion, but it was perfectly decorated with all the things she loved, including her beloved piano. Or should I say mine? I remembered the first time I had watched her play, in complete and utter awe of what she could do with her hands.

Her talent.

Her passion.

It poured out of her like the blood on my hands.

She was sleeping, passed out on a bed made for a queen. I watched her for most of the night from the cameras that were set up in her room. Even after I left her alone, she played the piano. Barely touching the food and water I had delivered to her. Each piece she played was darker, sadder, more intense than the last. Every emotion she felt was let out through the keys of black and white cords. It was all color. She was bright and bold. Fucking glowing from the inside out. Making my cock twitch at the sight of her. Images of me grabbing her by her sinful hips and fucking her up against the wall skated through my mind. Not to mention making her deep throat my dick between those perfect, pouty lips.