Author: Isabella Starling
Genre: Dark Romance Standalone
Release Date: September 1, 2020
A brand new, standalone dark romance with a Daddy theme from USA Today bestselling author Isabella Starling is finally here!
I'm your new Daddy, little doll.
And it's a doll's purpose to give Daddy what he wants.
What I want is to own you.
I'll put you in chains and I'll never take them off.
I'll make you kneel for me.
I'll make you beg for more.
And I'll never, ever let you leave me.
You're property now.
You don't have a choice.
*
Contains dark scenes throughout. This is a STANDALONE, full-length novel.
Chapter 1
Cliff
I can smell her. Sweet strawberries. A scent strong enough to overcome the stench of bodies pressed together. It's pure and addicting like a good, expensive cognac. She is a precious, exotic flower in the mud. My next victim.
I tell myself to ignore her. I do my best to pretend the scent isn't there.
I tell myself I'm not the kind of man who seeks out his prey.
I’m the kind of man the women come to, begging, and pleading for attention. I don't fight for pussy. I don't even work for it. It just falls in my lap. And that's the way I like it.
But it doesn't escape me. She is all I can feel.
I search for her above the dancing bodies when I enter the club. I lose her somewhere midway across the dancefloor. I turn around, but I can't sense her anymore, can't feel her presence. She was there, the faintest hint, when I walked into the club through the private entrance. But now the scent is gone.
Muttering a curse word, I make my way out of the club through the back exit and press my back against the brick wall outside. I can’t smell her anymore.
I light a cigarette and inhale deeply. The smoke fills my lungs, giving me the relief I need. I exhale, allowing the tingle and burn of the cigarette to take over.
"Got a light?"
My eyes go to the little creature standing before me. Her eyes are wide and hopeful. She belongs here with her tiny dress and pouty lips, ready to be used. I know that’s what she wants, but I’m not going to give it to her. She’s not the one I smelled before. But she’s so petite I could throw her over my shoulder and carry her right back to my place, fill up all her holes.
I take a step closer. She doesn’t move, staring up at me. I inhale her scent.
Sweet fruit.
It's not her, not the sweet scent I can still remember, the taste of it like syrup on my tongue. But she does smell good. Like an overripe, juicy peach, so close to bursting you can almost taste it before you sink your teeth in.
"Got a cigarette?" I return the question. She shrugs.
“Thought you could take care of me,” she suggests making me smirk at her. She looks like she wants a wild night with an older man, but I’m not letting her have it. Not tonight.
"Better luck next time, kid."
She pouts, crossing her arms as she stalks off behind her group of friends. Her annoyance doesn’t stop her from looking over her shoulder, making sure I’m not watching her leave.
I don’t call out after her. I stand there alone, contemplating whether I've just made a mistake. But I don't touch pussy as young as that. Barely legal hookups are not something I seek out.
No, I like a certain type of woman - the kind who knows what she wants. Strong, confident, a rockstar in her career, and fiercely single. Those types of women are the best to break.
And yet something tells me it’s so very different from the scent that assaulted my nostrils tonight. The owner of the scent didn’t strike me as confident. Her perfume screamed of innocence. Of something… forbidden. Off limits.
I shake my head to get the thought out, forcing another memory to take its place. I smile fondly at the memory of last night, trying to force my mind elsewhere. Sierra, a coworker from the office, bent over my desk and shouting my name over and over again as I pushed her body against the wood. She came so much she left a puddle on the floor. I made her beg for my cock. Beg to be filled when I was balls deep inside her.
And just like every other time we'd done this, on Monday she'd pretend nothing had happened.
I crush the cigarette under my polished leather shoes and head back inside the club. Ignoring the stares of women on the dancefloor, I head straight for the bar and order myself a double Scotch. I shouldn't have come out tonight. I should be taking the night off. But it was as if something inside me wouldn't let me stay at home. And as soon as the scent came back, assaulting my nostrils with its flirty innocence, I knew I'd made the right decision by coming to Crash.
This time, I don't lose the trail. I zero in on the promises that hang thickly in the air. I push past groups of people, girls, women, couples. I’m focused on one thing only and I don’t notice anything or anyone in my way. I make my way to the exit.
"Mr. Hearst! Mr. Hearst!"
Knitting my brows together, I follow the sound of the voice to a group of younger women standing in front of the velvet rope. Right there, at the front, is little Dove Chastain. And the scent is overwhelming now.
My accountant's daughter. The little girl who used to follow me like a shadow.
I groan inwardly, pretending to ignore her pleas for attention, but the girl won't give up. She calls my name again and I take a step forward, glaring at her and her group of friends. All of them look too young to be here.
The scent. The fucking scent. It’s so overwhelming.
"Mr. Hearst!" the girl speaks up again from behind the velvet rope. "It's me, Dove. Do you remember me?"
I grit my teeth together. "Aren't you a little young to be here?"
She leans forward and whispers, "Please, Mr. Hearst. It's my birthday. I just turned eighteen. You know that's the legal drinking age in Europe, right?"
I mutter a curse, pulling back.
The fucking scent won’t leave my head alone. Sweet, pure, innocent, fucking sex on legs. But it can't be Dove. There's no way.
But who else would it be? I smelled her outside first. I lost her in the club. When I walked in, the hint was there, and now that I’m standing closer to her, it’s fucking overwhelming. It’s her. It has to be her.
Dove, the office kid, the cute and timid girl that sat through some of our meetings in the beginning, when the company was just starting and her father couldn't find a sitter.
"Go home, Dove," I tell her firmly. "Don't make me call your father."
"Please." She grabs my shirt sleeve, tugging. I turn to face her pleading expression. "Dad said you own this club. We won't make a scene... We just want to have some fun. Please, Mr. Hearst?"
I glance behind her shoulder at the group of other four girls. "They are eighteen, right?"
"Yes," she nods eagerly. "I'm the youngest..."
"When's your birthday?"
"What do you mean?" she laughs, nervous.
"Today or at midnight?" I hiss. The scent is oppressive at this point, assaulting my nostrils and demanding I pay attention to its forbidden call.
"Midnight," she admits, flushing. "Why?"
I glance at my clock. "No reason."
I nod at the bouncer, and he holds up the rope. Dove and her girlfriends squeal with delight, but I can't bear to watch it. I walk away, leaving them to explore the club by themselves.
Locking myself up in my office, I start working on my second Scotch of the night as I go through some numbers for the club. I need to resist this temptation. I need to busy myself with mundane tasks to forget about this. Forget about her.
My business exploded years ago, my app taking off and earning me more money than I could spend in a lifetime. The club is just one of my many investments, one Dove Chastain had been smart enough to look up before showing up on the doorstep.
I shake my head to get the thought of her out. I can't think about her. Won't let myself see her in any other light than the kid I remember.
But the thought is there, and the more I try to force it to the back of my mind, the louder it demands to be heard.
Dove Chastain. She's all grown up. Another panicked glance at the clock reveals it's forty minutes to midnight. Less than an hour to go, and I can do it. Maybe even forgive myself for giving in to my sadistic side.
It's there, in the darkest corners of my mind, that the idea is born. The thought of her, sweet, innocent Dove, locked up, with nowhere to run. Mine. Mine to use as I wanted. Mine to keep.
I feel sick. The idea lodges itself permanently in my mind, reminding me every few seconds of what I could do. Telling me I have enough power and money to make this happen. I could have her. I could stop living this pretense of a life and just fucking take what I want.
Closing my eyes doesn't help. The moment I do, I see her there, chained to a collar, under my mercy, begging for the pleasure only I can give her. I imagine giving her pretty things. Going shopping for her. Dressing her up the way I like. Making her food, taking care of her. I imagine fucking her. The thought fills me with dread and yet I can't push it away. It's there, right there, at the touch of my fingertips.
I could take her tonight.
I push away from my desk, disgusted with my own thoughts. I pace the room. Down the rest of my drink. Check the time again - still twenty minutes to go. But I can't stay in my room. I have to go back downstairs. I have to smell her again.
As soon as I arrive back in the club area, I see her. Every pair of eyes in the club is focused on her as she dances, lost in a world of her own. She's laughing, swaying from side to side. Jealousy twists in the pit of my stomach, demanding I give into my sick mind's demands.
Take her.
Hurt her.
Make her yours.
I grit my teeth, rubbing my temples to get the cursed thoughts out, but it's no use. My mind wants what it wants. My body has its needs. I know now if I don't give into it, little Dove will haunt me for the rest of my life.
A plan starts slowly forming in my head, despite my best efforts to ignore my hunger. But this is what I am - what I've always been. A fucking monster.
I sit down at the bar, waving away the bartender who's eager to fix me another drink. I've had enough for the night, and I can't afford a distraction right now. I need to think. I need to figure out how I'm going to make this work.
People would look for her. Her father would be devastated. He'd never stop looking.
My eyes devour Dove on the dance floor. She does look like a doll, with her waist-length blonde hair that falls in pretty waves, her innocent, soft brown eyes, and the tiny body she has that's built for fucking sin. I want to take advantage so badly my mouth waters, but instead I keep watching her, analyzing her face and body for signs of a weakness I can exploit. The hint of her scent is still heavy in the air. Pure innocence mixed with my own lust for that untouched body. I don't even notice anybody else, and when women come up to me to flirt, I ignore them. Soon enough, they take the hint and leave, offended. Like I give a shit. All I care about is the virgin on the dance floor.
And she's a virgin alright. I can tell. My nose doesn't lie. I can smell her unpopped cherry from the bar, like a sweet little promise to any man. I can tell she's inexperienced. While I wonder whether she's even been kissed yet, my nails dig into my palms at the thought of some adolescent boy putting his lips on hers. That's never going to happen again. I'll lock her up if I have to. I'll keep her chained in my basement, never allowing her to see another man.
She's been oblivious to the attention of the male patrons of the club thus far. They're surrounding her, closing in on her, but Dove is focused on the music, dancing, loving every second of her life. I watch as another one approaches her, eyes lingering on her curves, hungry for her like I am.
The thought of her body drives me wild. Those perky, perfectly sized tits would fit so well in the palm of my hand. Her pale skin would bruise easily, so prettily. Her long hair would provide grip for my fingers. I could pull it, gather it in my hand, jerk her head while she choked on my cock. I know for a fact I'm too big for her. A small, frail body like Dove's wasn't built for my monster cock. Not that I give a shit. Her holes can be stretched. Her mind can be conditioned to want this. Crave the pain, long for the right man to take away what she holds dearest in her life.
My hands form fists as I watch the man dance with her. He's older than her by at least five years. She doesn't need him. She needs me. I'm fifteen years her senior but I don't give a shit, even knowing I could be her father. She was made for me. She'll be mine.
Fuck. The thoughts are getting out of hand. The monster that lives in the shadowy corners of my mind, locked up and growling abuse at me every time I shut him up, isn't backing down today. The monster wants a new doll to play with. The problem is, I'm getting more and more eager to give into his demands.
She smiles awkwardly at the man towering above her, doing her best to get away from him, but he doesn't budge. He follows her to the other end of the dancefloor. She's not dancing now. The prick's got her backed up against a wall, closing in on her body, demanding something from her. I watch with budding curiosity. I want to see her response. I want to see how capable little Dove Chastain is of defending herself. After all, I need to know how hard she'll make it for me.
She's nervous. I watch her face turn. She's no longer smiling, she's trying to get away, and I watch with hungry eyes as the guy keeps making advances on her.
Finally, he reaches for her. My blood boils when his fingers come to rest on her hip bone. He rubs his thumb over her skin, making her shift uncomfortably. She doesn't want this, but he shows no sign of stopping. Dove doesn't defend herself. Instead, she just accepts her fate while her panicked eyes search for someone to help her.
Somehow, our eyes meet across the room. Dove conveys her fear in the way she stares at me, begging for me to help. I stare back, my mouth forming a thin line. I don't move. I'm not here to help little girls get out of trouble. I'm here to turn their pretty lives into a twisted, sick, perverted nightmare.
I can't look anymore. I get up from my seat and walk away. Let the girl take care of her damn self. Hopefully she'll develop a self-preservation instinct. A will to fight.
Because that will make it so much sweeter to break her.
I smirk to myself as I head back to my office, my mind already made up.
I'm taking Dove Chastain, no matter the cost.
I'm putting her into my basement into a pretty little cage, with a chastity belt that only I can unlock. I'm going to fuck her holes until she's screaming for a release. I'm going to feed her nothing but my seed until she swears she'll never leave. I'm going to exploit, hurt and own her. And I don't give a flying fuck whether she wants it or not.
That's the kind of man I am.
USA Today bestselling author Isabella Starling describes her books with three words: dark, dirty, and forbidden.
If you pick up a Starling book, you can count on a bad-mouthed, bossy man who will dominate his woman with a rough hand. Add just a sprinkle of taboo, a touch of BDSM, and a pinch of suspense, and you're all set for a story you won't forget.
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