Take Me Over: A Protector Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Read online

  I smiled and answered, "...if you're offering,"—steadying my own legs and wondering how far I'd have to go before he got the message.

  "Someone, call the police!" His woman screamed.

  "No," I said—calmed, if only to assure her. "Let him learn..."

  At times, I think that it was less about my fury with him and more about the mounting tension in my bones—aching for the chance to prove once more just who the fuck the world was dealing with.

  I don't like bullies. Never have. Never will.

  "Come on!" I growled and watched as the fear hit him and just as quickly convinced him that it was pride that he was feeling and not foolishness.

  He lunged at me like a sack of marbles—flailing about and barely able to keep his own fist in front of him. It was a joke. He was a joke. I let him get the swing out of his system—wrapping around himself like a shoestring as surprise mounted on his face in the form of grit teeth and sinking lips.

  I grabbed his arm as it curved over his left shoulder and bent it behind him, so his elbows aligned with his eyes. "Is this what you want!" I roared as his, once tough, exterior gave way to a heavy breathed panic—and yanked his arm free from its socket.

  The resulting sound was a nerve-wrenching pop and the echoes of his desperate howl.

  To quiet him, I let him slip into the pool and choke down the chlorine.

  It seemed to calm him down.

  "Call him an ambulance," I ordered to my head of staff—who'd been waiting patiently and armed with a handgun. I turned to the pool as the man surfaced—still howling his cries of agony. "You ever come to my home again, I'll make sure they never find your body."

  It was an empty threat, but nothing that anyone there would have taken lightly.

  After what they'd seen, I'm sure they thought me as serious as a heart attack.

  I left as his friends fished him out of the pool and made my way inside of my home. From the look of it, the party was over.

  In any case, I'd already grown tired of my guests.

  "What the fuck was that about!" Ian screamed—storming behind me as I barreled into my home office. I had no specific reason for being there, but it was away from the crowd and cameras. The last thing that I needed was yet another tabloid cover.

  The term "Bad-Boy Billionaire" had a nice ring to it but the reputation, once had, was hard to shake. Ultimately, that meant that it'd be bad for business.

  "Are you crazy!"

  "No, Ian. I'm not crazy." I sat at my desk—a 10-foot slab of redwood propped up on copper legs—and retrieved my trusted bottle of aged bourbon from beneath. It was a present from the previous Christmas—a reward for record earnings. I couldn't think of a better way to commemorate the evening. "...just fed up with bullshit is all..."

  "You'll be lucky if he doesn’t sue..."

  "Really," I mocked. "On what grounds? Inability to be piece of shit at my party?"

  "That's not my point and you know it," Ian scoffed. "What the hell has gotten into you?"

  Honestly, I didn’t have the slightest clue. Sure, on any other day, it was unlikely that the village idiot—at the time fighting his way out of the pool—would have gotten off any easier.

  Maybe I would have left his arm where it was. Maybe I'd have left him dry. But there was something about the entire thing that felt altogether personal.

  In retrospect, I may not have hidden my inner turmoil as well as I'd hoped to. It was as if something had been riled up inside of me. A feral beast that I'd long thought had moved on and out of me. Yet, there it was. Bubbling in my temper and coursing through my veins and itching to escape in any form of violence that I'd allow.

  It was always there, I suppose. Though I'd seen hints of it in the past, this time was altogether different. In the past, I wouldn't have thought my actions justified. In the past, I would have fished him out of that pool myself—if only to keep the blood off of my hands.

  "Victoria..." I answered—so low that Ian had to repeat me to be sure.

  "Victoria?" He said. "The girl..."

  "The girl." I leaned back in my office chair as the bourbon hit my tongue and slithered down my throat. My heart was beating in my chest as if I'd just finished sprinting in the desert. "She's got my head in a blender...It'll pass."

  I didn't believe myself, but I'd have done anything to keep Ian from worrying. It wasn't just because of our friendship. As an equal partner of SplitWire, he could have brought my guillotine and made me watch as he chopped its head clean from its foundation.

  "You're serious..." He said—careful not to sound as if he'd been mocking me. I was so embarrassed that I could barely bring myself to look him in the eye—preferring to focus on the rim of glass and the dwindling liquor within it.

  "I thought she was the one at a certain point in my life. Seeing her again just...just..."

  It set my heart on fire and breathed life into the wretched soul that I'd become. I couldn't say that. I didn't. Somehow, Ian got the message loud and clear.

  "New York." He sat in the chair across from me and helped himself to a drink. "This whole thing..." He sipped from it like I'd been reading him a verdict. "It was your idea. For her."

  "It's not what you think," I assured.

  "Then what is it, Brenton? Because if you plan on going down there and threatening our business for the sake of some forlorn love, I've got bad news for you..."

  "What's that?"

  A sigh.

  "If the board finds out about this, they'll want you as far away from MossCorp as possible. We can't risk...whatever the hell it is that you plan on doing."

  "Firing her." I admitted.

  "What the hell are you on about now?" He downed his drink like it was his last.

  "She's Luthor Greene's secretary. Has been for years. With his resignation, her employment is in limbo...and I—"

  "Still seeking revenge?" He swilled his index finger around the rim of the glass. "Brenton, you do understand that this is bordering on lunacy."

  Maybe it was. From where I was standing, though, it was the only thing that could've brought balance to that insatiable demon inside of me that just wanted to see all of my enemies burn. All but her. I'd hoped that my mind would overrule that little voice inside of me that still sang in shards of optimism.

  "It'll finally put an end to the nightmares," I said.

  Ian took his time to respond—helping himself to two more glasses before he could muster up the courage to just come out and say what had been on his mind since we'd gotten on the plane in New York.

  "You're still in love with her...aren't you."

  "I wouldn't say that," I defended and poured myself another as well.

  Ian rose from his chair—nodding all the while pacing toward my office door. "You don't have to, Brenton."

  As the door opened, I could hear the crowds of people fleeing my home—all babbling nonsense and exaggerated versions of the spectacle they'd been beholden to. "I just hope that you know what you're doing," Ian said before leaving me alone with my thoughts and my bourbon.

  I did.

  I had already booked my flight for the next morning.

  5

  Victoria

  The dream always started the same. He'd walk through the front door of my apartment—wearing nothing but a pair of fitted dress pants and the skin on his back.

  His oiled and tight skin would creep closer to me—flexing every muscle as if he'd been performing a mating dance with his bulbous biceps and protruding pecs—leading the way as his washboard abs slithered ever closer. They popped like fireworks on his body.

  It was always dark—lit by several candles that all smelled of roses and melting lavender. The flames were contained in small orbs of golden orange—each more luminescent than the last and barely lighting the room enough for me to see clearly. But, I knew he was there.

  I'd be waiting on the bed. Naked and twirling my fingers between my legs as I anticipated his arrival. His footsteps were like earthquakes on t
he floor beneath us—shattering all things that had held us captive in reality.

  There would be no time. No air. No weight. Just two bodies floating, unburdened in the small space where we'd trusted that we were safe. Hidden from the world and free from all but the desperate want for one another.

  Alone.

  I'd never known a greater peace nor the imminent and doubtless satisfaction that he would carry with him as the last of his tremored footsteps arrived at my bedroom door.

  He'd stand there—staring at me with those piercing green eyes and watch as my fingers simmered over my clit, bringing me chills. He'd watch as my legs spread open—inviting him—and my pussy lips quivered at the thought of his entry.

  Just at the sight of him watching me, my skin would burn with the kind of indelible passion that must've inspired the most profane Kama-Sutra and blasphemous pleasure.

  I'd lay on the bed with my legs spread as wide as a butterfly knife. He'd approach the bed--stopping just short of climbing on top of the mattress.

  By then, I'd still not have taken my eyes off of him—preferring to stare directly into the face of the man whose very presence could have brought me to a screaming orgasm—loud enough to break the very fabric of our existence together.

  It was transcendence.

  It was purpose.

  A meaningful escape from the world that not only exiled our fears, our mistakes, our past, but acted as a cocoon for the sin that we'd both been ready to commit for each other.

  He'd watch my fingers circle my clit and tell me to "Put them in..."

  Like a soldier at war, I'd comply with my master and simply ask him "how many."

  It's then that he would graze his hand over mine—touching each individual finger as if they were precious, yet fragile diamonds, slipping through his own coarse grip and sliding into my pussy as if they had no other place to be.

  He'd lick his lips as he counted with me "...1...2...3." Slow and steady a swan-song. His touch was enough to set me on fire.

  When I was good and full he'd order to me to continue and I would—enough to fill the bed with a river of my passions and throw my smoldering enticement into the kind of rabid flame that could warm the gates of hell and cast out the devil.

  I'd want him. I'd want him so badly that death would have been the only thing to have kept me from him. To have kept him from prying inside of me. From making me whole.

  He'd grip my ankles like they were nothing more than his props. Tools for his amusement and the puppet strings of my body. He'd pull me close—sliding my legs over his brawny shoulders and bringing his mouth, those plump lips, within licking distance of my pussy.

  By then, I'd already be flooding the bed and doing my best to keep my spine from curling in on itself as his warm breath pulsed against my exposed insides and drove me mad. Filled with no other thoughts than him. Thoughts to be filled with him. To wrap around him. To feel his seed spread through the deepest rings of my body and settle wherever they'd desired.

  He'd kiss my hands to let me know that my job was done. I'd find something else to do with them.

  As he lowered his lips between my thighs, I'd feel an ecstasy that I could only compare to those few moments after you've woken up—where the world feels still, at ease, and willing to allow such purity to exist within its atmosphere.

  Ironically, that made it hard to breathe.

  I'd cup my breasts and squeeze them as he licked between my labia—soft and gentle as if he was licking an ice cream cone and yet, with such force that I knew I could not stop him. I didn't want to.

  I never wanted to.

  As my nipples erected between my fingers, my jaw would unhinge as I squirmed—open mouthed at the constant vibrations that he'd placed between my legs. I'd stare at the top of his head—as it swiveled back and forth to ensure that not a single inch of pussy had gone untouched with his wanting.

  I'd beg him, like I was his.

  I'd beg him, as if it were for my life.

  "Get inside of me," I'd say as he slid his own fingers into me and landed at my G-spot—over and over, and over again—until insanity looked to be the only outcome of my constant shivers, pulsating heart, and increasingly difficult to contain groans.

  I'd moan.

  I'd whisper.

  I'd scream.

  It was as if every reaction gave him more reason to please me. To wear me like a set of brass knuckles and make me drip like melting ice from a cliff-side.

  All for him.

  He'd never shudder. He loved the taste of me. He'd feast on my body as if it were his favorite dessert. He'd tell me that it was, and gorge himself until I could no longer control the springy bouncing of my legs as they tightened around his neck and lifted my ass off of the sheets.

  He'd force me back down without a word and I'd beg again, "Fill me up..." All the while running my fingers through my hair to keep me present. To keep me sane.

  When I could take no more, he'd lick me slow—until I'd finally managed to settle my weakened body back onto the mattress. The feeling was like quick sand as I rested into the cushioned springs—waddling back and forth—in a vain attempt to reclaim my body. To reclaim control.

  He'd never let me have it.

  He would rise from his knees like a phoenix from the ashes and drop his pants as he watched me squirm in wondrous joy and treacherous unknowing.

  I wanted nothing but to feel his skin pressed against mine—mixing our juices and oils in the kind of intoxicating blend that I could taste. A sweet stir of salt and sugar—oozing from us as if it were natures fated elixir. The same kind of tonic that Romeo and Juliet were willing to die for—

  ...to live for.

  I'd watch his cock swing free from its entrapment, behind his form fitting attire and harden into an erect dagger—large enough to break me in two. I wouldn't fear the pain. I'd look forward to it. Bask in it.

  Crave it.

  It was then, in my weakest and most exuberant desire that he would finally give me what I'd wanted more than I wanted to breathe. He'd hold my legs apart and let his body heat embrace me first. His hard cock smoldering beside my dripping pussy until I could damn near feel it boiling with desire.

  He'd lower himself onto me. Over me. Into me. Teasing my lips with the tip of his dick before parting me like a wishbone and easing each and every fulfilling inch of himself as deep as he could go without me screaming—then, he'd go deeper. So deep inside of me that I could taste him on my tongue—vanilla and cocoa—just like he'd smelled.

  It was always more delicious than I'd anticipated.

  I always wrapped my legs around the small of his back and promised, "I can take it...".

  He'd thrust himself whole inside of me and bring those catlike eyes to my mine—just in time for him to watch me lose control. To see my head bang back and forth as he slipped in and out of me—fucking me as if it'd be the last thing that he would ever do.

  "Do you feel me," he'd whisper in my ear as my soul left my body and watched it tremble.

  "Yes," I'd answer—unsure if I'd even been speaking a language and not a babble.

  "Yes," I’d say again, through my teeth, as my tongue swirled up against the roof of my mouth to ground me. I'd leak all over him, but he wouldn't stop. He'd tell me that he won't stop until I've taken every drop. Until he owned me entirely.

  Until there'd been no memories of anything but his dick stretching me open and staking its claim on every morsel of my body. I was a meal to him. A heart-wrenching desire. A need.

  And I needed him just as badly.

  He'd kiss my lips as our fluids intermingled in the chalice that was our union. I'd nibble at his tongue to let him know that I could take it all. That I'd wanted to.

  He'd oblige as I screamed my passionate cries. "Fill me up!"

  He'd give me all of him and my mind would burst into a million gold pieces—all falling to earth like a meteor shower, at his whim. His word. His love.

  As the tingles crawled up my spin
e and shattered—I'd be gone. Lost adrift in the happiest parts of my mind and dissolving into nothing but panted moans and orgasmic satisfaction.

  "Fill me up!" I'd ask again. "Please, Brenton! Fill me up!" It'd sound more like a raspy exhale than words, but he'd understand. He always did. It was the voice he'd heard me make most.

  He'd tell me call him "daddy."

  "Fill me up, daddy!" I'd beg as if it were for my life. "Please, daddy! Fill me up!"

  Our lips would touch and I'd feel his tongue on mine. Our mouths like the connecting piece of a long-forgotten tunnel that led to each of our aching bones and contracting muscles.

  I'd run a hand over his abs—if only to feel the ripples as he shook, as his body jerked over me. He'd breathe heavily as his speed increased and my pussy drained onto his cock.

  "Yes, daddy..." I'd whisper. "Cum inside of me...Give me your children!"

  He'd fill me up with pools of himself as I straddled my lips around his neck—sucking just to leave my mark. To make sure that he'd always remember me. Remember us.

  Remember how good it felt.

  Together.

  Then, we'd seize.

  He'd dismount from my body—gently kissing my skin down to my navel and resting his head on my womb.

  Before I could snap out of my trance—still lost in the deepest parts of my mind, my heart, and my soul—he'd be gone. Sauntered through my door without so much as a goodbye. Leaving me near comatose and more satisfied than any man had ever been able to achieve.

  He'd be gone.

  And I'd fall asleep. Unsure of whether or not he'd ever return.

  I'd pray for it.

  Then, I'd awaken.

  6

  Victoria

  I woke up late, the following morning, with a hangover big enough to impress the state of Texas.

  After stumbling around my apartment for the better part of an hour—searching for something clean to wear and fixing my hair into a presentable ponytail—I'd zoomed out the door and off to the bank. It was there that I was to transfer the money for Luthor and help myself to a new car if I wanted it.