My Dark Knight Read online

  MY DARK KNIGHT

  by

  Virgini Bellarica

  (Book 2 in The British Billionaire Series)

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  MY DARK KNIGHT

  First edition. October 29, 2018.

  Copyright © 2018 Virgini Bellarica.

  ISBN: 978-1386523031

  Written by Virgini Bellarica.

  Also by Virgini Bellarica

  The British Billionaire Series

  My First Knight

  My Dark Knight

  My Knight Shining

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also By Virgini Bellarica

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Further Reading: My Knight Shining

  Also By Virgini Bellarica

  1

  I’M LYING BETWEEN THE glorious Egyptian cotton sheets in Max’s bed, relaxing against the plumped-up pillows. I feel satiated. Complete, both physically and spiritually. Beyond satisfied. More glorious lovemaking has left me feeling like the luckiest, most appreciated woman in the world.

  Of all people, I know what it’s like to be stuck in a sexual desert – without another human being to fulfill my needs. I had convinced myself that work could be a substitute. I’d given up. I’d learned to be self-sufficient in every way – yes, in every way – and I never, in a million years, believed I would ever meet anyone special, let alone a man ten years my senior. And not only a older man than myself, but ridiculously successful, kind, devastatingly handsome, and last but not least, a veritable god in bed.

  And to top it all off; completely in love with me...

  Max Knight.

  I still feel as if I have walked into a modern day fairy tale.

  It’s tough when you’re riddled with insecurities of abandonment the way I am. Hard to believe that a man so gorgeous can covet you and feel the same intensity of passion that you feel for him. Yet, there he was, Max Knight, co-founder of the dating app sensation Finders Keepers – a company that has taken the world by storm and made him into one of the wealthiest men in the world. There Max was, wanting to date me.

  And if that wasn’t enough, he has chosen me, Arielle Watson, a twenty-three-year-old with my just-above-average, girl-next-door looks, to be his wife.

  Yup, I do believe I’m dreaming.

  I look now at my left hand, which I’m turning this way and that, and admire my diamond engagement ring – proof that all this is real. It’s glinting, catching rays of morning sunlight pouring in through the long bedroom window. The ice-blue silk drapes are half open. Max hates to sleep with them closed – as if darkness could swallow him up at dawn.

  I’ve learned a lot about Max in the two months since we’ve been engaged. There’s a shadow that lives within – a mood that can encompass him at times, and it frightens me. I can never be sure when it will possess him but it is there, deep inside his soul. He’s a damaged man – that much I know. Yet he seems to be an expert at hiding the phantoms that lurk within.

  So far, I have only seen glimpses.

  I too, need to hide any gremlins from my past. Some things are better left unsaid. We are still getting to know each other. For now my secret needs to stay with me. Until I’m ready to talk about it.

  I can hear him now, next door in the en-suite bathroom. The faucet has just been turned off. I picture him in my mind’s eye; water trickling from his lightly tanned chest, his biceps flexed deliciously as he dries himself, his strong, muscular thighs, the ripples of his stomach and his wet, almost-black hair – wayward and mussed-up – which frames the even features of his handsome face.

  I think of our lovemaking just ten minutes ago, and a shiver of lust shimmies through my body. I cannot get enough of him. He possesses my psyche. I have never needed anybody as I need him. But I try to keep myself cool, calm and collected, even though I’m on fire inside. He mustn’t know the apprehension that envelops me – fear that I could be flung back again into the desert, abandoned with no water – on my own once more. I blamed myself for my frigidity, my inability to reach orgasm through sex, but realize I had blocked myself off emotionally. And we women are ruled by emotions, aren’t we? Even when it comes to sex. Especially so.

  I thought I was a lost cause until I met Max. He intrinsically understands me. And my body. Maybe that’s why I’m hooked on him. Sexually. Mentally. But I try to keep that to myself. There’s nothing like a needy woman to scare a man away. Especially one as hot as he is. I have to hold onto my independence, my self-possession.

  Or I could lose him for good.

  My fiancé saunters into the bedroom and fixes his eyes on me, running them along my naked body with approval. I cannot believe he is actually mine. My fiancé. How I relish those words.

  I’m now willing him with my gaze to come back to bed, just for ten minutes, but I know that his drive and ambition rarely lets him lose restraint. He has a plane to catch – a business trip is waiting; clients hanging in limbo with baited breath for a decision to be made, a deal to be signed. I’ve learned that Max is a ruthless negotiator, a tough cookie when it comes to business – nobody gets to be as successful as he is by accident.

  I drink him in. A white towel is hanging about his washboard abs. Beads of water are gathered about his buffed-up chest. His green eyes are gazing at me.

  “Come with me, Arielle,” he says, his English accent full and rich.

  “I told you, I really can’t.”

  “I’d love to show you my favorite haunts in London, take you to the theatre, a walk along the South Bank by the River Thames.”

  He moves over to the bed and sits beside me, fondling my chin with his long fingers. He tilts my head back a touch and presses his lips to mine. His tongue explores my mouth, the tip of it gently probing, running along my lips. He holds my head in his hands and teases my tongue with his. I feel the electricity of it – tingles shoot between my thighs. I groan. My sound makes his kiss more intense, hungrier. The towel moves – his huge cock is flexing against it. I rest my hand there and feel how stiff it is. Always ready for me, even with just a kiss or at the sight of my naked body. Nobody has ever desired me the way he does.

  “Why are you tormenting me like this?” he whispers. “You know I don’t like us being apart.”

  “I can’t just leave Kevin alone – he’s come all the way from San Francisco to visit. Besides, I told you, I have that important meeting this morning.”

  “It’s just work, it can be postponed.”

  “No, it can’t. Billy Gold has flown in from LA. You can’t start up a company for me, Max, and then expect it to run itself. Finders Keepers Enterprises needs me more than ever right now – it’s my baby.”

  “So stubborn,” he teases, his English accent rumblingly deep.

  I laugh. “I know you, Max Knight. You told me once yourself, that the last thing you wanted was a woman to be hanging onto your ‘every word, your every movement’ – that’s what you said. You’d get bored of me if I didn’t have my own projects, my own life.”

  “Perhaps, but sometimes I think you push it, Arielle. Like the wedding, for instance. Why are you making us wait until December? It’s absurd – we could get married as soon as I get back from London.” He grazes his tongue along my lips and kisses me again.

  “I told you – I’ve always dreamed of a winter wedding,”
I whisper.

  “The ice princess.”

  I trace my fingers along his cheekbone and smile. Let him think I’m the ice princess. Let him think I’m cool. He can’t know that my insides are made of marshmallow – that my need for him is more than life itself.

  “You’ll be late,” I warn, running my fingers through his thick, soft hair.

  “What I like though, is when I fuck you I make you melt,” he murmurs, his hands trailing down my back along my spine. “I love your dimples, these adorable dimples in your back, just here...and here.” He makes circular motions around my little dips and then runs the tips of his fingers further south, cupping my buttocks in his large hands.

  I feel the tips of his fingers as they lightly, so very lightly touch my cleft, lifting me off the mattress, pulling me towards him. “So wet,” he says. “Even when all I do is kiss you. Funny how you and I get each other so worked up – you’ve made me rock hard.”

  “Yes...isn’t it?” We both laugh.

  “Shit, damn it! You’re so tempting, Arielle. Damn my meeting.” He nips my lower lip softly between his minty teeth.

  The tease – I’m used to this. He keeps me in check – always leaving me begging for more, my heart racing. I throb with desire, aching for his return – even before he has departed. Or even when he’s right beside me, I’m on red alert, ready for sex at a moment’s notice. Max says he likes it this way. My resolve must stay intact, though. I need to stay strong. I cannot lose myself in him one hundred percent.

  Or he’d swallow me whole.

  I study him. It’s not just sex that has me in his hold. It’s the way he is inside; his kindness, generosity, his sense of humor, the love he has for me – even his damn English stoicism and pride, which makes him a touch possessive and jealous. Not too much – no, but just enough to make me feel desired and treasured. All this makes up a complex personality – a character I’m still trying to work out.

  He walks over to his closet and opens the door. That same closet where, just three months ago, I hid myself behind rows of hand-tailored suits and racks of silk ties – where I childishly played Hide and Seek. A tremor fills my body now, remembering that sexually-charged moment. Max caught me and then tied my legs to the bedposts with two ice-blue silk ties, splaying my thighs apart. I thought he was going to play bondage, and he did. His style. Sweet – but terrifying, as I couldn’t imagine what would happen next. I had nothing to fear; he ‘beat’ me with a Kingfisher feather and tied my wrists together behind my head with the priceless Art Deco opal choker he bought me in Paris. The excitement tipped me over the edge – the trepidation, the lust, the sensitivity all mixed together in a delicious cocktail of sex. A cocktail that has turned me into an alcoholic of love. A drink I need every day just to function at my best.

  I am addicted to him.

  I watch him now. Six feet three inches of pure, virile male. What is it that makes me want him to take charge in the bedroom? To overpower me? I love being beneath him, strong and dominant as he is – on top of me, pushing me to my limits, making me scream his name when I come. He has control over me sexually, and he knows it – I can’t let him also dominate my life. He’s testing me. I can sense it. Testing me to see how strong I can be. He made it clear that he wants an equal. I have to match him; I cannot let myself sink into oblivion. He once told me he was attracted to me for my independence and that he was into ‘women not girls’ – I need to act my age – keep my composure. It’s a battle I fight every day. I still feel like a vulnerable child inside and sometimes find myself acting like a teenager with her first love. Passion is a powerful thing – hard to control.

  “What’s it to be today – T-shirt and jeans, or a suit?” I ask him.

  He pulls on a pair of boxer briefs over his tight, perfectly formed butt. My eyes then focus on that fine V from his hips to his groin. He still has a semi-erection bulking out his underwear. He looks at me. “I don’t know, what do you think?”

  “Both are sexy. The second you put a suit on, I want you to fuck me though – you fully-clothed with just your cock free. You could take me up against the wall. I love it when I’m naked and you’re dressed in one of your chic, tailored suits. I love it when you slam me from behind.” I bite my lip. “Hard as a rock. Just thinking about it makes me so—”

  “Stop tormenting me, baby, or I’ll have to put you over my knee and spank you.” He winks at me.

  “That’ll be the day.”

  “You know I could never do that, Arielle, not even in jest.”

  I observe him as he pulls out a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt from the rack in the closet. “Jeans it is, then,” he says assertively, “or I’ll never get to London on time.”

  “Bastard,” I say with a grin.

  “It’s not as if I haven’t asked you to come with me. It’s not too late to change your mind.”

  “No, I’m staying.”

  “Sure? Last call–”

  “I’m sure,” I say, already regretful.

  I slip out of the bed and glide towards him. “I’ll miss you.” I place my arms about his warm, strong torso and hold myself close to him. I breathe in his faint smell of lavender, hand-picked from his fields in Provence – crushed into heavenly oil – and the famous wish-I-could-bottle Max smell – his natural odor that has me completely intoxicated.

  As if on cue, Prince bounds his way into the bedroom, excited from his morning walk with his dog walker. He often barges in on our intimate moments. His black Labrador-mix tail spins about like a windmill; his tight muscles rival his master’s.

  “Oh Prince, how I’ll miss you my boy,” Max says, bending down to hug his dog. “Look after him for me, Arielle. Don’t let Kevin spoil him with too many treats. I’m late, I have to rush. See you in a couple of days.” He embraces us in a family trio and then looks into my eyes and says, “I love you, Arielle. You’re my everything – my light, my future. Take care now.” He plants another kiss on my lips and makes his way down the corridor to the elevator where his ready-packed case is waiting. I don’t follow, as I’m still naked. Kevin is staying in one of the guest rooms – God forbid my brother should see me with no clothes on.

  Kevin is in his element. He arrived late last night and couldn’t believe that Max’s chauffeur was there to meet him at the airport. He tells me that he’s moving in (joke). Or is it? Kevin could get used to this lifestyle. Not to mention his boy-crush on Max.

  I get dressed and find breakfast waiting in the kitchen. Coffee, cereals, homemade yoghurt and jellies, fresh fruit, and a spread of croissants and pastries sit temptingly on the table. I begin to set things on a tray to send up to the roof terrace. Sun is streaming through the windows and the sky is crystal blue. The perfect Fall weather. Cool, sunny and crisp but warm enough to still eat outside. Patricia, one of the staff, finds me rummaging about the kitchen and a look of dismay shadows her face. She’s wearing a neat, black and white uniform – her choice – she says she feels more professional that way.

  “Ms. Arielle, please, what are you doing? You’ll make me lose my job if you insist on serving yourself.”

  “I doubt that, Patricia. I thought Kevin and I could sit on the roof terrace, have breakfast up there today, but I don’t want to be a nuisance.”

  “That’s what the Dumbwaiter’s for,” she says with a wink.

  “Best invention ever,” I agree.

  She loads everything into the mini-elevator, which sends food or forgotten cell phones up and down between floors. Kevin has not yet set eyes on this marvel. I can hear him now in the living room screaming and yelping.

  “Thanks, Patricia. I’m going to take my excitable brother upstairs.”

  I find Kevin sitting on the piano stool, breathless, his mouth open so far that his jaw is practically horizontal to the floor. He catches my eye as I’m standing in the doorway.

  “Oh my GOD!”

  “I know,” I reply simply.

  “Arieeeeelle!”

  “Do you wa
nt me to call 911?”

  “Oh my freakin’ God!”

  “Yes, I think God has gotten the point.”

  “What is this place? A museum? I mean, this room is the size of mine and Charles’s entire apartment in San Francisco!”

  “It is pretty awesome.”

  “Awesome does not even begin to describe this palace.”

  I watch his eyes scan the room; the walnut wood paneled walls, the delicate cabinetry and integrated bookshelves, the parquet floor, the picture windows with views of Central Park on one side, and of The Plaza on the other – and the massive marble fireplaces. Prince is wagging his tail as if in agreement. He came from humble beginnings – from a dog pound in Romania – where the poor thing was waiting on Death Row. I get the feeling that he, too, appreciates his luxurious surroundings. Kevin is now caressing the piano keys; whimpering sounds are emanating from somewhere deep within his body, as if he were sick with fever.

  “Can you imagine having a grand piano like this?” he gushes.

  “I don’t have to imagine it, Kevin – it’s a reality.”

  “Have you pinched yourself? Are you sure you’re not just dreaming?”

  “Sometimes I do wonder.”

  “A Steinway? Seriously? I really do have heart palpitations – you need to call an ambulance.”

  “Play something, Kev.”

  “Are you talkin’ to me? Are you talking to me?” he jokes, imitating Robert de Niro in Taxi Driver. “Are you talking to me? Well, I’m the only one here!”

  I burst out laughing. Kevin couldn’t look more unlike Travis Bickle if he tried. My brother is heavy, blonde – okay, not heavy – he is actively overweight. And when I say actively, I mean he cannot stop eating, even though every day he swears he’ll start a new diet. I’ve missed him – he does make me laugh. Except when I’m the object of his humor, which is often.

  He begins to play, and within seconds my eyes well with tears from the beauty of the sound. The way he strokes the keys with such a whispery touch makes me remember what a novice I am compared to him in the musical department. He has so much talent, I find myself holding my breath.