PLEASING HIM

MIA KINGSLEY

A DARK ROMANCE NOVELLA

CONTENTS

Pleasing Him

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

About the Author

PLEASING HIM

I’m lost, lonely, and broken. This is literally my last chance to get out of this hell called my life. I have to impress the Kingmaker—or I’m dead, anyway.

This dark romance novella is not intended for the fainthearted. The story contains twisted and filthy situations some readers might find objectionable.

1

EMILY

This is such a stupid plan. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I keep repeating that word in my head with each step that I put between me and no less than six armed guards watching the property. They’re not doing a very good job, by the way. I’m by no means a skilled burglar, but I have no trouble at all sneaking past them.

Pushing my bag back over my shoulder, I reach up and hoist myself over the wrought-iron fence surrounding the property. At this point, I don’t even know which outcome of this situation would be worse—if the Kingmaker’s men pick me up or if the police catch me. At least the Kingmaker wouldn’t care about the six ounces of white cloud in my bag. The police, however…

With a sigh, I lower myself to the ground on the other side of the fence while wondering how I ended up here with crack in my bag, on my way to make the worst mistake of my life. The problem is probably that I can’t sink any lower at this point. I just can’t, so I’m betting all I have, which is only my life, on this terrible, downright shitty plan.

The grass beneath my feet is meticulously cut and looks so pretty that I almost want to stop to admire it a little longer. My heart pounds in my chest as I crouch low to avoid detection and hurry toward the mansion. This is the only chance I’ve got. If I screw this up, I’m dead by sunrise. There’s no way around it. As soon as my boss, Michael, finds out that I didn’t drop the drugs off at his seedy nightclub, I’m done.

The last two years of my life have been hell, and that means a lot considering where I come from. I grew up with junkie parents, homeless most of the time. It wasn’t pretty, yet it wasn’t as bad as the last months. I always thought that I really, really wanted to live, that I would always have hope for a better future ahead of me. The little spark inside me that kept me going died a while ago, suffocated by the horrible people surrounding me.

Two years ago, I still had hope after having met the first decent guy of my life. Unfortunately, I learned very quickly that Sean was anything but decent. He didn’t love me; I was only a token to him. He desperately wanted to join a criminal organization, and I was his entry ticket as he had to bring them a girl for their whorehouse to prove how serious he was. Lucky me, right?

Well, at this time, Sean didn’t know about my upbringing, and if life on the streets taught me one thing, it’s being ruthless. I wasn’t ready to give up, and something about my refusal to beg and cry enticed Michael, the guy Sean wanted to impress. Michael made it very clear that I would either work for him in the position originally intended for Sean or find myself in a whorehouse.

To entertain himself, Michael handed both Sean and me guns for an old-fashioned duel. I had no doubt in my mind that Sean would shoot me, so I shot first. It will forever haunt me that I didn’t even wait until the countdown ran out. I lifted the gun and shot, making Michael laugh.

This was my first night with Michael, and it’s all been downhill from there. When he’s in a bad mood, he beats me up and makes me run his errands, like tonight, and when he’s in a good mood, he wants to fuck me or makes me suck his dick. It’s safe to say that I prefer him in a bad mood.

The worst part, though, is that I know how well he treats me compared to some of the other people working for him. That he really likes me is probably the reason I’m still alive. But I can’t take it anymore. I just want out. Either I manage to impress the Kingmaker or I die. I don’t care—not at this point, anyway.

I make my way to the mansion, trying every door and window until I get lucky. The kitchen door isn’t locked, and I sneak inside. As soon as I’m in, my heart beats less frantically. I know that the Kingmaker doesn’t have any staff at home. He prefers solitude, so I don’t need to worry about bumping into anyone until he’s home.

He won’t be back until 4:00 a.m. though. Everyone in town knows his routines as he barely ever deviates from them. That’s why I’m here.

Every three months, the Kingmaker acquires a new plaything, a pretty woman he fucks and who submits to his every whim. I’ve heard rumors that he kicked his last lover out yesterday, and filling her spot is my only ticket from this hellhole.

Although his real name is Atlas Gibson, which evokes enough fear and panic in this town, he goes by Kingmaker because that’s what he is. Michael, my boss, works for someone who works for someone who works for someone who works for the Kingmaker. Michael is somewhere around entry level, while the Kingmaker is the final boss to beat.

I’m here to crawl into his bed and entice him to make me his new plaything. I can handle three months of depraved sex while being showered with jewelry and expensive designer clothing. The Kingmaker will protect me from Michael, and when the three months are up, I will sell everything he gives me, leave town, and start all over somewhere new.

I’m only twenty-three. I have my whole life ahead of me.

Of course, this is the best-case scenario. I might as well die on the Kingmaker’s bedroom floor if he doesn’t find me appealing and ends my life then and there. I don’t even know which option to prefer. I try to calm myself down by thinking that after tonight, at least it’s over—one way or another.

Stepping out of my cheap shoes, I clutch them against my chest as I make my way through the giant kitchen. The island in the middle is probably bigger than the tiny room in the back of Michael’s strip club where I sleep most nights.

Out of curiosity, I open the fridge, and the sheer amount of food makes my mouth water. I pick one of the strawberries out of a bowl that’s filled to the brim with them and eye the bottle of champagne next to it. Of course, there’s champagne. I’ve never had it, but it seems to be all the rage with rich people. With a sigh, I close the fridge and start walking again. If the Kingmaker is into the sophisticated type of woman who drinks champagne every other day like it’s no big deal, then I might have a problem.

Nothing about me is sophisticated. I know how to apply mascara and lipstick, and I’m sure that I look good in a short dress, but that’s about it. I have no idea about politics, and I suck at small talk. Lucky for me, most men I know aren’t interested in talking when the bedroom is involved, and I’m very good at following orders, no matter how dirty.

Not for the first time, I wonder what the Kingmaker might like in the bedroom. I’ve seen him a couple of times when Michael took me to a party to flaunt me around, yet I’ve never seen Atlas Gibson up close. He is tall and has a very dominant aura, a man who’s used to everyone around him doing exactly what he wants. It’s hard to imagine him being laid back in the bedroom. Instead, I picture him giving harsh orders and slapping my face if I don’t react fast enough. I shudder, and my breath quickens. I wouldn’t mind being slapped by the Kingmaker at all.

As I make my way to the stairs since I suspect that’s where I’ll find the master bedroom, I pass the living room. I glance in there quickly, and everything looks even more expensive than in the kitchen. The giant leather couch dominates the room. There’s art on the walls and a real fireplace. I’ve always wanted to sit next to one of those. With a longing feeling, I imagine myself sitting there, sipping champagne while the fire crackles. A girl can still dream, right?

I climb up the stairs and start looking for the bedroom. A lush and thick carpet covers the floor, and even if I have my shoes on, nobody would hear me coming. I open and close a few doors before I find the right room. As soon as the smell of exquisite and expensive cologne hits my nose, I know I’ve found my target. I switch the lights on and step inside.

There’s nothing unusual, just a four-poster bed, two nightstands with pretty lamps, and two doors. I assume that one leads into the bathroom and the other one into his walk-in dresser. My fingers tremble lightly as I extend my hand to touch the silky sheets. I don’t belong here. It’s painfully obvious. Putting my bag and my shoes down on the floor, I cross the room and open the first of the two doors.

It’s his dresser, all right, and it’s filled with black suits and crisp white shirts. His polished shoes are lined up neatly against the wall. There’s a whole drawer full of expensive watches. I could probably steal two or three of these and sell them to live comfortably for a few months. The only catch is that no one who stole from the Kingmaker has ever lived to enjoy the fruits of their labor. Plus, the final payout will be much bigger if I manage to impress him enough so that he makes me his new plaything.

I pull out the next drawer, and my breath catches in my throat. Yeah, I might be in over my head. I can tell that those are sex toys, but I have no idea what specific uses most of these things have. The only ones I can identify are the butt plugs and the gags, and why the hell does he keep not one but three knives in here? I swallow thickly and close the drawer.

Maybe the bathroom will be less intimidating. I need more than twenty steps to cross the distance between the two doors since his bedroom is that big.

After switching on the lights, I find myself in a room worthy of being in a spa. The bathtub is huge, and the shower has one of those fancy rain showerheads. Everything looks luxurious, from the plushy towels to the soap dispensers.

I spot a bottle of cologne on the ledge under the mirror and simply can’t resist. I have to smell it. The composition fills my nose and blows my mind at the same time. I can picture leather and almonds in my mind, alongside a hint of lavender and vanilla. It shouldn’t work as well as it does based on that description, but it’s plain amazing.

I wonder what it smells like on the Kingmaker’s skin. My mind wanders back to the sex toys, and I imagine myself tied to his bed, his strong body hovering over mine and his scent filling my nose before he fills me with something else entirely.

Damn. I really need to convince him to make me his new plaything.

I put the bottle down and leave the bathroom, switching the lights off. It takes a moment for my brain to register that the lights in the bedroom are no longer burning, although I left them on.

I don’t even have time to react to that as a big hand closes around my throat. This is not even a warning. It’s a sinister threat. My back slams against the wall, making me gasp.

"Who the fuck are you?" a low voice growls, hot breath dancing on my cheek.

2

ATLAS

My house smells like coconut and vanilla as I open the front door and step inside. It never smells like this in here because I’m probably one of the very few people on this planet who absolutely hate coconut. It’s the first instruction every woman I take on as a lover gets. No coconut. Never. Under any circumstances. So why the fucking hell does it smell like this?

Short answer: because someone must have snuck in.

Judging by the smell, it’s a woman.

I can’t even begin to imagine how many problems this causes. Why do I pay a bunch of armed guards to watch my house if they apparently can’t even manage that? And who’s waiting for me? Friend or foe?

I just want to rub the bridge of my nose and sigh dramatically, but instead, I pull my knife out for the third time tonight and make my way up the stairs. I can see the light shining from under my bedroom door, and I don’t like it.

It’s been a long night, and I spent the last couple of hours torturing a guy who thought he could cross me while all his henchmen watched him bleed to death. They learned a valuable lesson tonight. You really don’t want to make me angry. Unfortunately, the person in my bedroom didn’t get the memo.

I know exactly where to step to avoid the creaking floorboards as I walk across the carpet, knife in hand. The door swings open, but the bedroom is empty. I hear shuffling in the bathroom and wonder what the intruder could be looking for in there of all places. I have expensive watches in my closet and a lot of cash in a safe downstairs—but the bathroom?

I decide to switch off the lights to throw the intruder off. This will make attacking them a lot easier.

The silhouette of a tiny slim woman appears against the light coming from the bathroom before she switches it off. I can’t remember any of my last playthings being that small, and they would know about the no-coconut rule. So she’s a stranger—a cop, maybe.

She steps back into the bedroom, and I can almost feel how she hesitates as she realizes she’s standing in the dark without having switched off the lights herself.

I’m on her before she can react. My hand closes around her delicate throat, and I push her against the wall. She seems so fragile like I could crush her within a second, and the smell of coconut really grates on my nerves. It’s her shampoo because the scent intensifies every time she moves her head and her long hair tickles my hand.

"Who the fuck are you?"

I’m leaning close, which is pointless since I can’t see shit, but I know she feels my presence, and I’m all about intimidation. Her pulse is erratic under my fingers, her fear coming off her in waves. She heaves as she struggles for air.

"Emily," she chokes. "I’m Emily."

That’s not a sufficient answer. I lift her a little higher, pinning her to the wall. Her feet are no longer touching the ground. Desperation fills her as she clutches my arm, trying to alleviate the pressure on her throat. I like how she’s shaking and long to see her face, the panic in her eyes.

"Please," she wheezes. "I have an offer."

There’s no reason for me to believe her, and if she was a man, I would’ve killed her by now. Breaking in here is enough of an offense against me to justify it. They don’t call me Kingmaker for no reason. I make or break people. I rule with an iron fist, and I never ever show mercy. So it’s a surprise to myself that I open my fingers to let her breathe. She falls to her knees, hitting the floor hard, coughing and wheezing.

I switch on the light and study her, the knife still in my other hand. The realization that I’ve seen her before in one of my clubs soothes me. I’ve noticed her because she looks deliciously broken. Her eyes are haunted, and so far, I’ve never seen her smile.

She cowers on the ground, barely daring to look at me. "I’ve heard you’re looking for a new plaything."

I can’t believe my ears. Emily, if that really is her name, is bold. I have to give her that. Breaking into my house just to offer her body to me is . . . insane, and I kind of like it.

But there’s still a problem. I grab her arm, yank her up, and drag her to the bathroom. "Undress and take a shower."

She blinks at me and quickly nods when I narrow my eyes. Emily almost stumbles when I let go of her arm, yet she obeys me and peels the dress off her body. Her makeup is carefully applied, and the vision of how I make her cry, with her tears leaving black streaks on her face, is enough to drive me crazy.

"Don’t touch your makeup though," I add, my voice rough. I just need her to get rid of that coconut stench.

She nods again, almost eager to comply, and hurries toward the shower stall.

I turn my back to her and pick up her bag. Somehow it doesn’t surprise me to find drugs. Since she doesn’t look like a junkie, I suppose she’s either delivering the drugs somewhere or selling them herself.

"Who are you?" I ask over the noise of the running water. "And don’t tell me your name again."

"I work for Michael Thompson."

I rub my chin. "Shady nightclub owner, crooked incisor?"

"That’s the one." She tries to sound lighthearted but fails miserably.

There’s nothing else of interest in her bag besides the obligatory burner phone and twenty bucks in cash—no ID and no personal belongings.

Emily wraps herself in one of my towels, looking incredibly lost in the bright lights of the bathroom.

What the fuck am I doing? This isn’t me, treating burglars like my guests and thinking about bending some random woman over my bed to fuck her hard from behind. I should slit her throat and get to bed. I was tired when I left my club a little over an hour ago, but somehow, watching her, I’m not tired anymore. I’m hungry, fucking starving.

She stands there, frozen with fear, and it’s so enticing, I can hardly handle it.

I motion for her to come closer. "Tell me more about that offer of yours."

Biting her lip, she lets the towel drop to the floor, presenting her body in all its naked glory. "I’m here to apply for the position."

I swear the little rasp in her voice makes my dick twitch. "Is there a specific position you have in mind?"

Her eyes dart to the bed. "I can’t imagine you being the type who likes being told what to do."

"You’re right. What about you?"

For the first time, she lifts her head a little, and I can see a little gleam of mischief shining through the fear in her eyes.

"I’m very good at following orders—when the right man gives them."

"I don’t know." Crossing my arms, I slowly circle her with deliberate steps. "Seems like I’m missing the catch. Why would a pretty little thing like yourself feel the need to break into my house and convince me to take her on as a lover?"

"From what I’ve heard, the position is highly coveted."

Her nipples are taut, ready for me to sink my teeth into. She shivers and tries to hide it, turning me on even more.

"I think we might have a problem."

Emily swallows. "We do?"

"Yeah. How am I supposed to know if you’re what I need?"

"I’m here, aren’t I? You could just give it a try."

"Are you offering yourself to me?"

Her weak smile almost falters since she’s probably realizing she might be in over her head. "I am."

"To do whatever I want?"

"Yes." She moves her shoulders back, exhaling shakily.

"Even if I want to hurt you? Make you cry? Do all kinds of depraved things to you? Things you might not even like?"

She shows me her palms, an innocent gesture. "I’m all yours."

Fuck. Me. I almost cum in my pants. How can this woman be so perfect?

I take in the sight of her, thinking about the appropriate answer. Then I remember that I don’t even need to give her one. She wants to convince me, not the other way around. I can do whatever I want to her since she’s given me permission. My cock is hard, straining against my pants. I can’t wait to subject her to my every whim.

Crooking my finger, I make her come to me. As soon as she’s within reach, I let all inhibitions go and grab her. One hand on her hip, the other one around her throat, I lean in to kiss her, biting her lip first.

She trembles in my arms, moaning as my teeth dig into her flesh. Her skin’s incredibly soft, and I can’t resist letting my hands trail all over her body. My fingers find her nipples, and I pinch them hard, giving her the first taste of the exquisite pain I like to administer.

"Get on your knees."

Shrugging off my suit coat, I watch as she graciously kneels, legs spread and palms on her thighs—fucking perfect.

Her mouth opens as I pull the zipper on my pants down. I can’t resist and push my hard dick between her lips as soon as I’m naked. I can feel her eyes on me while she swallows my throbbing length. Hitting the back of her throat, I make her gag, but I don’t pull back. Instead, I put my hands on her head, forcing her to stay right there and take it all.

"Remember that you want to please me, Emily."

She looks up at me, tears swimming in her eyes, and my balls tingle with pure pleasure. Fisting her thick, silky hair, I start to dictate her movements, forcing her to swallow as much of my cock as she can handle and then a little more.

When I take a step back, she remains on her knees, gasping for air and fighting against the tears. It’s the prettiest thing I’ve seen in forever, and I can’t stop staring at her. What is it about her that makes me basically lose my head?

Although I had a clear concept in mind about what I wanted to do to her, I find myself squatting down and slapping her naked pussy instead of dragging her to the bed to spank her ass like I imagined myself doing. Emily moans and soon starts panting as I switch from slapping her wet cunt to rubbing her swollen clit.

"Look at me," I order.

Her eyes are wide. She appears equally horny and frightened—an intoxicating mix. I can’t behave myself and massage the tiny bundle of nerves with more and more pressure until Emily starts squirming.

"I . . . I . . . ," she pants.

"No." I slap her cunt again, my hand producing a squelching sound since Emily’s dripping for me. "Don’t you dare cum."

"B-b-but—" she stutters.

I lean in and pinch her nipples while rubbing harder to make her cum. I know I’m not playing fair, but I never said I would. "Don’t cum, or I’ll make you regret it."

She shivers with need, her muscles tense, before her eyes roll back and she reaches her climax, her hips bucking under the force of my hand.

I stand up, yanking her up with me. "What did I say?"

"I’m sorry, Sir." Emily sounds breathless and anything but sorry.

I bend her over my bed, face down and ass up, forcing her head against the mattress. "Greedy slut," I tease as I lift my hand.

My palm connects with her round ass, and the slap resonates in the room. Her surprised yelp is muffled, but the way she squirms makes it clear how little she likes to be spanked. That only makes it better for me. I slap away, reddening her ass more with every blow until she sobs and trembles. Taking my hand from the back of her head, I let her breathe.

"You’re not going to cum again without permission, are you?"

"No, Sir."

My hand sneaks between her thighs, and she’s wet, so wet that I can slide three fingers right into her tight hole. The way her cunt clamps down on my digits is marvelous. I can’t wait to fuck her there. But first, I’m going to take her ass.

She sucks in air when I start moving my fingers.

"You like that, Emily?"

"Yes, Sir." There’s a blush on her cheeks like she’s embarrassed about the sounds my fingers make every time I ram them into her sopping wet cunt.

"What exactly is it that you like? How I made you suck my cock? When I spanked your ass? The rough handling? Or when I made you cum? Maybe even this?" Without stopping fucking her with my fingers, I use my other hand to pinch her clit.

She moans, curling her toes. "All of it, Sir."

"What an exemplary answer, like a good little whore. Tell me, Emily, are you a good little whore?"

I can feel that she’s close from the way her pussy pulses around my fingers and how quick my new plaything sucks the air into her lungs. To distract her, I pat the inside of her thigh before pinching her there as well.

She groans. "Yes. I like it very much, Sir."

"You know you’re not allowed to cum."

Gritting her teeth, she nods slowly. "Yes, Sir. Could you please stop, Sir?"

"No." I finger-fuck her faster and harder, so hard that it probably hurts a bit.

"Please, Sir, can I cum?"

Oh, this one sounds wonderful when she begs.

"No."

"But—"

I slap her ass and pinch her clit again. "I said no, you greedy little bitch."

"I’m going to cum. Please, Sir . . ." 

The desperation in her voice makes my cock twitch. Still, I click my tongue. "You’d better not cum, Emily. You have no permission."

She explodes anyway, her fingers clutching the blanket, her whole body trembling. "Oh god," she moans.

I chuckle and wait until she’s back again with me on planet Earth before I pull my fingers from the wet heat. "What did I say?"

My new favorite plaything swallows nervously. "I’m sorry, Sir."

"You will be. On your hands and knees, ass up."

"Yes, Sir." She appears almost eager, positioning herself as I ordered. "Please use me, Sir."

Goddamn. There’s no way I’m going to be able to let her go ever again. I run my fingers across her back, from her delicate neck down to her glorious ass. "You’re mine to use, aren’t you?" My index finger circles her anus.

"Yes, Sir."

"Damn, you’re tight. When was the last time you had anal?"

Her voice is barely audible, and she doesn’t even look at me. "Never, Sir."

I don’t let her know how incredibly horny her words make me. I’m going to be the first man to fuck her ass. That’s something she’ll never forget—a satisfying thought.

Since I’m not a complete asshole, I get up and retrieve some lube from the drawer where I keep all my toys. I squirt a generous amount on her anus and resume my position behind her, digging my fingers into her luscious butt cheeks and pulling them apart.

"I’m not an expert, but I’ve been told this might hurt. But then again, that’s the point, isn’t it?"

"I don’t know, Sir. I’m just here to please you."

"Says the woman who’s two orgasms ahead of me."

I can see her smile before she turns her head. "Your skills aren’t my fault, Sir."

Lining up my cock with her anus, I hold still for a second. "That’s right. So far, I’ve been way too generous with you. Let me correct my mistake."

She gasps when I push in, breaching the tight little opening for the first time. I can see her struggle, but soon, she gives in and relaxes. My dick slides deeper and deeper until I’m buried to the hilt in her tight back passage.

The friction steals my breath as I pull back, barely giving her time to get used to the sensation of having a dick in her ass before I thrust deep again.

"Atlas!"

Emily moans my name, and I know it should bother me since she’s supposed to call me Sir, but it sounds too good. Her ass clenches down on my cock, and it’s in that exact moment that I realize I will never let her go again. This one’s for keeps.

I grip her hips, holding her exactly where I want her while I fuck her harder and faster, slamming into her. She just feels perfect, and there’s nothing holding me back anymore. I don’t even remember what self-control is. I cum only seconds later, filling her ass with my seed, marking her as mine. Yes, that’s what I do.

Emily collapses on the bed, and I decide that the next thing I’m going to do is probably taste her pussy and make her cum all over my tongue—but first, I need some sleep.

She climbs out of the bed, eyeing the floor. "Am I allowed to stay here, Sir? I can sleep on the floor."

I cock my brow. "Now why would I let you do this? Your place is in my bed. If I wake up and want to fuck you again, you have to be close."

"Yes, Sir." She smiles weakly. "So I can stay?"

"Let me put it this way—you’re definitely not allowed to leave."

3

EMILY

Every bone in my body aches when I wake up. The blanket covering my naked skin feels weirdly lush and decadent. I need a minute before I’m able to focus.

Right. I’m not on the couch in Michael’s club. I’m actually in the Kingmaker’s bed. Holding my breath, I turn around, only to find the other side empty. I touch the sheets. They’re cold. Maybe he hasn’t slept here.

Forcing myself to sit up, I rub my face with both hands and look around. I’m definitely alone in his bedroom, and I can’t hear anything but my own breathing.

After a while, I stand up and walk to the bathroom. The aches and pains in my body are even worse than I suspected, yet I find myself smiling. The Kingmaker really is as intense as his reputation. He fucked me, and he seemed to enjoy it, so there’s a tiny speck of hope flickering inside of me that the Kingmaker might actually keep me.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The marks around my neck, on the inside of my thighs, and on my boobs paint a pretty good picture of what happened to me, but so do the bird’s nest on my head and the smudged mascara around my eyes. The Kingmaker used me thoroughly.

Still smiling, I open the tap and use ice-cold water to wash my face. I rub until the makeup is gone and my cheeks are crimson red. Then I try my best to untangle my hair to at least look somewhat presentable. I need to talk to the Kingmaker to find out if he wants to keep me. Man, I really hope he does, not only to save my life but also because I enjoyed the sex. I actually want more, to be perfectly honest.

There’s only so much I can do for my hair, using nothing but my fingers. I shrug and leave the bathroom. Picking up my dress from the floor, I hesitate. Maybe I should stay naked to signal my availability. He wants me to be obedient. That much is clear. I let the dress drop again and walk out of the room, looking for—hopefully—my new lover.

The house is dark and silent as I make my way down the stairs. I have no idea where to start looking when I see the light from behind a slightly ajar door. It seems smart to check first if the Kingmaker has a visitor before I barge in there naked.

It’s his office or maybe his library. He’s sitting behind a giant desk, a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Bookshelves cover the walls, floor to ceiling. It looks amazing.

"Yeah, it’s me. Put Michael on the line, please."

My heart leaps into my throat. Common sense says that there must be at least a thousand Michaels in this town, if not more, but my gut knows he’s calling my boss. The Kingmaker’s fingers drum impatiently on the desk while he waits for Michael to take the call. I can hear him sigh as he listens to the voice on the other end of the line.

"Are you done?" His tone is cold, almost making me flinch, although he’s not even talking to me. "Maybe then you can shut up and listen to me, Michael. I have a question for you, and I’d better like the answer you’re about to give me, so take your time before opening your mouth again. How come I just found one of your whores in my bed?"

He pauses to listen to Michael. I have to press my hand against my mouth to keep from whimpering. This is not how I imagined this would go down. I genuinely thought he liked me—at least enough to fuck me on a regular basis.

The drumming of the Kingmaker’s fingers stops as he listens. "No, her name is Emily." Another pause ensues before he clicks his tongue. "Well, then maybe you should come to pick her up."

I don’t wait for them to discuss the details. Instead, I turn around and run back upstairs. The panic makes me quick, and I only need a couple of seconds to put my dress on and grab everything I brought with me. Clutching the shoes and my bag to my chest, I make a detour into the big walk-in dresser. I grab as many of the expensive watches as I can stuff into my bag before hurrying down the hall.

There’s a big window at the end of it, and I figure that I need to take my chances climbing out there. I can’t take the stairs since it’s too much of a risk. I don’t want to walk right into the Kingmaker’s arms.

Opening the window, I glance out. It’s high but manageable. I let my shoes drop to the lawn and climb over the ledge, my bag pressed safely against my chest. Those watches are my last hope.

I’m ready to let go and jump when a hand fists my hair, forcing my head back and painfully so.

"Where do you think you’re going?" the Kingmaker hisses next to my ear. He puts his arm around my waist and pulls me back into the house.

"No!"

Kicking and scrambling, I try to free myself, but he only grips me harder, forcing me to arch my back to ease the pressure on my neck before he snaps it. I can’t fight him and hold on to my bag while clinging on to the window frame with only one foot hooked around it. So I let go of the bag. Digging my nails into the Kingmaker’s arm, I manage to hold on to the window frame, keeping my captor from dragging me back into the hall.

"Stop it," he snarls when I draw blood. 

"Let go of me first."

"You’re in no position to bargain with me, Emily. Stop fighting, or you’re going to fucking regret it."

Instead of answering him, I twist my body. I’m not ready to die. I thought I was, but it turns out I am not. He won’t make me bend to his will just so he can give me back to Michael. I feel oddly betrayed by the Kingmaker, and it gives me more energy to fight him.

For a few seconds, I actually believe I might have a chance—until the Kingmaker loses his patience. He turns around with me in his arms, almost breaking my foot, which is still hooked around the window frame.

I have to let go to prevent an injury, and as soon as I do that, he slams me into the ground. There’s a moment where I feel like I can’t breathe, my lungs won’t suck in any air, and I just lie on my back—a helpless bug about to be crushed by the Kingmaker.

He bends down, grabbing my bag and opening it. With a frown, he pulls out his watches before he looks at me with a sinister smile. "Someone’s been a very bad girl."

Finally, my brain starts working again, and I scramble to my feet. The Kingmaker stops my futile try by grabbing my left ankle, dragging me along like a rag doll.

"No, please. Stop," I beg, with tears spilling from my eyes. My fingernails are red with his blood, and I leave stains all over his carpet, trying to find something to cling to.

"I really thought we had a connection." He shakes his head and opens the bedroom door, pulling me inside.

I bump my head on the door frame, colorful dots exploding before my eyes. "Stop!"

He just grunts, lifts me up, and tosses me onto the bed. I don’t even have time to react. He puts his hand around my throat while he straddles me, using his weight to pin me down.

"You really shouldn’t have done that."

"Fuck you!" I hiss. "Does it matter if you kill me now or leave it to Michael?"

The Kingmaker cocks his brow. "Now why would I do that? I’m not in the habit of sharing my toys."

"Well, then why did you call him?"

His eyes sparkle deviously. "What’s my name, Emily?"

Confused by the question, I stare up at him. I’m so sick of his damn games. There’s no hint of what he’s about to do as he stares down at me, his fingers digging into my throat. I literally don’t see it coming as he slaps my cheek without any warning.

"You need to learn to answer me when I ask you a question. What’s my name?"

The burn is not as bad as it could be. Still, I feel no desire for a repetition. "Atlas."

He chokes me harder. "Is that the name people use when they’re talking about me?"

"No. They call you the Kingmaker."

"And why is that? It can’t be because I share my plans with everyone, can it now?"

A hot tear is running down my cheek. "I don’t know what you want from me."

"I wanted you to stay in my bed and spread your pretty thighs for me when I came back. Instead, you snuck around behind my back, listened to a conversation that wasn’t for your ears, stole from me, and tried to run away."

He starts to choke me more and more with each sentence. I can barely breathe. I can’t shake my head. I can’t do anything. So I just look at him, pleading with my eyes.

"You must be the least trustworthy fuck toy I’ve ever acquired." He takes his hand off my throat and leans over to the edge of the bed, opening the nightstand’s drawer. When his hand comes back into view, he’s holding a syringe. "You should consider yourself lucky that I find you interesting. Somehow you’re not only an exquisite fuck but also highly entertaining." Still, that doesn’t seem to hinder him from removing the needle shield.

I want to get up, but he’s too heavy. "Michael will kill me."

"Oh, I don’t think he will."

The Kingmaker winks at me and plunges the needle into my upper arm. The hot burn is followed by the sensation of ice water spreading beneath my skin.

"I . . . hate . . . you," I mumble as my head lolls to the side.

"No, you don’t." The Kingmaker sounds smug. "Not yet, at least. But I promise to work on it."

4

ATLAS

Michael chuckles nervously as I open the door for him. Wiping his sweaty palms on his pants, he clears his throat. "Boss."

I just step aside, motioning for him to come in. Without saying another word, I lead the way toward the basement. In my line of work, a solid basement, soundproof and equipped with a handy drain in the middle of the tiled floor, is indispensable. Death is a nasty business, and I like things clean.

Right now, my basement, which is also my torture dungeon, could as well be my playroom. Emily is hanging in the middle of the room, wrists shackled to a pair of heavy cuffs dangling from the ceiling, her head slumped down.

I need her unconscious so she won’t interfere, but it’s to teach her a lesson as well. My pet needs to stay out of my business. It’s preferable that she one day come around to trust me, although it’ll probably take time to get there. I’m not exactly open with my feelings, thoughts, or intentions. Plus, I do have a weakness for scared women, and they tend to be more scared when they have no idea what’s going on.

"I’m so sorry, boss." Michael wipes his hands yet again, eyeing Emily’s naked body. "I’ll take her home and make sure she’ll never bother you again."

"Are you planning to kill her?"

"No." He shakes his head, unable to pull his gaze away from her. "I’m thinking more along the lines of buying a dog crate and keeping her in my bedroom." His laugh sounds forced, and there’s a hint of fear in his eyes.

"Yeah. She’s a delicious fuck, isn’t she?"

"I . . . um . . . I guess . . ."

I turn to him, my face not showing any kind of emotion. "What is she to you?"

"Just a piece of ass that works for me, boss. Really. You know how it goes." He shrugs.

"No, actually, I don’t know how it goes. Please explain it to me. Explain to me why a pretty girl like her works for a lowlife thug like you, peddling cheap drugs when she could be so much more. And while you’re at it, why don’t you tell me how she ended up working for you? With a face like that, she could easily rake in a couple grand a night as a high-end escort."

It’s true. Emily has this vibe that draws attention from a lot of men, myself included. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have remembered seeing her before, and I can’t possibly be the only man who noticed her, with that gorgeous body and the delicate pain in her eyes. I know I would pay a nice sum for the illusion of owning her for a couple of hours. Luckily for me, she came to me, and now I get to keep her.

"I-I-I didn’t think she was that pretty." His stuttering doesn’t make his weak excuse any better.

"Don’t insult my intelligence, Michael."

"What do you want to hear? She’s pretty, so I decided to make her my fuck toy."

The thought of how he forced himself on my Emily makes my skin crawl. I’m quite certain she’s never been wet for him, not like she was for me just a few hours ago. He’s never heard her begging him to fuck her and fuck her harder. Quite the opposite must be true.

"You had to use force, I assume."

"Not really. It’s not like she had any other choice. Can I take her down now?"

"I’m afraid not. It turns out that your services are no longer needed."

Michael turns to me as I take the first step toward him, pulling out my knife. He just blinks at me, trying to understand my words and their consequences.

He gapes like a goldfish in its glass bowl when I cut his throat. The motion is so quick that he can’t quite grasp it, his mind busy with fear and panic. Hot red blood splashes onto the white tiles, flowing toward the drain. His body goes down with a thud.

Part of me wishes that I’d taken my time, but it’s almost sunrise, and there’s still a lot to be done before I can finally go to bed, with Emily by my side.

After dragging Michael’s body from the room for my men to take care of him, I open the valve and hose the room down. Like I said, it’s a messy business.

5

EMILY

I’m cold, and my shoulders are burning. It takes a lot out of me to peel my eyes open. Someone is whistling as wetness hits my leg. Now I’m even more cold, and I force myself to look down. Water is splashing over the white tiled floor, cloudy with a red liquid. Little red dots embellish my shins and feet, while my toes are barely touching the wet ground.

I look up, squinting at the shackles fastened around my wrists. A strong metallic smell fills my nostrils. I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out that I’m in a room where the Kingmaker’s just killed someone, and guessing by my current position, I’m probably next—but not before he tortures me, I guess.

Lifting my head slowly, I take the sight in. The Kingmaker appears calm as he uses a hose to clean the room we’re in.

I don’t know who the interior designer was, but the white tiled floor and walls make me think of horror movies, the ones with abandoned hospitals and insane asylums, to be specific. There are metal lockers lined up along one wall and a few steel tables along the other. All kinds of torture equipment are spread on the gleaming surfaces of the tables, but I’m particularly drawn to the bloody knife.

"You’re awake." The Kingmaker smiles and turns the water off. "How are you feeling?"

My heart is leaping in my chest, and I’m pretty sure I’m about to die. "Just peachy."

His smile deepens, and there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Your pulse tells a different story." He steps closer, extending his arm, trailing his fingers over the hollow of my throat.

I flinch as his hand is ice cold, like the water around my feet. "What happened?"

"While you were unconscious? I took care of a problem."

Since it’s definitely blood that he just cleaned up, I have to swallow against the lump in my throat. "What kind of problem?"

"That’s none of your concern. You only need to focus on your own predicament."

"You’re going to kill me." My voice is hollow, and I feel empty on the inside.

"Now why would I do that and miss out on all the fun?" He cocks one of his eyebrows and grabs my chin, forcing me to look at his handsome face with his unsettling eyes. "I have other plans for you, my pretty little plaything. First, I’m going to teach you a lesson, and then we’re going back upstairs."

"Okay."

His fingers dig deeper into my skin. "But let me be perfectly clear, darling. You are expected to follow the rules from now on because believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to see this room a second time. Understood?"

"Yes."

He smiles. "Yes, Sir."

"Yes, Sir."

"Very good. And from now on, I’m either Atlas or Sir."

"Yes, Sir."

My heart is beating frantically while I’m trying to figure him out. Is he going to keep me? Did he kill Michael? Why doesn’t he just tell me?

Then I remember what he said earlier. He’s the Kingmaker, and he doesn’t share his plans. All the questions I have are sitting heavily on my tongue, but I swallow them down.

Three months, just three months, and I will be free—no more worries, no more annoying men in my life. Freedom. I can take whatever he wants for three months. Three months isn’t too bad.

He walks away from my view, and I hear shuffling before he comes back, a mean-looking whip in his hands. "There’s something you should know about me."

"And what would that be?" I lick my lips since they’re feeling incredibly dry.

Atlas follows the movement with his gaze. "I absolutely hate coconut, especially the smell. So no more coconut. No shampoo, no body lotion, nothing that contains even a hint of coconut."

"Okay, got it. No problem." My knees are weak because I feared he might tell me something way worse. For good measure, I smile weakly before I add, "Sir."

"And there’s another thing." His knuckles graze my cheek. "I love seeing you cry, so please don’t hold back."

Did I think I was nervous already? Boy, was I wrong. Right now, I can feel the panic creeping to the surface.

"Here’s what’s going to happen. You get five lashes for each offense, for a total of fifteen because you were eavesdropping, tried to run away from me, and stole my watches. After that, I’m going to fuck you since I’m quite sure that seeing you in pain will excite me immensely. Then we’re done."

There’s so much going on in my head that I don’t know what to think, and the whip in his hand isn’t helping.

"Can we please talk about it, Sir?" I plead.

"No. You came to me, Emily. You should have thought about the consequences a little earlier. Now be a good girl and ask me to punish you."

Why the hell is that idea so strangely exciting? I shouldn’t be turned on by the vision of him whipping my ass before grabbing my hips and fucking me hard, but I am terribly horny. I lift my head, and for a moment, I lose myself in his eyes. "Well, I’m not quite sure if I have it in me to be that kind of good girl, Sir."

His pupils dilate, and I can see that I said exactly the right thing.

"You should really try, Emily." His voice is strained with desire, yet at the same time, he sounds almost indifferent.

A shiver runs down my spine. "Why don’t you make me?" My lashes flutter as I smile at him.

"Fuck." He exhales. "You’re going to regret that."

"I’m sure I will do a lot of things in the next three months that I’m going to regret."

The whip in his hand, he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Who said anything about three months?"

My stomach clenches up. "That’s the deal, right? Three months. You keep your playthings for three months before you part ways, leaving them with a bunch of money and jewelry."

"If I had any feelings, they would be considerably hurt that you’re just in it for the money, Em."

I balance on my toes, making the shackles clink. "It’s not that I don’t like the sex. I’m only realistic about what to expect."

"You have no idea what to expect."

"Then tell me, please."

"I told you already what’s going to happen. I will whip and fuck you."

"And after that?" My shoulders are burning, my knees are getting weaker with every passing second, and I’m not sure how much longer my legs will continue to carry my weight.

Atlas flicks his wrist with ease, painting my ass with the first lash. "And after that, I’m going to keep you."

"What?" I spit out the question and, immediately after, almost bite my tongue as the whip hits me again.

"That’s two. How do you feel about crying for me, Em?"

I try to turn around, but he stops me by putting his arm around my waist, pressing me against his front. His erection is hard to miss.

"Tell me what you mean by that. Are you going to keep me for longer? Six months, maybe?"

His breath tickles my ear while he laughs. "No, my sweet captive. I’m keeping you forever."

The first tear rolls down my cheek, and I can’t tell why I’m crying. Is it relief since my hunt for safety is finally over? Or is it fear of being at the mercy of a man like the Kingmaker?

He steps in front of me, looking at my face, a sinister smile playing around his mouth. It’s probably both. I know that Atlas will keep me safe, but safety will come at a price.

He leans in and licks the tear off my skin. "Delicious. Oh, Emily, we’re going to have so much fun together."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Mia Kingsley is a bestselling writer who fancies psychopaths, stalkers, and killers a little too much.

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Copyright © Mia Kingsley, 2019

Cover © Drobot Dean – stock.adobe.com

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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