Curing the Cold-Hearted CEO (R18+)

2021

“Yes, Mr. Hamilton! Fuck me, don’t stop! Your cock is so big!”

The words cut through the thick, perfume-heavy air of the VIP lounge. Francis didn’t even look to see which one of them had said it. They all blurred together after his third glass of Macallan 25. Ten women. All drunk. All naked. All his for the night. The private club, Onyx, sat on the 40th floor of a building he owned, and this back room was his sanctuary.

A tongue traced a line from the base of his shaft to the tip. Blonde hair spilled across his thigh. He didn’t know her name.

“You like that, Mr. Hamilton?” she murmured, her lips brushing his skin.

“Shut up and suck me more!” he said, his voice a low growl.

She obeyed. Her mouth sank down, taking him deep. The vacuum seal of her lips was expert.

Francis gripped her hair and guided her head down. Her head bobbing faster, a wet, sloppy sound filling the room. He felt the pressure building but he wasn’t ready to finish. Not yet. He tapped the blonde-haired woman’s head twice. She pulled off immediately, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting them.

“Enough,” he commanded. He stood up. The room swayed. He was drunk, but he was hard. Rock hard. Francis looked at the women, “Line up,” he said

They scrambled. Ten perfect asses rose into the air, a buffet of flesh. He walked behind the first one, a brunette. He gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft skin.

“You ready?” he asked, the tip of his cock pressing against her wetness.

“Yes! Fuck my pussy, Mr. Hamilton! Please!”

He slammed inside her. No gentleness. No foreplay. Just a brutal, deep thrust. She screamed into the leather cushion, her fingers clawing at the fabric. The sound was a symphony to his ears. The wet, tight heat of her clenched around him.

“So fucking tight slut,” he grunted, pulling back and driving in again. The rhythm was fast. Vicious. He didn’t make love. He took. He conquered. That was why the Manhattan skyline shone for him. That was why his bank account was an eleven-digit number. Because he took what he wanted.

“Yes! Yes! I’m your little slut, Mr. Hamilton! Fuck me harder!”

He moved to the next one. A petite Asian woman with a diamond stud in her nose. She looked back at him with wide, drunk eyes.

“I want your ass,” he said, slapping her right cheek.

She bit her lip and nodded. “Yes, ruin my ass, sir. Please. Ohhhhh!”

“You’re taking it so well,” he growled. “Such a good girl for my big cock.”

“I’m your fuck toy! Use me!”

He did. He used her until he was ready to move on. Then the next. And the next.

He bent a tall model over the arm of the couch, one leg on the floor, and entered her pussy from behind, his hand wrapped around her throat. He felt her pulse racing under his palm. Her eyes rolled back.

“Do you more?” he hissed in her ear.

“Yes, fuck me more, Mr. Hamilton!”

He was a god in this room. A naked, drunk, billionaire god.

Finally, he felt the familiar, primal ache the one that told him the finale was coming. He pushed the last girl, a busty blonde with glitter on her skin, onto her back on the floor. He climbed on top of her, his body slick with the sweat of ten different women. He pushed her knees to her chest and drove into her pussy with a deep, wet squelch.

His eyes locked onto hers. He was close. He fucked her with short, hard strokes, the angle perfect.

“Bitch,” he snarled. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it, Mr. Hamilton! Please! Come inside me! Fill my whore pussy!”

His vision tunneled. The pressure exploded. A hot, blinding release. He buried himself to the hilt and groaned a deep, guttural sound that came from his soul. His body convulsed as he emptied himself inside her, his legs shaking and his arms trembling as he held himself up.

“Fucking shit!!!”

The world snapped back into focus. Heavy breathing. The smell of sex and sweat. He pulled out and collapsed onto the couch, his chest heaving.

A woman’s hand appeared with a fresh glass of scotch. He took it, his eyes closed. He drank deeply. The burn was a comfort.

Then, a thought. A name. Veronica.

One of his girlfriend.

His eyes snapped open. He looked at his watch. Shit. She was flying in from Paris. The private jet had landed an hour ago. She was waiting for him at his penthouse.

He stood up, the room spinning again. The women were lying on the floor and on the couches, a tangle of limbs and satisfied smiles. He grabbed his trousers from the floor.

“Ladies,” he said his voice hoarse. “I have to go. I’ll be back soon.”

A chorus of sleepy, drunk protests followed. “No, don’t go, Mr. Hamilton!”

“Stay with us!”

“Fuck us more!”

He was already pulling on his shirt, not bothering with the buttons. He grabbed his keys from the valet tray.

Francis stumbled out of the club and into the private elevator. The ride down was a blur of chrome and bad music. The garage was quiet and cold. The air hit his face, and he felt the full weight of the alcohol.

He was very drunk. He shouldn’t have been driving, but he was Francis Hamilton. He did what he wanted.

The engine of his silver LAFerrari roared to life, a beautiful, angry beast. He did not even remember pulling out of the garage. The city lights of Manhattan were a smear of neon and white. The streets were wet; it must have rained.

He hit the gas. The car surged forward into a tunnel of city light. The speedometer climbed. 60. 80. 100. The world was a silent, fast-moving picture outside his window. The scotch was a warm blanket in his brain.

A green light. He flew through the intersection, the sound of the engine a scream. He thought about Veronica’s body, the way she’d feel when he fucked her against the window of the penthouse, looking out over the city he owned.

Then, a horn. A loud, terrifying, earth-shattering horn.

He turned his head. A wall of white metal. A delivery truck. It wasn’t stopping. It was running the red light. It was too fast, too close. The headlights were two blinding suns, filling his window, his car, his entire world.

His foot slammed on the brake. Too late. A screech of rubber—the sound of a titan screaming at the void.

The impact was a sound he did not hear. It was a feeling. A folding. A crushing. The carbon fiber body of his car, a machine built to slice the wind, crumpled like a piece of cheap paper. The world turned sideways, then upside down in a storm of broken glass and twisted metal.

He felt a cold, sharp pressure in his chest. The taste of copper in his mouth. The beautiful, raw sound of the engine was gone, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Then, the world, the lights, the screaming metal, all of it just… vanished. Everything went black.