Poisonous Kiss: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance

There are moments in life where A becomes B. Where what was your reality becomes something new.

At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, that’s how it feels when I walk into work the next day after spending the previous night being Gabriel’s willing, eager, submissive toy.

Part of it is the tingling, throbbing, naughty feeling deep inside that I’m keeping a wild secret from everyone. It’s like the thrill of an illicit affair without, I suppose, the awful guilt that would go along with it.

I feel like I’m an explorer who’s just discovered some secret, Indiana Jones-style hidden tomb of treasures, and nobody but me knows about it yet.

On one hand, last night was just sex. I mean, that’s the boring version, but technically it’s correct.

But no jury in the world would agree to that characterization of what happened between Gabriel and me if they knew the details. Because last night was not “just sex”.

It was something primal. It was on the bleeding edge of being unhinged, if not downright terrifying. There were points where I was scared. But that’s exactly it; that’s the biggest part of it.

For me, that hint of danger and fear is what made it not “just sex”.

That dark edge that I allowed myself to explore last night, for the very first time in my life, is why it feels like I’ve unlocked a new part of myself today, and opened a door that I know will never be shut again.

The yearnings started when I was quite young, and just learning about myself, what made me tick, and what desires and kinks even were. That’s how I know that the darkness I crave isn’t a trauma response to what happened to me when I was nineteen. It was there, lurking under the surface, long before that.

It’s just that I’m a little broken inside. A little fucked up.

Or at least, that’s how I thought of it until last night.

Until he unlocked that door inside of me, and let all my dirty secrets spill out onto the floor.

I’m aware that there are other people out there who have the same dark, violent kinks and sexual desires that I do. I mean, obviously. But I’ve never explored those violent desires with anyone before.

I almost did. Once. I signed up for a social media site—basically Facebook for kinksters—where like-minded people can connect and possibly hook up. I talked with “DomDaddy83” for a week online before I agreed to meet him—in public, during the day.

I mean, I’m not stupid.

Except once we did meet for coffee, whatever cautious optimism I had about finally exploring that dark side of me with someone else evaporated. My mind started finding a million excuses once we were face-to-face why I would not be exploring anything but a farewell with him.

Then he asked me to give him my panties as a souvenir, and that was the end of that.

I left, deleted my site account, and never attempted to talk with another person…ever…about my dark desires.

Until last night.

With my boss, of all people.

As the elevator rises from the lobby to the Crown and Black offices, I simmer as I sink against the wall. My mind replays the events of last night for the thousandth time, up to our parting.

He had me lick his swollen, thick cock clean with my tongue. He used his fingers to push his cum from my lips and my chin and into my mouth. Then he removed the toys from my body, uncuffed my wrists, and, while I was still blindfolded, patted my cheek and called me a good girl.

“Don’t move,” he’d ordered after that. “Stay where you are and count to three hundred. Three hundred, and only then you may leave. Not before.”

I’d shivered as his teeth nipped at my earlobe.

“I’ll know if you do. And bad things happen to bad girls who break my rules.”

Needless to say, I counted to three hundred.

Slowly.

I spend the morning trying to focus on a single piece of work in front of me. But it’s almost impossible. First, because all I can do is replay what happened last night. And second, because I keep glancing at my watch.

The auditions are today. At noon. And even though every neuron inside of me screams to just forget this insanity, another part of me can’t.

Won’t.

Doesn’t want to.

And slowly, as noon approaches, my resolve hardens.

I’m going to do this. I have to do this. My dad gave up his entire world for me and my mom. He left everything behind for us, even lost her in the process of trying to forge a new life for us all.

If it takes fake-marrying my control-freak boss to repay that? So fucking be it.

So at noon, I put the away message on my email and slip out quietly before Elsa, Cassidy, or anyone else can ask where I’m going.

Crown and Black occupies the top three floors of a stunning building on Madison Avenue in midtown. The first floor is “the pit”—the open floor plan full of cubicles with busy-bee interns, associates, and lowly of counsel attorneys. The first floor is also where the break room is, a few conference rooms, and the offices for both equity and non-equity partners.

A sweeping glass and steel staircase in the middle of this leads up to the second floor and the glass offices that form a ring above the pit, looking down onto it. The name partner offices for Taylor, Alistair, and Gabriel are here, along with more conference rooms. The third floor houses the legal libraries, boardroom, and offices of the board members.

It’s a huge, stunning office space. And it would be a tad hard to have “fake wife auditions” anywhere here without the entire office knowing about it within ninety seconds.

But from seeing Christina’s NDA the other day, I know the auditions are being held in an auditorium-type space that Crown and Black occasionally rents down on the tenth floor. So that’s where I get off the elevator, following the sounds of women talking until I round the corner and see a small sign taped to the wall with an arrow that says “auditions.”

Jeez.

I follow more signs until I get backstage of the auditorium. Crown and Black has held company-wide quarterly meetings here. I’ve also seen it rented out to motivational speakers, conferences, and even a Comic-Con type event about a year ago.

The backstage area has a number of dressing rooms and a big open greenroom space like you’d see at tryouts for American Idol or something.

There are already perhaps twenty women ranging between early twenties and maybe mid-thirties standing and sitting around the room, and a few of them glance my way when I walk in. One or two look at me with narrowed eyes, like they’re assessing the competition. But I ignore them with polite smiles before walking over to a side table with snacks and coffee urns.

“Fumi?”

I whirl. I don’t know why I’m remotely surprised to come face-to-face with Christina Daniels—I mean, she’s literally the one who told me about this whole thing. But when we lock eyes, I flush with embarrassment.

“Ms. Daniels,” I smile politely as she bustles over.

Her perfectly manicured brows knit. “Wait, are you here for like…do we have a meeting?”

I shake my head awkwardly. “No, I…” I can feel myself blushing. Suddenly, her eyes fly wide.

“Oh my God!” she giggles, grabbing my wrists. “You sassy bitch! Are you here to audition?”

I shift uncomfortably. “I…”

“Oh my God, that would be so hot if you got it!”

I frown slightly. I kind of imagined she’d be pissed at me for showing up, when it’s obvious I’m only here because of confidential information she came to me with, as my client. But Christina seems to read my mind, which makes me realize I’ve seriously underestimated her in characterizing her as just a trust-fund brat.

“Please,” she grins, waving me off with an elegant hand. “I don’t actually want to marry Gabriel. I’m just here to see if there’s anyone from my usual social circles desperate enough to come out for this, because that would be a riot.”

I smile awkwardly. Christina winces.

“Shit—sorry. That came out wrong.”

“It’s fine.”

She smiles genuinely at me as she takes my hands. “I really hope you get it. These other bitches?” She makes a face. “Pfft.”

I turn and discreetly survey the room full of gorgeous women, trying to see if I recognize anybody. One I instantly do, and my brow shoots up in surprise. Dr. Hannah Cowley, a tenured professor at Columbia Law School? Really?

Shit. I’d kind of figured that all the women at this thing would be socialites like Christina, and that maybe I’d have some sort of edge as a working professional, and better yet, also an attorney.

So much for that.

I recognize two more women—who are stunning—as fairly well-known fashion models. I mean for fuck’s sake, one of them, Francesca DiGallo, is up on a Calvin Klein billboard in Times fucking Square right now. My gaze continues around the room, and my face falls when it lands on Monica Wells.

Yeah. The Monica Wells, who was up for the Best Supporting Actress Oscar last year for her role in that World War Two epic.

I mean, shit.

What the fuck am I even doing here?

It’s not even necessary at this point with my confidence in the toilet, but Christina helpfully points out the rest of the competition.

“Ugh, I can’t believe Agnes Carpenter is here.” She gives me an eye roll. “Total whore. But loaded. Her ex-husband was in oil.”

Great.

“And Amanda Kerr…” She points across the room to a stacked, leggy redhead. “Her grandfather was a New York congressman. I think her father runs a DC lobbyist group?”

My heart sinks.

There’s no way I’m winning against these people. Not against Oscar-nominated actresses, billboard models, oil money, and women with family members whose literal job is to make sure people get elected.

“Ladies! Hi! Over here, please!”

A pretty but severe-looking petite blonde marches into the room on sky-high heels. She’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a seriously imposing power skirt-suit, with her hair pulled tightly into a bun. She taps her manicured nails on her tablet before glancing up sharply at us all.

“We’ll begin in just a few moments. Again, I just want to make sure everyone’s submitted their signed NDAs? Yes?”

Twenty-odd heads nod. I do, too, even though I’ve signed no such thing. Oops.

“Wonderful. I’ll be back to escort you all one by one to the stage. Please, just act natural and be yourself. Good luck, ladies.”

She starts to turn, but then stops. Her brows knit as her gaze lasers in on me.

Shit.

Christina is already wandering away, waving at someone she knows across the room as the blonde marches over to me.

“I’m sorry, and you are?” she asks.

“Fumi Yamaguchi.”

She frowns at her tablet as she taps away. “I don’t see⁠—”

“I’m an attorney at Crown and Black.”

“I see.” Her frown persists as she looks up at me. “What are you doing here?”

Here goes nothing.

“Auditioning.”

For a second, she almost smiles.

Almost.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m here to audition. For Mr. Black’s⁠—”

“It’s not an audition.”

I glance significantly around the room. “I mean, it kind of looks like one.”

Her mouth purses. “Well, it’s not an open call. So I’m afraid I’ll need you to⁠—”

“Why?”

She frowns. “Pardon me?”

“Why can’t I stay?”

I hate playing this card. But, desperate times, and all that.

The blonde woman gives me a curious look. “You can’t audition because⁠—”

“Oh, so it is an audition.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes. “Sure. Fine. You still can’t be here, though.”

“Because I’m Asian?”

Her lips purse. “Ms. Yamaguchi, I’m going to have to call security unless you⁠—”

“See, an audition is covered under the Equal Rights Act of 1964.”

She stares at me. “You’re joking.”

I smile. I’m being pedantic, and this is clearly not discrimination.

But I need that goddamn money.

“I just…” I glance around the room before shrugging eloquently. “I don’t really see much representation here, do you?”

She gives me a look. “Francesca DiGallo is Albanian⁠—”

“By way of New Jersey.”

She rolls her eyes and nods past me with her chin. “Monica Wells is Nigerian.”

“She’s from Atlanta. And that’s like one woman of color in this entire room.”

The blonde groans in exasperation. “So you are…?”

“Japanese Korean. And a quarter Italian.”

“By way of where, Queens?” she tosses back. “Look, we can do this all day. But unless you have an invitation and a signed NDA, there is no way I’m letting you⁠—”

“Problem, Meredith?”

My throat clamps shut. My spine stiffens, and a heated shiver ripples through me at the sound of the voice.

His voice.

It’s not as dark and edged as it was last night. But it brings out the same visceral feelings and has the same effect on my body as it did last night: pebbling my nipples, making my pulse race, and turning my thighs slick as heat pools between them.

Slowly, barely breathing, I turn and lock eyes with the man who ripped out the darkest, most private part of me last night.

“Ms. Yamaguchi,” Gabriel growls quietly, his face neutral. “Was there something you needed?”

“I—”

“She’s trying to audition,” the blonde—Meredith, apparently—sighs.

Something between amusement and annoyance crosses Gabriel’s face. He turns his head toward her, frowns, then turns to me.

“Is this true?”

My lip retreats between my teeth before I nibble at it nervously. Then I clear my throat and hold my head high.

“It is, Mr. Black.”

One single brow on his stern, gorgeous face lifts.

“Give us a minute, Meredith.”

The blonde throws me a look before she whirls and stalks away. Gabriel eyes me coolly. It’s taking everything in my power not to shake.

He doesn’t know it was you.

He can’t. He’d have said something last night—more like yelled—if he’d realized the girl he had on her knees, hands bound behind her back while he fucked her mouth was his employee.

No. There were masks. The light was dim. I was wearing that silvery-lavender wig. And for much of it, I even had a blindfold covering my eyes.

He doesn’t know. But that doesn’t stop my heart from racing, or my thighs from tightening. It doesn’t stop my core from melting with desire.

Because it doesn’t mean that I don’t know.

“How did you find out about this, Ms. Yamaguchi.”

I swallow. “I⁠—”

“From a client?”

Shit.

“Christina Daniels?” he presses.

The wheels turn in my head. Lying is a great way to turn this situation from iffy to bad really fast.

So I don’t.

“Yes, Mr. Black.”

“You understand that her telling you about this was covered under attorney client privilege.”

“I do.”

His brow arches higher, his jaw tightening. “And?”

“I haven’t broken that confidence.”

“You’re using privileged information supplied by a client to compete against said client,” he growls quietly.

“I’m not competing against her. She doesn’t⁠—”

“Harper versus the State of Georgia would disagree.”

I swallow. “Mickelson versus the State of California overturned that ruling four years later.”

Gabriel’s lips curl slightly at the corners. He brings up a hand, the fabric of his Tom Ford suit straining at the shoulder as he rakes his fingers over his chiseled, clean-shaven jaw.

The seconds tick by agonizingly slowly as I wither under his fierce stare.

“So be it.”

Wait, what?

“I…I can audition?”

“Mickelson versus California would suggest so, Ms. Yamaguchi.”

My heart swells. Then suddenly, he steps closer to me, and my chest constricts as the same slightly spicy, clean scent with a hint of bergamot from last night invades my senses.

“You understand what you’re auditioning for, don’t you?”

I nod.

“And you understand what that will mean for you if I win the Governorship?”

It’s like getting slapped in the face. My lungs tighten. The blood drains from my face, and panic knots in my stomach.

I’ve been assuming this whole time that Gabriel was running for something like State House of Representatives, or a New York City position like alderman or city council.

He’s running for fucking Governor.

Which means—oh God…

He’s running against my monster. My trauma. The man who hurt me.

And if I win today, I’ll be right there at Gabriel’s side, forced to face that man all over again.

For a moment, I almost forget the whole thing. I almost tell him this was mistake, turn and run away, and hope Gabriel forgets I was ever insane enough to try and shoehorn my way into this.

But there’s no backing out now. Even if it rips me apart.

I need that money. My dad and I both do, or we’re dead. Literally.

“Ms. Yamaguchi?”

I paste on a smile and desperately try to force the color back to my face.

“Of course, Mr. Black,” I blurt with a confidence I don’t feel.

His eyes narrow on me.

“Ms. Yamaguchi⁠—”

“I’m positive, Mr. Black.”

He sucks on his teeth, raking his fingers down his jaw again before he straightens his shoulders. Those greenish-hazel eyes flecked with gold, never leave mine.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Fumi.”

I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until he turns and walks away.

The truth is, I don’t know what I’m doing. Not in the slightest.

But it’s too late now.