Page 165 of Rage

“Quid pro Quo, Lovely,” O’Malley quoted my proposition back to me. He picked up a pen, the lid firmly on, and pointed it at me. “I’m losing twenty million in this deal, and I intend to get compensated for it.”

His words gave me pause. I had agreed before, but there was something wrong with that. With twenty million dollars. I wouldn’t pay to fuck anyone for one million, let alone twenty. So why would he?

“No pussy is worth twenty million dollars.”

“No pussy is,” he agreed. “But a woman can be priceless.”

I scoffed. I was not a priceless woman.

He extended the pen out to me again, but I did not take it.

What if this was a ruse? What if he blabbed? What if my brothers found out? What would they do to him? What would they do to me?

As if hearing my dissident thoughts, he dropped the pen on the desk and lunged for me. He slammed his mouth on mine.

When I pulled my face to the side to break away, he followed. When I pushed his chest to make space, he leaned in. He countered every move, until my traitorous body was forced to feel it: His tongue, his taste, his heat.

His desire was undeniable.

I threw my head back, gasping for air, “I can’t breathe.”

He assaulted my throat. His tender lips, and sweet bites sent a wave of pleasure down my body.

“You’re trying to not feel a thing,” he said, his hot breath caressing my throat. “That simply won’t do. That’s not what satisfies me… and I intend to be very satisfied tonight.”

What the fuck? Was he one of those… pleasure doms? No. No fucking way. Those guys only existed in lady porn.

He slapped his hands on my ass, before sliding them up my body, lifting my shirt.

“I can tear your trousers off, and let you leave here in my clothes, or…” he groaned, as he pressed his hardened erection, barely contained behind his zipper, against the base of my stomach. “You can take them off yourself.”

He moaned, as he took my mouth again. I slammed my fist into his chest. It didn't make him stop. If anything, it encouraged him.

“I want you marked, and bruised by me. I want you leaving here freshly fucked and wearing my sweats,” he chuckled. “I would have you leave here with my fingerprints on your fucking soul.”

I slapped him. Hard.

The sound of it was as loud as a gunshot.

But he didn’t move, even as my red palm print colored his pale cheek.

“You don’t fucking know me,” I said through clenched teeth. “But I’m not something you brand like cattle.”

Just as before, the more I pushed, the further he leaned in.

“You don’t think I know exactly who you are, Jasmine Barkada?” His chuckle sent a shiver down my spine, making me clench my thighs as I felt the heat rise in my core. “Twenty-eight years old, the head of the Underground Circuit, though you keep that under wraps. Graduate of University of the Philippines Ateneo, and Chief Operations Officer of Barkada Industries.”

He cupped my chin in his thick, rough palm, and planted a kiss on my nose.

“Even our titles match.” His hand gentled as he ran the pad of his thumb down my cheek.

It was clear that he knew my title as much of a front as his was.

“I’ve been watching you since you stepped into our little city, Lovely.” Another kiss to my forehead. “And this has been a long time coming.”

He turned me over, bending me over his desk, pushing me down at the waist. In sharp movements, he’d pulled down my suit pants, until it rested mid-thigh. My thong and bare ass exposed to him.

“If you want to read the contract, now is your chance,” he said with a chuckle, as he ripped my thing off my body with a snap.

---