Total pages in book: 35
Estimated words: 33235 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33235 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | Tempting Daddy's Boss |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Madison Faye |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
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’m not – not really, of course. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to protect her, and take care of her, and keep her safe from the whole damn world. 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* | |
| Books by Author: | Madison Faye Books |
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.