I'll Do Anything: A Bully Femdom Romance Read online

  I’ll Do Anything

  A Bully Femdom Romance

  Daisy Jane

  Smeared Ink

  Copyright © 2021 by Daisy Jane

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Smeared Ink.

  Edited by Sloane Bowers.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Maverick & Anna’s Playlist

  Introduction

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Bonus Chapter

  If You Liked This Book...

  Also by Daisy Jane

  Acknowledgments

  All of this is meaningless without you, the reader. Thank you for spending your time reading my book, I sincerely hope you enjoy it and I appreciate your read!

  Thank you to the women in my circle who BETA and ARC for me—it is an important part of the process and it means so much to me that you ladies continually volunteer your time, love and support, so thank you so much.

  Thank you NaShara for being a dedicated and amazing BETA reader! You’ve been with me for a few books now and it’s been a game-changer!

  Thank you to the people along the way the serve to build me up and love me hard. My friends who buy my books and listen to my dirtiness—I love you all!

  I’m lucky to have every single one of you!

  XX

  Daisy

  Maverick & Anna’s Playlist

  Cosmic Love / Florence + the Machine

  Liability / Lorde

  Million Reasons / Lady Gaga

  Love on the Brain / Rihanna

  Beast of Burden / The Rolling Stones

  Back to December / Taylor Swift

  A Song for You / Amy Winehouse

  Missing You / Betty Who

  Brutal / Olivia Rodrigo

  Montreal / Bahamas

  Joshua Tree / Rozzi

  Body Electric / Lana Del Rey

  Say It First / Sam Smith

  Needy / Kenton Chen & the Scary Pockets

  I Feel It Coming / Laura Mace & the Scary Pockets

  Earned It / The Weekend

  Any Time, Any Place / Janet Jackson

  Introduction

  Anna

  My bully, my tormentor

  The only man ever to both torture me

  and make my body hot with his lips.

  We've come face to face after ten years apart.

  He wants forgiveness... but how badly?

  How far will he go for absolution?

  How far will he go for me?

  Maverick

  For ten years I've punished myself for what I did

  I've worked hard to become a new man

  To move on from the ugly person I once was

  I know she'll never want me how I want her

  But I can't move on until she forgives me.

  I live for her forgiveness.

  When she asks me what I'll do for it?

  I tell her the absolute truth.

  I'll Do Anything.

  I’ll Do Anything is a dark, slow-burn standalone with bully, enemies to lovers, and soft femdom tropes.

  Trigger warnings: bullying (high school), and self-harm.

  Note: Femdom is when a woman controls a man sexually so if you’re not interested in that, turn back now.

  This is a full-length (137k) with an HEA for ADULTS only.

  Prologue

  Anna

  10 Years Ago

  “You better read it.”

  He never touches me but his tight jaw and angry words hit hard enough. I nod, looking down at my shoes.

  “Don’t nod your fucking head at me,” he snarls, stepping in closer, so close that I can barely breathe. The warmth coursing through me threatens to strangle all the air from my lungs.

  He is using the wintergreen mouthwash again. He has two, wintergreen and cinnamon. Things I’ve grown to know.

  A customer had rolled her window down to speak with me. She popped a stick of cinnamon gum into her mouth as she did. The scent burned my senses and made me want to wretch. I was on the way to the bathroom to be sick when he appeared.

  When my eyes don’t follow my back, that’s when he finds me.

  Unsuspecting and weak.

  The faces around us don’t linger on our interaction. Maybe my body language and expression aren’t panicked enough to alert anyone. Maybe I’m not really afraid… that thought is one I have and am confused by often.

  “I let it slide when you didn’t answer me about being away from your station.” He closes the remaining distance between us. “Answer me now, or you know what I’ll do,” he finishes.

  “I’m going to the bathroom.”

  He presses a letter into my palm and pushes my hand up, trapping it against my chest. “You know what? That can wait,” he smirks, taking a step back. From my peripheral, I can see the darkness of his shape in front of me, sizing me up. “Read it now.”

  “I can’t. I have to use the restroom. I have to get back to work.”

  His jaw works silently as my blues find his greens through the unrelenting mist. How can a guy so bad also be so beautiful?

  On the outside, at least.

  “Read it now,” he commands, stepping in to me, caging me against the employee lockers.

  I lift my chin only slightly, but enough for my face to be lost in the shadow of him. To his darkness.

  My hands tremble and the paper shakes as I unfold it once, then twice.

  “Out loud you little fucking bitch,” he whispers to my ear so lightly that his tone seems to sit on top of my skin, burning me before it slowly seeps into me, hurting me. His poisonous words infect me, infiltrating my brain and my heart.

  My mouth is sandy and hot when I start to read.

  “You are nothing. And yet you walk around like you’re everything. I want to wrap my fingers around your throat and feel your heart panic under my grasp. Make you feel something, you fucking zombie. Everyone hates you; you are nothing.”

  A single tear rolls down my cheek and as fast as I can, I wipe it away. I learned long ago that the tears make it worse.

  But
there are some days that I can’t fight it anymore.

  Slowly I refold the letter and tuck it into my pocket.

  He never asks me why I keep the letters he writes me. A normal person probably wouldn’t. Maybe it’s part of the reason he hates me, because I do things normal people wouldn’t do.

  My naturally blonde hair has been box dyed to jet black, mood rings and stamped metal cover my fingers and instead of wearing shorts that my ass looks like its trying to swallow, I wear pants.

  When people my age are passing around a bottle of Goldschlagger in an orchard while listening to “hits” on FM, I’m at my favorite coffee house with my laptop and headphones. Reading, studying—whatever I’m doing, I’m always alone.

  And he reminds me of those facts whenever he can.

  “How was work?” my dad asks, standing at the kitchen sink, a wrench in one hand, a confused dip in his brows.

  I don’t tell my parents about what work is really like. As bad as it is, I know that my dad storming down to the car wash could make it a lot worse. I can just hear their torturing taunts.

  Tattle to Daddy like the pathetic piece of shit that you are.

  “Good,” I say, kicking off my soaked sneakers by the back door. After I peel off my socks and drop them in the washer, I float through the kitchen, grabbing an apple and a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. Bracing myself in the opening, my body droops inward to the fridge, loving the way the cold air feels against my sun-stained, warm skin.

  “Good, good,” dad says, returning to his “home repair” which will undoubtedly end in more things being broken than fixed. A real life Tim Taylor, and I love him even more for it.

  “Where’s mom?” I ask, melting into a chair at the kitchen table after receiving the ‘you’re letting all the cold air out’ talk from Dad.

  I know I should go change out of these sweaty, damp clothes but I’m exhausted. Washing cars in the hot sun is tiring, yeah, but that’s not what fatigues me.

  My body being in a suspended state of apprehension and anxiety for eight hours is what makes it hard to converse and care at the end of each day.

  Feeling tense hour after hour, looking around me every few minutes, holding my breath when one of them circles around me—it’s so fucking exhausting.

  They’re predators, through and through, watching me, waiting for me to drop my guard, waiting for me to exhale so they can swoop in, find me vulnerable and verbally strip me of any sense of worth.

  They do it well.

  Today, for example, I got comfortable resetting the conveyor cleaning heads inside the car wash tunnel. I’d been getting the tunnel ready for the next day of work and got lost working, and forgetting to look over my back was all it took.

  “Out back, in the garden.”

  “I don’t know why I asked,” I reply. Peeling myself from the chair, padding through the kitchen, I rise to my toes, pressing a kiss to my dad’s cheek before heading out back.

  Knees in the toasty soil, I find my mom working over her tomato plants like she’s harvesting for the apocalypse. Though I spend time with her in her garden nearly every day, still, each time I come out here the fruits of her labor seem more and more abundant.

  “Wow,” I say, taking a spot on my knees next to her. Her distinct scent drifts through me as she drapes her arms over a five-gallon bucket full of homegrown vegetables. Sunscreen and Earth, I inhale her, exhaling my day.

  “This thing is like on steroids.” I finger a fuzzy leaf and she smiles.

  “See, vegetables can be plump and juicy without chemicals,” she says, gloved hands brushing against my arm as she rests on her haunches.

  “No debate here,” I say, biting into one of the pieces of fruit after polishing against my chest.

  “Don’t you like them cold?” she asks, tipping the brim of her sunhat up to expose her blue eyes.

  I shake my head. “You know it doesn’t matter to me.”

  After a few minutes of helping her with the last of the vegetables, we meet my dad inside at the dinner table, where the kitchen table proudly displays his latest concoction.

  My parents are couple goals, setting the bar to a completely unachievable high.

  They met in college and three short months later, they were married.

  Together, they opened an organic cafe in town where they grow or locally source all ingredients. They even roast their own coffee beans.

  Concerned more with responsibly grown vegetables and weaving their beliefs for the world into the fabric of our small town, they aren’t what I’d call business minded. They want to do everything for everyone–their community, their customers, their vendors, the planet. It is why I love them.

  They discuss the business at the table, where they usually do. Most days, I listen. Study, absorb, learn. I don’t know what I want to do with my life yet but I do know that I can learn a lot from my parents, from what they’ve done and not done.

  Tonight, my mind drifts back to him.

  The man who prods and pokes me, inside and out.

  I don’t know why he hates me… I should hate him.

  But I don’t.

  I eat dinner quietly, forcing my mind to abandon my bully and the confusion inside me when I’m around him. The mix of things I feel that I probably shouldn’t.

  I swallow it down and focus on the two people who love me. The only people who I really have.

  Thank God for my parents.

  Chapter 1

  Mav

  I tip back my helmet, sucking down a gulp of non-regurgitated air. My favorite part of finishing a weld is this part. My small garage isn’t exactly a summer breeze. In fact, it smells of simmering metallic oxide, burnt coffee and my own sweaty sack. My chest expands as I fill my lungs with the dense air.

  Oxide and balls or not, it’s better than my own hot exhale over and over, hour after hour.

  Stepping back, I survey the piece I’ve just finished. A custom cast-iron gate to enclose the open-air patio at a local eatery. A place where a plate of lettuce is sixteen dollars and your steak sits on top of a smear of something that looks a lot like plain mashed potatoes but costs you forty-two bucks.

  Tilting and tossing my head, I run my fingers along the warm iron, feeling the knots of connection, checking for smoothness. After a few minutes of eyeing and touching the piece, I reach to lift it from the ground. When I do, the result of lifting and moving heavy metal all day every day surfaces in my shoulders in a burning wave of fatigue. A massage after work would be a dream but I’ll settle for a hot shower and a cold beer, too.

  After positioning the gate against the wall of the workspace, I set it down and shuck off my gloves.

  Reaching for my canteen, I take a long slug of cold water. Taking a breath, I’m about to go for another replenishing drink when Dawson Hayes, the only other tenant in the four-building industrial park, saunters in, ducking under the rolled-up metal door.

  Oftentimes, he checks my mail as well as his. He’s got a spare key for my box; one I gave him a year ago when I was going to be gone for a week making a delivery. He kept it, I forgot, and now every so often he checks my mail and brings it to me.

  It’s usually just on the days he wants to complain about his wife, tell me about some cool new thing he’s discovered and planning to hock on eBay, or gossip about anything going on in our small town.

  I wonder what brings him in today. Mail is tucked under one of his arms and his other hand worries at his mouth, smoothing down his beard several times.

  “What’s up, Daws?” I extend a hand to him and he shakes it, the way we always greet one another.

  He pulls the mail from his armpit and on the top is a crumpled envelope. Eyeing it, I see it’s addressed to him and has been haphazardly opened on one end. Who opens an envelope like that? Extending it out to me, he shakes his head wordlessly. Taking the mail, he says “read it”, so I do.

  I don’t make it to the end of the letter. Hell, I barely make it through the first paragraph. They
’re merely typed words but I feel them in my gut like a fucking bowling ball.

  “What happened to the Sandersons?” I ask Daws, who is nervously touching things on my work bench.

  “Don’t,” I say with force, wanting to avoid an injury. “It’s hot, I just got done,” I tilt my head towards the gate I just finished and Daws recesses back from the welding gun, which definitely still bears heat.

  He bypasses the scolding and shakes his head, his silver hair looking a lot whiter these days. “Don’t know.”

  I chew the inside of my mouth, the need to have a cigarette surging through me everywhere, making my fingers and lips nearly throb. It’s my third month without them and it hasn’t gotten any easier. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a cinnamon disc and pop into my mouth.

  I roll the disc on my tongue, the heat making me sniff my nose just once. “Well, fuck.”

  Daws reaches out and I give him back possession of the bad news. Regardless if I’ve opened my letter or not, the news inside of it possesses me now, too.

  Daws replaces the letter inside the envelope as I pull my phone from my back pocket, not surprised to see I have two missed calls from my buddy Orion. Unlocking my phone, I scroll through my contacts until I find the one I need.