“This it?”
Nico swallows, and I watch as Dylan’s face darkens and his hand clenches into a fist.
“Is. This. It.”
“Yeah, okay? Yes!” Nico hisses.
“Any other back-ups?”
Nico is silent, but when one of Gino’s guys kicks a heel into his side, he groans and doubles up.
“My laptop! In the office. I swear those are the only two copies.”
Dylan stands.
“Have a nice life, shit-head,” he spits down at Nico before nodding at Gino. “He’s all yours.”
Nico’s eyes go wide.
"Wait! Gino!"
"Get him the fuck outta here," Gino grumbles as his guys haul a sobbing Nico away.
He turns back to Dylan. "I don't know what sort of shit Nico had you running, but you seem like a smart kid. Smart enough to know running security in this gig is fuckin gamble. So how about this. I don't want no bad blood with all this shit, and trust me, you don't wanna work for me. So, you're done. Whatever you had worked out with Nico, consider it over. That work for you?"
Dylan doesn't even pause to think about.
"Yep."
"Good. We're done here, the both of you."
Dylan and I glance at each other, when Gino clears his throat.
"That means get the fuck out."
Las Vegas looks weird in the sunlight.
Outside the studio door, we both blink in the glare of the afternoon sun beating down on the crummy parking lot.
Dylan shrugs, hoisting the backpack that carries the laptop and hard drive with our movie on it.
"So, what now?"
I laugh before I turn and throw myself into his arms.
"Now we go find you a doctor, because you got shot."
He grins and rolls his eyes. "I told you, it's nothing."
"Dylan—"
"Besides," he purrs into my ear, the heat of his voice instantly turning me to jelly as a shiver runs up my spine. "Apparently I've got the day off of work, and I just happen to have the hottest, sexiest girl in the world, who also happens to be the love of my life, on my arm wearing one hot little cheerleading costume."
I laugh, throwing my head back and letting the sun wash over me as I sink into his arms.
"Oh really?"
He shrugs. "Oh, really. It's one hot little getup, let me tell—"
"The other part, dummy." I grin, biting my lip.
Dylan's eyes burn into mine as the smile creeps over his face. "Oh that part? About you being the love of my life?"
I nod, swallowing thickly.
"Yeah that's the most absolute truth I've ever known in my life, angel," he says quietly before he pulls me into him fiercely. "I love you, Rose. With every damn part of me. And I damn well always will."
"I love you," I whisper heatedly as he pulls me into him. His lips find mine, and when we crash together, the rest of the world fades away until it's just he and I.
"So," Dylan clears his throat as he pulls away, and I shriek as he picks me up in his arms. "So what was this about you wanting to play doctor?"
I roll my eyes, grinning. "You know that's not what I said— oooh."
I moan as his lips find that sensitive spot right below my ear, his teeth nibbling at me and making my body melt.
"Angel, I'm about to take you somewhere quiet and make you say all kinds of things."
I gasp, my pulse spiking through me as the heat pools between my thighs.
“Dylan?”
He looks down at me, one brow cocked. “Angel?”
“Do you think we could…” I trail off, blushing, before I nod at the backpack.
“Think we could watch that?”
He grins hungrily, his eyes flashing into mine.
“I was thinking we could make a sequel.”
I tremble, every part of me aching for him. "That a promise?"
"Absolutely."
The End
Pretty Dirty - Sneak Peek
Book 2 in the Dirty Bad Things series
Chapter 1
Gray
The computer chimes, and my dick hardens.
She’s on. Finally.
I can feel my muscles tensing, my jaw tightening as I drop the rest of my paperwork onto my kitchen counter. I cross the big loft space, the neon lights of Vegas glittering through the half-shut blinds as I move towards my desk and the large computer monitor set up there. I sit, my blood turning to fire in my veins and my cock throbbing rock hard between my thighs. I grab a remote off the desk and click it fiercely, and the blinds shut the rest of the way automatically.
I wake up my computer, the growl holding my in my throat as the screen turns on. The website’s already loaded and ready, and her camera’s already on, though it’s still of her empty bedroom. But she’ll be on soon.
Soon.
My cock aches in my pants, and I reach for my zipper before I stop suddenly and shut my eyes tight.
What in the fuck is wrong with me.
It’s not the first time I’ve asked it of myself. Hell, it’s not the tenth time I’ve asked it, or the fucking hundredth at that. And I still don’t have any answers for myself except the obvious: what’s wrong with me is her. What’s wrong with me is young, blonde, covered in the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen, and about to appear on camera for me - for me, and only me. She’s about to smile that wicked smile that triggers all sorts of wrong in the right kind of ways in me. She’s about to show me every inch of her inked-up, pierced, gorgeous skin - those cute little tits with the soft pink nipples, and her tight, firm ass.
She’s going to spread her pretty little legs and show me how wet she is. She’s going to use two fingers to spread her soft pink pussy lips apart and show me how fucking tight that gorgeous little cunt is.
And she’s all mine.
My obsession. My lust.
My fucking problem.
It’s been like this for the last two weeks, and I can’t fucking stop. I’ve been ignoring friends. I’ve been ignoring work, and in my business and with the people I do business with, that can be dangerous. Fatally so.
I’m not going out. I’m thirty-two years old, single, and I’m in peak physical condition from years in the marines. I’m rich - not Buffet or Gates rich, but I’m not going to go hungry anytime soon. I live alone in two-and-a-half-thousand square feet of insanely expensive real estate, twelve stories above the Las Vegas Strip.
The point is, going out is exactly what I should be doing. I’m not conceited, but I recognize how women look at me. And going out, finding those women, and bringing them up to my condo to fuck them with a view of the Bellagio and Caesar’s Palace is what I should be doing. And yet, that hasn’t appealed to me in longer than I can remember. Instead, here I am - sitting in the dark, waiting for her to come on screen so I can tell her exactly what I want her to do.
Blonde, blue eyes, soft, delicate pale skin. Tattoos - and not just trendy shit like a feather or fucking “sisterhood” in Chinese or whatever. This girl has serious ink. And piercings. And scars. I’ve got some of those myself.
Young, dirty, sexy, and so fucking untouchable. Literally.
The perfect little bad girl.
My perfect little bad girl, all on high-def camera, and all for me.
…Something is very wrong with me.
How does a man like myself end up stroking his cock to a cam girl online? Surprisingly easily, actually. This all started two weeks ago, when my sister Callie dropped by for a visit with Jack, the ten-year-old she nannies. When I was ten, we didn’t have the damn internet or any of this shit. But ten year olds now are fucking tech wizards, apparently, because it took Jack all of three minutes while Callie and I were out on my terrace to visit about one million porn sites on my computer. The hardcore fuck-film blasting at full volume over my Bluetooth speakers put the kibosh on that shit, but not until Jack had gotten my internet history as filthy as goddamn possible.
Clean up and damage control was a bitch
afterwards. I’d been signed in to my goddamn Facebook page, and Jack had decided to “like” all sorts of weird shit on his pornographic safari. Thankfully, I barely even use Facebook, so I basically have no friends on there who would’ve seen any of this. But it was still awkward to go back and delete the “Grayson Channing liked ‘big titted MILF latex gang bang’” posts on my wall. Luckily, my buddy Roman was the only one who “liked” any of it.
Asshole.
I’d cleaned the whole history and run a virus scan three times on my setup before I noticed the minimized window. I’d enlarged it, rolling my eyes at the giant pink “Heartthrob Cams” logo on the site, with some vapid, plastic looking chick bent over and spread-wide behind the lettering. Honestly, I’m not sure it was hearts they expected to be “throbbing” with the “O” in “Heartthrob” centered over her asshole.
I’d had every intention of quitting out of the window and cleaning my damn history again, when suddenly, a new stream had come up on the site, and a face filled the screen.
Her face.
And I was fuckin’ frozen.
I want to say “it was her eyes”, or “her lips drew me in”, or hell, even “those tits were fantastic and I wanted to keep looking at them”, but it wasn’t one thing. It was the whole thing. It was how fucking sexy she was, sure, but also that smug, glinting look in her eyes, like she was laughing at all the suckers paying money to watch her take her damn clothes off on the internet. It was the real ink on her delicate skin - not some trendy little dream catcher or something she stole off Pinterest, but real, serious tattoos. There was a dark, sensual, goddamn sexy as sin edge to her, and I fucking liked it.
I liked it so much, in fact, that I never did click out of the window. I stayed, and I watched, and the more I watched, the harder my cock got, and the deeper into pure obsession I fell.
Her profile listed her name as “Alice Liddell”, and I wondered how many of the scumbags on this site understood that it was an Alice In Wonderland reference, not her real name. It said she was twenty-one, with her location as “planet earth”. I watched until my allotted free time was over. Then I grabbed my wallet, ignored the fact that I would have literally laughed out loud at losers who did this sort of thing up until that very moment, and plunked down my credit card.
Hooked.
Obsessed.
Addicted.
Heartthrob is set up so you can see the girls, but they can’t see you. They can see what you type, though. Actually, everyone can see what you type. Everyone can see every disgusting, offensive, nauseating thing that every gross, living-in-their-mom’s-basement piece of garbage on the site is typing to the girl. I was mad at first - angry that these fuck-wads who’d clearly watched entirely too much porn kept butting in. Their asinine, crude comments chimed in like little unwanted flies buzzing around my head, until my anger turned to fury.
That’s when I saw the “private show” button, and that’s when I jumped head first into my obsession.
It’d be easy to say I did it out of some sort of fucked up, misguided urge to “save” her - to protect this random, anonymous girl from the neck-bearded, mouth-breathing trolls with their constant barrage of “show ur tits”, and “u want my cock bb?”
But I’m no white knight, and my intentions weren’t to protect, or save, or rescue.
…My intentions were to possess - to wall her off from everyone else and keep her as my own. Which is exactly what I did. She’d smiled a plastic, practiced smile when she’d seen the private show request from Big_Daddy_Vegas - the screen name jumped out at me when I glanced up and saw the “Daddy-O’s Big-Style Vegas Pizza” box on my kitchen counter. But when she saw my next request, her face had grown a little flush, and that smile had turned into a dropped jaw.
A private show on Heartthrob Cams is fifty bucks for half an hour - stackable for as long as the girl wants to keep doing a show for. At each half-hour, she can collect what you’ve pre-deposited onto the site.
…I’d put down fifty thousand dollars.
Three weeks. I’d bought three weeks, alone with her. No scummy pieces of shit cat-calling her. No one else looking at her. No other eyes watching her as she performed for me and me only.
Mine.
My pretty little bad girl.
My dirty little secret
Pretty. Dirty. And all mine.
Find the whole book right here on Amazon!
Stealing Beauty
Copyright © 2017 Madison Faye
All rights reserved.
Editing: Sennah Tate
Cover: Coverlüv
Photography: James Critchley
Models: Andrew England & Gabriella Grigo
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
Stealing Beauty
She’s been mine from the second I saw her. Tonight, I’ll make sure everyone knows that.
The tabloids call me “Prince Magnum,” and it’s not because I’ve got a big kingdom.
A royal “suitor’s ball”, full of single, untouched female royalty, should be a buffet for a man like me. It doesn’t matter what a woman’s bloodline is -- once I’ve set my sights on her, she’ll be on her knees in minutes.
But that’s before I walk in and lock eyes with her. Princess Imogen.
She’s sweet and untouched, with eyes that beg me to take her and an innocence that’s just waiting to be claimed. Once I’ve seen her, nothing is going to stop me from taking what’s mine…
And Imogen will be mine.
A “suitor’s ball” to find her a husband, huh?
F*ck that.
She’s been mine and only mine since the minute I laid eyes on her. And tonight, I’m going to make this princess my queen.
*Please note that each of the Possessing Beauty books are completely standalone stories centered around one couple, with no cliffhangers.
Stealing Beauty is a quick and filthy modern fairytale involving an utterly obsessed alpha hero and enough insta-love, kindle-melting steam, and sugary-sweetness to make your dreams come true. If you love over-the-top, slightly unrealistic, and wildly dirty stories, this one’s for you! HEA with NO CHEATING!
1
Imogen
I took a shaky breath, my green eyes meeting my own gaze in the mirror. My lip quivered, and I could see the nervousness playing out in a pink blush across my cheeks. I took another breath, clenching my fists by my sides and closing my eyes. I’d been dreading that night for weeks, and now it was here.
The ball. Specifically, the ball my father, King Lucian of Avlion was throwing for all “eligible bachelors and bachelorettes” across the kingdoms, now that he’d finally decided that his daughters were ready for marriage.
Heck, or dating even, since neither myself nor my sisters had really done any of that either. And I was twenty.
I knew my father meant the best for us — not letting his eighteen, twenty, and twenty-one year old daughters seek partners until now wasn’t some show of old-fashioned customs like my little sister Isla always said. He was really just protecting us, and giving us the time to have a proper view of the world before we started lo
oking for someone to share our lives with. And besides that, most princes had horrid reputations as foul, filthy-mouthed womanizers.
But that night should have been something I’d looked forward to, not secretly cringed about. After all, my parents had invited all sorts of princes from the neighboring kingdoms, including the absolutely dreamy Prince Chester of Montagne. I’d be an idiot to think I was the only single princess that had eyes on him, but he’d written my father three times over the last few weeks, mentioning how excited he was for the dance and to meet me.
I know, I know. Believe me, I understand how out of touch it seemed in the modern world of cellphones and Facebook and snapchat to be throwing balls for princes and princesses to meet at, but hey, that's the word I was born into, and as much as Isla, and even my older sister, Ilana, poo-poo-ed the royal life we lived, I actually liked it.
Well, except for tonight.
Because, yes, Chester was coming, and yes, the whole palace had been done up beautifully for the ball, and yes, my bright chartreuse green gown, with the exposed shoulders and gold trim looked amazing and made my red hair and green eyes just pop.
But there was a storm cloud hanging over tonight. A dark, filthy-mouthed, crude-talking, perverted, scandalizing, morally repugnant storm cloud. And this storm cloud had a name:
Prince Magnus Jameson.
The absolutely disgusting, tabloid-scandal-ridden prince of the kingdom of Zale.
The absolutely gross, ridiculously cocky, impossibly arrogant, and unfairly gorgeous Prince Magnus.
And I say unfairly, because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that someone that obnoxious, and with that much of a terrible reputation could also be hands down the most attractive, heart-stoppingly gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. Thick dark brown hair, sharp, piercing blue eyes, and an absolutely melting smile perpetually across that perfect, chiseled, handsome face. Broad shoulders, powerful arms, and since I did unfortunately read the tabloids and see the pictures of him on various beaches and yachts, a body absolutely carved from marble.