by Madison Faye
The dickbag boyfriend had no family, and the only family my sister had left was me. Since I also happened to be, for one, not a fucking junkie, and two, very very wealthy, I guess the state just made the decision that family or not, I was a far better choice than “the system” for Kenzie.
I’d said yes over the phone, glancing at the picture they’d emailed over of the gawky little ten year old I’d seen maybe twice, and probably not since the picture was taken.
Big. Fucking. Mistake.
Because if they’d sent a picture of her the way she was now? Yeah, hell no. I’d have taken one look at eighteen year old Kenzie Gates and seen how monumentally stupid it would be to invite a girl like that to live with a guy like me.
Because Kenzie Gates had grown the fuck up.
Hard.
Because the girl who’d been standing on my front porch next to the social worker when I’d opened the door was five-foot nine inches and one-hundred and eleven pounds of pure. Fucking. Temptation.
Long, auburn hair, pouty, coy pink lips, and big, sultry blue eyes that screamed “bait.” All legs, small, perky tits, and a tight little ass that was begging for someone to take a bite out of it. Curvy hips, and a flat, supple little tummy that’d been peeking out from under a belly-shirt that first day and hadn’t actually stopped ever since.
She’d been here for one month, four days, and eleven hours. And I’d been hard as steel for her for one month, four days, ten hours and fifty-nine and a half minutes.
Constantly.
I gritted my teeth and glanced at the Cartier watch on my wrist.
Late. I growled again, feeling the blood roaring like fire inside of me. I couldn’t take it anymore, and I couldn’t deny myself any longer. That night, I wouldn’t be denying myself any more.
I knew it was wrong — so very wrong — but I didn’t give a shit. Not anymore. Not after swallowing back the lust, and need, and the raw desire to make her mine for so long. Her tight, hot little body made me crave her, and the teasing, flippant, bratty way she sashayed her way around this house had had me living on edge for a month.
And she fucking knew it. This wasn’t some innocent girl who didn’t yet understand the effect she had on men. Nope. Kenzie was a grade-A, flirty, bratty, barely-legal little cock-tease, and she fucking knew it.
And on top of all of this, it wasn't just me she was teasing…
Lincoln was my best friend in the world — a man closer to me than a brother. We’d served together way back. We’d started Hammer and Spark together afterwards, and when we’d sold the mercenary contractor outfit we’d built with our bare hands to another, bigger, company and cashed out, we’d both gotten filthy rich together.
I’d bought my enormous house immediately, but Linc was in the middle of custom building his dream home. And since it was close to mine, and since my place was almost literally a castle, he’d spent the last few months living with me.
…Including when Kenzie had shown up.
So, yeah, the whole thing would’ve been bad enough if it was just me that she was fucking with, and flashing her tight little body to while wearing next to nothing all the fucking time. But it was Lincoln too.
And like I said, the little cock-tease knew exactly what she was doing, to both of us. She was pushing her fucking luck because she knew I was hesitant to act because of how hard she made me. And she knew it was the same damn thing with Lincoln. Staying out late, missing curfew, fucking off on all the summer workload she had before she went off to college in the fall — she’d gotten away with murder the last month.
But the buck was going to stop that night.
No more of me being a pussy pushover, and no more of her getting away with it. The little brat had pushed me too far. And that night, I was going to take matters into my own hands.
There was the rattle of keys in the front door, and I glanced at Lincoln across the kitchen island, seeing the hard, heated look on his face, which mirrored mine.
“Easy, Wild,” he growled, his jaw tight.
I shook my head, hearing the front door kick open.
“No.” I tensed, my muscles bunching, my hands clenching to fists, and my cock throbbing rock fucking hard between my thighs.
“No more easy with her. Tonight, we’re doing it the hard way.”
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Tempting Daddy’s Boss
Copyright © 2017 Madison Faye
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Tempting Daddy’s Boss
I’m keeping her all to myself, whether she knows it or not.
An angel like little Lyra Worthington has no business being anywhere near a cold, calculating monster like me.
But she’s been mine since the second she poured herself into my world. And now, I’m never letting her go.
I know she’s off-limits.
I know she’s too young for me, and too innocent, and too untouched. But I bet she tastes like heaven and feels like sin, and tonight, I plan on finding out how right I am.
She’s tempting me - enticing me. She’s provoking me like a naughty little brat looking for trouble. And believe when I say, she’s going to find it with me.
I’ll call her angel. She’ll call me daddy.
I play for keeps, I take what’s mine, and I keep what I take. And tonight, I’m taking her.
Super sweet, so filthy you’ll need a bath, and over-the-top wrong. But, if you’re looking for something wildly dirty, not really grounded in reality, and safe, this one’s for you! Utterly obsessed alpha hero, sassy, untouched heroine, and insta-love, smut, and sugary-sweetness galore. HEA with NO CHEATING!
*No one is related in this story*
Chapter 1
Lyra
I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t, and I know it. But maybe there’s something about this place that makes me want to do what I shouldn’t.
…Maybe there’s something about him that makes me want to break the rules.
The room is warm, and it’s dark in here but for the neon glow of the city illuminating the room through the enormous, floor-length glass that makes up the entire corner office. Views of all of New York and most of Brooklyn dazzle and sparkle through the window, giving me just enough light to see what I came here for.
No one should be in here. Not here, and not like this. Mostly because of whose domain this is of course. Because the man who sets his seat of power here isn’t one to be messed with, and I’m sure he wouldn’t like people coming into his office without invitation. Certainly not after hours, in the dark, and certainly not with what’s hanging on the walls.
Millions, and I do mean millions of dollars in original Impressionist era paintings.
They’re the reason I’m here. I’ve never met the man whose office this is and whose business this is, even if my internship in this very firm starts on Monday. But I know enough to be more than a little frightened. Powerful, aggressive, cold, calculating.
Brutal.
Damien Castle’s reputation is a thing of legend in the world of huge-money hedge funds. But, great art is great art, and I decided it was worth the risk. I can half-hear the cocktail party that’s happening on the floor below me — the partygoers out on the huge garden terraces that wrap around the building.
Above them sits this floor, where the magic happens. This is where the man whose art this is commands his billion dollar business with an iron grip. And above here, there’s only his personal quarters — his penthouse apartment that occupies the entire top floor of the midtown Manhattan building. That’s how driven the legendarily fearsome Mr. Castle is. He sle
eps barely fifty feet from his office desk.
That drive and that reputation is why my stepfather’s own hedge fund has been assimilated by Castle Capital. Because Damien Castle isn’t just good at turning money into more money, he’s the best. His returns are enormous, his quarters never dip, ever, and he’s untouchable in his ability to be at the top of the game.
Oh, right, and he’s also gorgeous.
What’s weird is that I’m an artist at heart. I’ve always been more comfortable in ripped jean shorts and t-shirts with paint all over them than I am in business-place attire. And I’ve never been attracted to the “finance guy” look, even in the hedge fund world I grew up in with my mother’s second husband.
But maybe it’s the dark cloud that seems to hover over him in all his public appearances, or that fierce look in his eyes or in the tightness of his chiseled jaw. Maybe it’s the visible tattoos peeking out of the sleeves and collars of his three-thousand dollar suits that set him apart from most stuffy old hedge fund guys. The body carved out of marble that fills out those suits is certainly a factor.
Maybe it’s all of those things that make me find a man like Damien Castle irresistible, even when I know it’s wrong.
Because of his legendary viciousness.
Because he’s more than twice my age.
Because he’s my stepfather’s new boss.
My eyes scan Degas, Van Gogh, and even a Monet in the dim light, and I can feel my heart beat a little faster. Originals, of course; all of them. And as hard a reputation as Damien Castle has, I decide right there that it’s worth the risk sneaking in here when he’s only a floor away presiding over his party.
The security guard let me through, after I flirted a bit and pretended to be Mr. Castle’s date for the evening. So really, it’s his own fault I’m in here at all. He should have hired better security.
The cocktail party was my one opportunity to see a collection like this — paintings from the French Impressionist era that few people will ever see. Really, it was one of the only reasons I finally agreed to let my stepfather drag me to this thing. I know I’m supposed to be here showing a good face and mingling with the crowd downstairs before I start my internship here on Monday. But I doubt even when I work here that I’ll ever get a chance to see these paintings, so I took a chance.
I mean I’m not technically doing anything wrong. Well, aside from breaking into my stepfather’s new boss’s office — the office of the most powerful, enigmatic man in New York.
I peer close at a Renoir, the brush-strokes taking my breath away before I move over to Van Gogh and feel my heart race. I sip the champagne flute in my hand slowly, swallowing as my eyes drink in the amazing work in front of me. The flute is soda water, of course. I’m sure I could get a real drink at a party like this without question, and there are definitely some dates of other managers and traders at the party downstairs barely older than I am who are sipping champagne freely.
But drinking has never really appealed to me, even if people my age are supposed to be guzzling it down. I know. I’m eighteen, I’m off to college in a few months, and getting drunk should be part of my regular day. That and sex, I suppose, but there’s another thing I’m not doing.
You know, ever. At least, not yet.
It’s not for lack of guys my age trying to help me out in that department, that’s for sure. But there’s never been anything like a spark, and I need that spark to be there if I’m going to finally let go of what I’ve held onto my whole life. And so long as guys my age think a “spark” is “we should do a shot and then you should come check out the backseat of my car,” then no thanks. I’ll pass.
But anyway, I feel like I’m doing enough bad things tonight, what with breaking into this office. So it’s just sparkling water that I sip as I move down the wall, my jaw dropping at a gorgeous Monet. In the quiet, dim darkness of the huge room, I lean close — not close enough to touch, but closer than I’d ever dare to get in a museum. I can feel the blood rushing through my ears as I move ever closer, and closer, and—
“What are you doing in here?”
The voice has me practically jumping out of my skin. I yelp, gasping as I whirl, the champagne flute dashing to the floor at my feet. My heart leaps into my throat as my eyes adjust to the darkness and slowly take in the man standing in silhouette against the big window by the door.
Damien.
I tremble as I take in his massive form — the broad shoulders, the big arms that bulge slightly at his perfectly tailored tuxedo. The clean-shaven, chiseled jawline, and those piercing eyes.
Green.
I can only see the glint in those eyes from the neon lights of the city, but I know that they’re green.
He growls as he steps towards me, and I swallow the lump in my throat as my breath catches.
“I’m going to ask you one more time, and I’d like an answer this time.”
His dark baritone voice is like whiskey and leather, edged in steel, and I can feel his very words pull at something deep inside of me as he approaches.
“Because no one is supposed to be in here, and yet here you are. Which leads me to believe you’re either a thief,” he growls the word out through gritted teeth, his powerful, demanding gaze drinking me in. His eyes slip over my black cocktail dress, which I know is probably a little shorter, and a little tighter than it should be.
His eyes flash in the dim glow of the room, and I can see the muscles in his neck tense as his gaze swallows me up. He moves closer, and I gasp. I stumble a step back, teetering slightly in my black four-inch stilettos before I feel the wall at my back. There’s a priceless painting hanging on either side of me, but his blazing green eyes are locked onto me and me only as he approaches.
“You’re either a thief,” he purrs again, his hands moving to either side of me, palms flat against the wall, pinning me there. “Or you're just a bad little girl who’d decided to go where she doesn’t belong.”
I gasp quietly at the words, feeling my whole body melt under that heated gaze of his.
“And you do know what they say about thieves and bad girls who go looking for trouble, don’t you?”
I swallow again, my breath catching in my throat as I slowly shake my head.
“No, I—”
“They always find it,” he growls. His eyes flash as he leans closer, and his huge body practically pins me to the wall, his warm, teasing breath hits my neck as he leans in and it’s everything I can do not to moan right there.
His hand grips my wrist, and this time, I do moan.
And then I feel it.
I feel it tingle over every inch of my skin, melting through every pore down into my core, where it sits there pulsing.
…Like a spark.
“And trust me, little girl,” he growls. “Trust me when I say you’ve definitely found trouble.”
Chapter 2
Damien
The second I notice her at the party, the world goes still. Nothing else matters, and I instantly ignore whoever I’m talking to and forget whatever the fuck we’re talking about. Because in one second, there’s suddenly only space in my brain for this perfect angel stepping into the room.
I growl, watching her slink across the floor in that little black dress with those little black fuck-me heels, my cock pulsing to life in my tux pants. I watch her glide to the bar and come away with a glass of champagne, her gingery hair pulled over one shoulder and her sharp blue eyes flickering as she scans the room.
She oozes sweetness and sin, and literally all I can think of as I stand there letting my eyes drink her in is that I want to taste every soft inch of her skin. I want to run my tongue over every line, curve, and crevice, until there’s not a part of her I haven’t claimed and memorized with my mouth. I growl, completely ignoring whoever I’ve been talking to as my cock throbs between my legs. I inhale slowly, as if I could smell her sweet, angelic little cunt from over here, and the thought only makes me harder.
Perfection.
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She screams innocence. Actually, in a place like this with the type of guys who work at hedge funds, she screams prey. And it doesn’t take more than a second before the jackals close in. Finance guys are an aggressive lot, and I’ve only hired the hungriest to work for me in this place. But when three of them descend on her, something primal in me roars to the surface.
I’ve spent a lifetime building what I have from scratch, and taking what I want when I want it. And the caveman in me roars at the sight of these lesser men thinking they can even look at her, let alone talk to her. And when one slips a hand over her shoulder, I almost let out a roar, wanting nothing more than to tear his arm off and throw man and limb over the side of the terrace.
I storm towards the jackals, fury etched on my face, when I’m suddenly swarmed by a handful of my trust managers, suddenly deciding that this is the ideal time to come whining to me about some business bullshit. I snarl, catching them off guard as they suddenly step away. They know the look, and they know when they see that fierce, focused drive on my face to stay the fuck away.
I shove past them, but suddenly I come to a stop.
She’s gone.
For a moment, the red rage comes roaring up, but I do see that the three jackals — including the piece of shit I plan on firing immediately who put his arm over her shoulders — are still at the bar.
But my angel isn’t there.
I scan the crowd with cold, piercing eyes, storming through the party without so much as a handshake or a smile back to any that are offered my way. Like I said, there’s only space in my brain for her, and now that I’ve lost her, I can feel the panic boiling up inside of me.