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Some Very Aggressive Kinks

Hypothetical Question: If your worst fear suddenly became your pet, how would you take care of it?

Nate

Daddy Death: I just walked past a dog wearing a jumper. Are we dressing animals now?

Queen Carina: Absolutely. Dogs deserve fashion, too.

Daddy Death: You are not putting a jumper on Cupcake!

Queen Carina: Cupcake?

Daddy Death: Yes. Our future fur child.

Queen Carina: You can't stop me.

As I step into the office, I grin down at my phone like a madman, the ghost of Carina's laughter lingering in my mind. Our playful banter never gets old, no matter how much I tell myself to keep things casual.

My office isn't flashy like my father's—no grand boardrooms, no floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city he thinks he owns. I rent a single floor in a modest building because I'd rather my money go toward helping victims than lining a property developer's pockets. Most of my team works remotely or in the field at our safe houses, but the space serves its purpose when I'm here.

I lean against the wall, rolling my phone between my fingers as my thoughts drift back to my father. The man has everything—a sprawling real estate empire, a name respected in all the right circles. And yet, he looks at me like I'm the family's disappointment.

I didn't stick to the plan because my empire was built on something different.

Haven.

A charity organisation dedicated to helping survivors of abuse, exploitation, and human trafficking. A place where victims can reclaim their lives.

A front for something much darker.

I see the damage these monsters leave behind. I sit across from the women they've broken and watch them try to piece themselves back together. And I do what I can.

But some wounds don't heal with therapy and safe houses. Some demand retribution.

And that's where I come in.

Justice is a luxury most of these victims will never see. Not in the system. Not in a courtroom. The people who hurt them walk free daily, hiding behind wealth, power, or simple indifference. But I don't let those monsters escape.

I find them. I make them disappear.

It should bother me, the ease with which I kill. But it doesn't. Not anymore. In the beginning, building Haven consumed all my time—before I discovered my true talent.

Murder.

I tell myself it's just a means to an end, but deep down, I know better. There's a thrill in it. A satisfaction that lingers long after the blood is gone. A need I've stopped trying to justify.

My father doesn't see it—won't see it . He only sees what I'm not. The son who refuses to take over his empire. The disappointment of choosing a good fight over a boardroom. If he knew the truth—if he knew what I do—I wonder if he'd finally look at me like I belonged.

Kai understands, though. He works alongside me in Haven and hunts those who deserve my brand of justice. We've bled together and survived together. There's an unspoken understanding between us—we do what needs to be done.

But sometimes, I wonder if he even knows how much I crave it.

How easy it would be to lose myself in it completely.

Not that I'll ever admit that to him.

I turn my attention back to my phone as another message buzzes in.

Queen Carina: What's your biggest irrational fear?

Daddy Death: Running out of coffee. You?

However, the real answer is the thought of not seeing her again. The idea settles in my gut like a lead weight, but I shove it aside before it can root itself too deep.

Queen Carina: Those little holes in showerheads. They're creepy.

Daddy Death: …What??

Queen Carina: You asked.

Daddy Death: I feel like I just unlocked a weird level of you.

Queen Carina: Congrats. It gets weirder.

I snort, earning a few curious glances from the employees scattered throughout the office. My focus narrows as I weave between desks, offering quick nods of acknowledgement. The office hum—clicking keyboards and muted conversations—fades into the background. For a moment, I forget where I am.

When I enter my office, Kai is already there, lounging in my chair like he owns the place. The sight is familiar, a throwback to the early days when we were just kids with too much ambition and too little restraint. He'd pull this same shit back then—sneaking into my office to piss me off.

"Get the fuck up, twat," I say, rolling my eyes but unable to smother the smirk threatening my lips.

Kai barely spares me a glance. "Is that any way to talk to your best friend and partner in crime?" He crosses his arms, tossing a newspaper onto my desk, making no effort to move.

"You're a prick, you know that?" I shoot back.

He grins. "How's Carina?"

Her name is a sucker punch to the chest. Heat creeps up my spine, memories flashing behind my eyes—the sharp glint in hers when she talks about revenge, her laughter sparking something dangerous inside me. I tell myself it's nothing. Just a fascination.

"She's good." I shrug, forcing nonchalance, though my pulse betrays me.

Kai doesn't buy it for a second. "Seen her since the other night?"

It's been a week. A week since we helped her clean up after her latest victim. A week since I last saw her, felt the weight of her gaze like a brand against my skin. Kai knows damn well I haven't seen her, considering she's all I ever talk about.

The memory lingers, the satisfaction of doing something right almost overshadowed by the unspoken connection I feel with her. The way she looked at me then... It haunts me.

Like she saw something in me worth keeping.

"No, but we text every day," I admit, not bothering to hide the grin stretching across my face.

Kai raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with a knowing glint in his eyes. "You like her."

I groan, dragging a hand through my hair as I lean against the desk. "You have no idea."

"Want me to dig into her?" he offers, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"Yes. Find out everything you can," I say without hesitation. Kai's a genius with computers—a digital bloodhound. He can uncover everything from someone's birth certificate to their deepest secrets in a few hours. It's a skill that makes him indispensable—not just as my tech guy, but someone I can trust when things inevitably get messy. And right now, things with Carina are edging toward chaos.

Though, I quite like chaos.

"You know how much work I had to put in to clean up her mess?" he asks, his expression morphing into that of annoyance.

"No, but I'm sure you're about to enlighten me," I reply, folding my arms.

"She stalked him to that hotel, took the most camera-infested routes possible, and left me to scrub every second of footage." He gestures dramatically, rolling his eyes. "Then there was the screaming—oh, the screaming. Had to explain that away to the staff. Told them my girlfriend and I are into some very aggressive kinks, including, apparently, her stomping on my balls."

The mental image hits me, and I burst into laughter, clutching my stomach as I gasp for air. "Oh, fuck," I wheeze, tears stinging my eyes. "You actually said that? With a straight face?"

"It's not funny," he grumbles, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him.

"Oh, it's hilarious," I counter, wiping my eyes. "I owe you one for that. I'll talk to her. Make sure she's more careful."

Kai finally stands, his annoyance giving way to a grin. "You do that. And for the record, I'm billing you for emotional damages."

If I were anyone else, Kai would be deadly serious. He's not great with new people. The man likes his routines, and deviating from them throws his head into a spin. He thinks I don't know that it's because of his mum. But he was never good at hiding her abuse—no one gets a bruised eye from "tripping over a goldfish." I might have been seven at the time, but even then, I smelled bullshit.

"Get out," I mutter, still chuckling as I wave him off.

Once he's gone, my gaze drifts to the headline on the paper he left behind.

[From Boardroom to Black Market: The Wealthy Men Who Vanish Without a Trace and the ‘Evil Deals’ That Link Them.]

I thrum my fingers on my desk as I scan the article. Still, no one is any wiser that these men are not just disappearing. They suggest that after media tip offs, they’re heading unground, fleeing the country. Exactly as Kai plants. I don’t know how he does it, but his ability to falsify a trail is terrifying. We clean up my scenes, make it look like we were never there, then dispose of the body before Kai sends an anonymous tip to the media or the police about our victim’s wrong doings. The actual victims get justice, while we stay under the radar.

Perhaps I should feel more anxious that one day they’ll find out. But honestly? My faith in my best friend is too high for that to be a concern of mine.

I turn my attention back to work, sorting through the highest-priority cases on my desk. It's a relief—a distraction from how Carina's texts are becoming the highlight of my day and from the gnawing realisation that I look forward to hearing from her more than I should.

For now, I bury myself in the files, letting the weight of our mission pull me back into focus. But no matter how hard I try, the thought of her—the fire in her eyes, the sharp wit in her messages, the way she makes me feel something other than this cold, calculated existence—lingers at the edges of my mind.

I get through my entire snack drawer—forgoing lunch in favour of sweets and chocolate (I have to maintain my physique somehow).

It's only when the light begins to fade outside that I realise the day has slipped away from me. The office is empty now, but my mind is still with her. Wondering what she's doing, if she's thinking of me too.

I check my phone for the time, but my breath catches as my heart slams into my throat.

A new text from Carina.

Queen Carina: What are you up to?

A flicker of something builds in my chest.

Daddy Death: Are you missing me? My charm? My devilishly handsome face?

Queen Carina: I take it back.

Daddy Death: Don't get shy on me now. No takebacks.

Daddy Death: I miss you too…

Silence.

A minute passes, and panic creeps in. Did I push too far? My thumb hovers over the keyboard, about to type something pathetic like Sorry, my brain is stupid when my phone vibrates in my hand.

She's calling me.

I answer after one ring, not even pretending to play it cool.

"This is a surprise," I say, my grin so wide I probably look like I'm auditioning for a horror movie.

"I shouldn't have called."

Oh no. We are not doing this.

"Disagree. My day is now a million times better."

She laughs, and my stomach swoops like a teenager catching feelings for the first time.

"I don't even have anything I wanted to talk about."

"Then why did you call?"

A breath. A pause. Like she's weighing something heavy. "I wanted to hear your voice."

I pump my fist in the air like an idiot—thankfully, no one is around to witness it.

"Tell me about your day." I aim for casual, like I'm not hanging on to every word, terrified she'll hang up.

We talk for an hour. About nothing, really. She tells me about her latest murderous plans, and I tell her about the soul-crushing monotony of spreadsheets. Mostly, I listen.

"I wish I could see you," I admit after she finishes a story about almost stabbing a guy for chewing too loudly.

A pause. Long enough to make me regret saying it. Then— "Me too."

Warmth floods my chest. My grip tightens around the phone like I could pull her through the signal.

"What are you wearing right now?"

It's a risky move, toeing the line of sounding like a horny teenage boy fishing for nudes.

Silence. Then— "Not much."

I almost swallow my tongue. "What does that mean?"

"I'm getting changed, so I'm in my underwear."

A groan slips from my throat before I can stop it. "That's unfair."

I hear the smile in her voice. "Why?"

I drag a hand down my jaw, trying to shake off the images running rampant in my head. "Because now I have to picture what you look like, and let me tell you, my imagination is going wild."

"Oh really?" The words drip with amusement. "What are you picturing?"

"Tits the size of watermelons. Ass bigger than Kim K's. Waist size zero."

She snorts. "Sounds painful."

"Exactly. You'd topple over at the slightest breeze."

She laughs again, and fuck, I love that sound.

Carina is quiet for a minute. Then, another text comes through.

My breath catches. My blood doesn't just rush south—it packs a suitcase and books a one-way ticket.

She's sent a photo.

And not just any photo. It's a lingerie photo that should come with a warning label and a defibrillator.

She's perched on the edge of a bed, knees slightly spread, head tilted back like she just won Hottest Person Alive and decided to rub it in my face. It's the kind of image that ruins a man. Primal. Caveman-level. Must claim. Now.

I groan, adjusting my cock, already straining. "That's better than any of my wildest fantasies."

"Better than watermelon tits?"

"So much better, Princess."

Sure, we've been flirting, and it's obvious from how she looks at me that the attraction is mutual, but this… I wasn't expecting this.

Another photo comes through.

This time, her hand is cupping her breast. Fuck.

I choke on the air, gripping my phone tighter. "What are you doing, Carina?"

My screen vibrates. She's switching to FaceTime. My thumb slams the accept button before I can think better of it.

Her face appears, all teasing smirks and hooded eyes. "Well… turns out plotting murder makes me horny."

These are not words I ever expected a woman to say, but Jesus Christ, I am here for it.

"Is that so?" I lean back in my chair, smirking.

"It is."

She flips the camera, angling it down. My brain short-circuits like a cheap Roomba.

Pink lace. Soft curves. A body that could bring empires to their knees.

Her breasts are practically spilling over the delicate fabric, the rise and fall of her chest hinting at anticipation. Her waist curves into hips that deserve worship, and a soft belly that practically begs to be kissed.

I'm torn between proposing marriage on the spot or screaming into a pillow for an hour.

"You're fucking perfect," I groan, palming my cock through my suit.

She shifts on the bed, positioning the camera to show her whole body.

Her hands start moving.

"Carina…" I warn, my voice already thick with desire.

"Nate…" she whimpers, fingertips teasing over her nipples, rolling them through the lace. Peaks stiffen against the sheer fabric, and my pulse pounds.

"Touch yourself." My command is gravel, dark and edged with impatience.

"I am," she breathes, arching slightly.

"Lower."

She hesitates. Then, one hand drifts down, fingers pressing against the damp fabric between her thighs. She rubs slowly, dragging a sigh from her lips.

The lace is already soaked through.

My jaw tightens. "Move them to the side. Let me see you."

Her head snaps up, eyes locked onto mine through the camera. "Not until I see you too."

A challenge.

She doesn't have to ask me twice.

With my free hand, I glance at the locked office door. Thank fuck. The last thing I need is to star in tomorrow's company-wide memo:

"Friendly reminder: No dicks out on company property. Regards, Nate (said dick enthusiast)."

Because, of course, as the boss, it would be my job to berate myself.

I smirk. "Let's see who breaks first, Princess."

She sucks in a sharp breath, her gaze locking onto mine—dark with lust. And something more.

Something deeper.

I stroke myself slowly, imagining her mouth instead of my hand. "Show me that pussy, Carina." The words come out rough, edged with need, like a command wrapped in longing.

I don't recognise this side of myself—this man who takes, demands, claims—but I don't question it. Neither does she.

Her eyes widen, flickering with heat, and then, with deliberate slowness, she slides the lace aside.

My breath leaves me.

She's already drenched, her fingers grazing over her clit in a way that has her gasping, her body arching slightly as she watches me. I study the way she circles the bud, memorising the pattern so that when I finally get my hands on her, I know exactly how to please her, how to make her body sing with pleasure.

"Fuck," I groan, tightening my grip.

"I want you to push two fingers inside," I rasp, pulse hammering. "Pretend it's my cock you're squeezing."

She moans, her head tipping back, and then—she obeys.

"Nate…"

"I know, baby," I murmur, my voice strained. "Your cunt feels so good. So tight."

I can see it. Feel it.

She moves against her hand, her thumb rubbing tight circles against her clit while she pushes three fingers deep into her soaking heat. Her breath stutters, her body shivering with pleasure.

The tip of my cock throbs, leaking pre-cum as I watch her come undone.

"Nate…" My name is a desperate whimper, her body writhing. "I'm going to come."

"Let me see," I urge, my strokes turning frantic.

Her back arches as she grinds against her hand, eyes rolling back as her orgasm crashes through her. She trembles, gasping, moaning my name like it's the only word she knows.

And that's it.

Game over.

My own release hits like a freight train, and I'm left trying to do damage control with a fistful of tissues, barely managing to stop my trousers from becoming a crime scene. It's a miracle I don't accidentally knock my coffee cup over in the process, though the desk is definitely questioning all its life choices right now.

“You’re a goddess,” I breathe once my heart rate calms.

She laughs, the sound raw and real, and just like that—I realise I'm falling in love with this woman.