The Dominator (The Dominator #1) Read Online D.D. Prince

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Billionaire, Contemporary, Dark, Erotic, Mafia Tags Authors: Series: The Dominator Series by D.D. Prince
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Total pages in book: 206
Estimated words: 192184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 641(@300wpm)
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He strode to the passenger side where this standoff was happening, took my elbow and ushered me into the SUV, his mouth in a tight line. Burly guy number two was standing by the opened the back door. It happened so fast that I was in the vehicle before I had a chance to protest.

“In!” Blond guy was dressed like he was ready for a GQ photoshoot. He blurted this at the goons with a grumbled, “For fuck sakes” then he gave Dad a chilling death stare.

Before I had a chance to react, angry hot guy got back into the driver’s seat and we were pulling away from Dad, who was standing with his hands in his pockets watching the SUV pull away.

I was sandwiched in between backseat burly guy two and the scary-looking Black dude. I glanced over my shoulder out the window to see Dad take a sip of his coffee and dial a number on his phone. Backseat burly guy passed the guy on the other side of me my seatbelt and he fastened it for me.

I frowned. Dad had looked so flippant, so nonchalant as he dialed that number and sipped his coffee. What on earth? I was so flabbergasted I couldn’t even think straight.

Half an hour ago, I was graduating from high school.

Now I was some kind of marker for my father’s gambling debt. Now I was in an SUV with a bunch of scary looking men heading, where?

No one was saying anything. Nobody even looked at me. The blond guy was radiating a pissed-off vibe as he drove, and there was a sports event of some kind on the radio. I gulped hard and stared straight ahead, saying a silent prayer.

It’d been a couple of weeks since Pop had told me about Tia O’Connor. A long couple of weeks.

I’d given the matter thought, like I’d promised him. In fact, I thought about it more than I’d care to admit because the more thought I gave it, the more it made sense. Getting married meant getting handed the keys to all of it. It meant I wouldn’t be second guessed, it meant I’d be in total control.

The idea of owning a woman did things to me. I couldn’t deny that I’d been thinking about the fact that in addition to being in control of the business, I’d be in control of her. Owning this girl, having her available for my every whim, it was stirring something in me. And did I have whims.

Something about the idea of a girl who was mine, a girl who probably hadn’t already had dozens of sexual partners – it appealed to me on a deep level, a level so deep I was having trouble shaking what felt like cravings; the things I was imagining doing to her. Naw, I wasn’t deprived but I certainly was depraved.

I’d dreamt about her almost every night since seeing her picture. Filthy dreams. I woke up every night a few times as a rule, anyway, but since seeing her picture I’d woken up sweaty, with a hard-on, after delicious dreams of her across my knee getting spanked and fingered, dreams of her wrists tied to my headboard, dreams of her on her knees in front of me, taking my cock into that gorgeous mouth with her hands tied behind her back with one of my belts.

It got even worse after I managed to gather intel about her because in addition to the way she looked, she had other qualities I liked. I decided to check out the goods myself, in person, because I’d put one of my men on detail to watch her and report her activities. After a week, he came to me with the report and some photos.

I’d probably never defined what my ‘type’ was before this, but I now knew. She had a smokin’ hot body and though she was younger than I’d normally go for, she didn’t look her age. I knew where she lived, where she worked, where she spent her time, who her friends were, and I knew what sort of person she was.

My man had taken candid photos of her at school, at play in the pool in her foster parents’ back yard (in a barely-there string bikini). My cock twitched at the thought of her in that tiny bikini. Her silky, chestnut, shampoo commercial hair fell three quarters of the way down her back with bangs that swept gently across her forehead, and I’d been imagining wrapping the long length of her hair around my fist and pulling her head toward my cock. I imagined taking handfuls of it while I did her from behind.

She had the sort of lips women paid to upgrade to. While looking at her file, my jaw tightened at the fact that my man had taken this photo of her, looked at her in those scraps of material. I felt like a possessive prick, wanting to knock him out for even looking at her. She was semi-sexually active but not slutty. She was on birth control, but had no boyfriend for the past month or so.



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