Borgata - Book II #wattys2016

Chapter 7: Dark Side

HEY EVERYONE THIS CHAPTER WAS REUPLOADED DUE TO THE WATTPAD CRASH! SORRY IF YOU WERE READING! BEYONCE VOICE: CARRY ON.

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EXTREMELY RELEVANT AND TRUE(?) QUOTE:

"YOU SMELL SO BAD AND YOU MAKE ME VOMIT." -MY SISTER, WHEN SHE WAS HOVERING OVER MY LAPTOP, AND I ASKED HER WHAT I SHOULD WRITE AT THE BEGINNING OF THIS CHAPTER.

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I decided I was going to manipulate the "King" into getting me out of his deceivingly beautiful prison-estate. And you better believe I was going to have fun doing it...

I glanced down at Fico's right hand, which had begun to stroke a small area of the bare skin of my leg. A part of me wanted to rip that hand off my leg, and another part of me–the slutty part– liked his hand on my skin.

Still, I glared at that adventurous hand and studied the rings on Fico's fingers. One of them was golden and engraved in Italian. Another was silver with a black gem, and another was in the shape of a skull. The skull had an unmistakable scowl carved into its bone structure. It must have been created from a self-portrait of Fücko himself.

I casually looked over at his other hand, which dangled off the armrest of the chair. There were no rings on that hand, but there was a scar on the back of his hand that I noticed, that nearly blended into his tan. It slid up the sleeve of his dress shirt and disappeared. On the cuffs of his dress shirt, I now was aware of the silver cobra cufflinks he wore today.

Lovely. The man is even fashionably deadly.

As Fico continued to methodically and subconsciously caress a small area of my leg, I reminded myself that he had a fixation with keeping almost everything under his complete and utter control-freak self. And if the fact that Fico had an immaculate office, precisely trimmed and angled facial hair, custom boxes of rolled cigarettes, and brainwashed soldiers, didn't give away his obsession with control, then his complete and utter aggravation that followed my silent-treatment towards him, did.

My silence felt like a crucial beginning to my plan to bring this man down to his knees. By his clear annoyance in my quietness, I knew it was the small things that would leave Fico vulnerable–so that I could control him and therefore, control my freedom. I had to become Fico's puppeteer. Except instead of my hand up his ass, working his mouth, it would be one of my sharpest stilettos...

Fico didn't deserve the most private part of me–ever really, but especially after the way he'd treated me. If I gave him sex, then I'd not only be pardon the way he'd horrified me by "selling" me to Otello, but give him power over me.

Opening my legs wouldn't affect Fico as much as I needed to. Sex seemed like the easy way out, and with any man, it didn't have a clear ending. What would happen afterwards? Well, to toot my own horn, sex would definitely happen again. And maybe again. But what about when he got bored with me? It'd be like a guy and a girl having sex on the first date. He'd get bored because he'd get what he wanted from me, and I'd lose my advantage over him.

Conclusively, giving a man like Fico sex would just make me blend into the rest of the women Fico met. I'd become a whøre throwing myself at his Gucci loafers, instead of focusing on making myself a woman who stood out to him. Someone who intrigued him. Someone he wanted to bend over and fück but couldn't because I was off limits.