by Madison Faye
But wait, there’s more! If you’re looking for more heat, today’s your lucky day ;).
As a way of saying thank you for picking up this new release edition of Paying The Debt, I’m including two more books of mine books of mine as treats!
Flirting With The Law and Sharing Beauty are two very hot mfm menage romances of mine. Totally obsessed alpha bad boys who aim to share one lucky lady. Seriously, these are some way steamy books, and they’re your’s here for free!
Thanks for your support, and happy reading!
<3,
Madison
Also by Madison Faye
“Innocence Claimed” Series:
His Little Bad Girl
Tempting Daddy’s Boss
Paying The Debt
“The Triple Crown Club” Series:
Royally Shared
Royally Claimed
Royally Tempted
“Possessing Beauty” Series:
Beasting Beauty
Stealing Beauty
Sharing Beauty
Hunting Beauty
“Forbidden” Series:
Flirting With The Law
Breaking Her Innocence
“Three Times” Series:
Bossed Three Times
Taken Three Times
Paid For Three Times
“Twice” Series:
Twice Driven
Twice Bossed
Twice Tackled
“First Time” Series:
Legal
Professor
Freshman
Sugar & Spice: A Billionaire/Virgin Romance
His Little Bad Girl - Sneak Peek
Chapter 1
Christian
Aggressive towards authority.
Prone to acts of disobedience.
Truancy. Vandalism. Petty theft.
My jaw tenses as I glance over the student file in front of me. Suspended twice senior year — once for ditching school and smashing the shit out of a professor’s car, and the other for being caught drinking during fifth period.
This student, Jesus Christ.
I wasn’t expecting to take over as Headmaster of Thornbull Academy until this fall, but here I am barely two months into the job — a full summer earlier than expected, I might add — and I’m going to have to deal with this shit. Wonderful.
Academia is hardly the career path most guys who get out of Marine Corps in one piece choose, but for me, it was a calling. After all, my dad may have been a military man, and that's the path I took young, but it was my mom who was the reader and the studious one. She taught preschool. Maybe it was a combo of both of them that’s led me from squad sergeant in Afghanistan, kicking down insurgent doors and dodging bullets, to be the firm hand of control and discipline at one of the richest, most academically focused private schools in the country. The studiousness from my mother, the discipline from my dad. The courage and firmness to carry through from the USMC.
But like I said, I wasn’t supposed to start until fall. That was before ancient Doctor Lindon, my predecessor, passed away two months before the end of the school year and his retirement day. Not a bad way to go — quietly in your sleep next to your wife — I’ll grant him that after some of the shit I’ve seen in the Middle East. But still, it sort of put a damper on my plans to settle into West Haven and enjoy a summer living amongst the phenomenally wealthy and connected residents of this affluent seaside town.
On top of that, Thornbull Academy is so academically prestigious, and it’s students so insanely driven, that it offers a post-senior-year, pre-college “summer semester.” For some schools, summer school is a last chance for the fuck-ups — a hail Mary for the slackers to get their shit together and graduate.
Not at Thornbull, let me tell you. At this place, it’s a way to add even more pages to a resume before you start in at Yale, or Harvard, or Cornell, or wherever. It’s a way for go-getter students to pack in as many college-level freshman credit classes as they can, so all these little valedictorians and salutatorians can hit the ground running at Ivy League schools. I mean hell, apparently last year, three guys used their summer program to build a stock-trading algorithm, and before they started college in the fall, they cashed out for a cool billion dollars.
Fuck, right? These kids are eighteen, rich, connected, and have their whole lives taken care. I mean they should be out chasing tail and drinking beers on the beach, not cramming more shit into their trust fund brains.
Not exactly the best mindset maybe for the new Headmaster, but fuck it, those are my thoughts on the matter.
I tap the desk in front of me before stretching my arms up and straining my muscles, feeling them pull against the still not-quite-familiar feel of a dress shirt and tie.
Whatever my feelings on this summer school thing though, it's my new duty to oversee it and all the students attending, all while prepping for a very big jump into the deep end come fall. Let’s just say Dr. Lindon left some big damn shoes to fill, and as progressively liberal and forward thinking as this town likes to think it is, I’ve seen the way most people around here look at my physique, or my combat record, and hell, at the tattoos that even a full suit won’t hide, and wonder just how the fuck I got a job as Headmaster.
And I’ll tell you how: because I’m a goddamn smart motherfucker.
That’s not just a boastful brag either. Stanford undergrad, top of my class and an MBA from Wharton that I worked my ass off for in-between tours. Yeah, papa may have raised a good little soldier, but mama didn’t raise no fool, that’s for damn sure.
But, this fool has a long damn summer ahead of him. Because on top of everything else, there’s this — the file on my desk.
This student.
Most of the kids in this summer program are goody-two-shoes, straight-as-an-arrow go-getters. This one is here because not taking the two classes necessary means no graduation. And seriously, this file is bad. Back-talking. Swearing at teachers. Drinking in an empty lecture hall at twelve in the afternoon. As a recently “graduated” senior, this student should be out of my hair already. Except, here we are.
I glance through the reports, and the police write-ups for the vandalism to Professor Hershman’s car last year. I mean Jesus fucking Christ, breaking the windshield was one thing, but pissing on the steering wheel afterwards?
I shake my head and drop the thick file on the desk. Yeah, this will need dealing with. Immediately.
Something catches my eye, and I frown as I turn to glance out the large windows behind my desk. There are three of them — two boys and a girl, all summer semester students. The bell’s already rung, but there they go, off behind the gymnasium, glancing around nervously.
My jaw tightens.
My blood roars.
Because right there in the mix, is my problem student.
So cavalierly bad news, leading these other two off to do God knows what behind the gym. Showing a total disregard for the rules, and moreover, my authority. Because this damn student thinks that just because they’re eighteen, and “technically” graduated, and probably from money and privilege, that they don’t need to obey my rules.
I stand, my muscles tensing, the blood running hot in my veins.
Yeah, there goes my problem student alright — flagrantly waltzing past my damn office, knowing I can see them skipping. Blatantly breaking the rules, with a goddamn smirk on their face when they do it.
…And showing a bit too much fucking thigh under that uniform skirt, I’ll say that.
That. Little. Fucking. Tease.
Oh sorry, you thought I was talking about one of the guys, didn’t you? Nope. Wrong. Neither of those two are my problem student. You see, my problem student is a she. My problem student is five foot three, one-hundred-and-five pounds of pure, tantalizing, teasing, inappropriate, irresistible, trouble. Capital fucking T.
My problem presented herself on my first day of school, two buttons undone up top, three inches rolled up below, in my offic
e for telling Ms. Bernard, her French professor, to go fuck herself.
In French, at least.
But there she was, sitting in my damn office waiting for me looking every inch the Nabokov tease. Knee-high socks, blonde hair up in pigtails, and her soft, pink, pouty lips wrapped around a damn pen. Those big green eyes had drawn up from my shoes, up my legs, up my abdomen, over my chest and up to my “tough” face — the one I used to give grunts in the desert who were hungry, tired, and out of line.
And she’d grinned. Those teasing, too perfect, too pouty, too tantalizing, and just this side of wrong lips had pulled back in a sultry little smirk.
…And I’ve been fucking hooked ever since.
Consumed. Obsessed. Addicted. One damn look and she managed to bring out every fucking alpha caveman desire to the surface. She brought out the raw masculine need in me — to claim her, to corrupt her, to make her mine. She brought out the depraved pervert in me — the part of me that wants to wrap those pigtails in my fists and use them to pull those soft little lips down over my throbbing cock. The part of me that wants to spread those long, lithe legs, grab that pert little ass, and drive every inch of my dick into her tight, sweet little pussy until I’m sure she’s ruined for any other man.
Forget spending my summer scoping out the single women of this town. Hell, forget getting a damn minute of work done or even being able to fucking sleep at night. My waking thoughts are filled with her doing all sorts of dirty things to me, and in my dreams, I’m doing every single one of them back to her.
Her name is Tempest Kensington.
She’s eighteen years old.
She’s my student.
And I want to know what sounds she makes when she comes. I want to know how tight she’d feel as I emptied every drop of my sticky cum deep inside her fertile young womb.
She’s off to Harvard this fall, but until then, over the summer, she and her track record are my problem. My very big, very tempting, very off-limits problem.
I don’t realize I’m gripping my hand in a fist until I feel the pencil in my fingers snap in two places. I blink out of my filthy daydreams, dropping the pencil into the trash by my desk and turning to watch her walk off behind the gym with those two shit-heads.
I feel my blood burn to a boil.
I could be reading the situation wrong, but I don’t care. And I’m probably not. Teenage guys are pieces of shit, and pieces of shit smell trouble like Tempest Kensington a mile away. A million scenarios run through my head, all of them involving those assholes putting their hands on her — on what's mine.
Because she is mine. She just doesn’t know it yet. She will bend to my authority. And I will taste that sweet fucking candy pussy of hers.
Barely legal. Entirely inappropriate. My temptation, my addiction, my need. My ruin, in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks.
I whirl on my heel, slamming her file shut on my desk and storming for the door. Time to start this summer semester off right.
I’m claiming what’s mine.
Find the full book here!
The Innocence Claimed books can be read in any order.
They are all standalone stories.
Tempting Daddy’s Boss - Sneak Peek
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 sleeps 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.