Punished by My Boyfriend’s Dad (Forbidden Fantasies #64) Read Online S.E. Law

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Erotic, Forbidden Tags Authors: Series: Forbidden Fantasies Series by S.E. Law
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Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 27696 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
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My boyfriend’s even more devious than I thought. He SOLD me to his father, who’s a gorgeous, brutal, scary crime lord who wants to punish me for my sins.

Taylor: I was fired by Club Z after stealing silver candlesticks from the club. It’s wrong, I know, especially since I made off with the candlesticks by inserting them into my two secret spaces. (Oooh, that felt good!) But now, the Club’s going to banish me to some godforsaken gulag in the middle of nowhere, and I’m not going. Absolutely not. As a result, my boyfriend says I can hide-out in his dad’s mansion to stay low for a while … but little did I know that candlesticks can also be used as punishment!

Roman: My son’s girlfriend thinks I’m letting her live with me out of the goodness of my heart. Guess again, sweetheart. Instead, my sniveling, weak-ass son SOLD the curvy girl to me, for a pretty penny too. So yeah, the candlesticks are coming out to play because I want to see what my new houseguest can do … as Taylor bounces those pretty curves up and down until she’s pregnant with my baby!

This is a follow-up to Six Months with My Uncle. In this story, Taylor commits the ultimate sin, but the problem is that she secretly (or not so secretly) enjoys being bad. Lucky for her, there’s a man ready and able to make sure she gets it exactly the way she likes best, and soon, Taylor and Roman are ensnared in a sexy dance that ends with an unexpected twist. Get ready for faraway lands, a charming (yet sinister) billionaire, and of course, a bouncing baby at the end. No cheating no cliffhangers, and always a HEA for my readers.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

1

Taylor

I tiptoe through the halls of Club Z, an exclusive gentlemen’s club in New York City. The pile carpeting is soft under my heels, making it difficult to walk, but there’s no way I’d be caught wearing flats in a place like this. It’s not that I hate sneakers, ballet slippers, or even Crocs. It’s just that at Club Z, pretty girls are here for a reason, and you don’t want to be caught looking dull and un-sexy by a billionaire.

As I wobble down the hall, I take in my surroundings because everything about Club Z is luxurious, from the carpet, to the antique furniture, to the Old Master paintings on the walls. Some of this stuff looks like it could be from a castle in Europe, and unable to resist, I test out one of the ottomans in a small seating area. Oooh, bouncy. It’s a deep red circle with gold fringe that sways as I bump up and down, and I giggle. This would be amazing for some dirty times with the right man, and they should seriously consider stocking these in the main lounge.

Then again, Club Z is a no-holds-barred place, so maybe this ottoman has already been used, right here in this spot. Surreptitiously, I check the fabric for come stains or some other filthy indication of use, but of course, there are none. The red velvet is pristine because Club Z has a meticulous cleaning staff, and would never let something like that happen to the expensive furniture. Ah well.

Still bouncing up and down, I happen to glance over at a circular wooden table with a vase of flowers on top. Goodness. The flowers are some exotic species that reach six feet in the air, their lilac petals stretching to the ceiling. A sweet scent fills the air, and I’m sure these flowers were imported from Holland, Colombia, or some other far-flung location. Even crazier, Club Z constantly gets deliveries of fresh flowers, and I stare at the bouquet ruefully. Shit, this arrangement probably costs more than my weekly paycheck. After all, I make good money at the club, but most of it is from client tips. The men are more than generous, and that’s what pays my bills.

I know it’s scandalous working as a hostess, but it’s better than what I was doing before. As an urchin from the streets, I don’t have much of an education. As a result, I was a cashier at a Mickey D’s before I landed this gig, and no, it wasn’t fun working for the Golden Arches. I’d wear the headset and take orders from the drive through, but you wouldn’t believe how many people are cranky if we ran out of Oreo McFlurries. Seriously, I was genuinely afraid of violent confrontations when I had to tell customers that we were out. There were days when I wondered if I should have on a bullet-proof vest beneath my uniform because Oreo McFlurries were that popular.

But now, I no longer smell of grease and fries 24/7. Instead, Club Z has provided me with a comfortable lifestyle, and I like doing what I do, actually. The men are gorgeous, handsome, and very generous. Plus, the club protects us by screening potential clients rigorously, and always provides a safe space and security as we work.

Sighing, I run my hands over the soft fabric of the ottoman. I should be grateful for my new lifestyle, and I am. But old habits die hard, and I can literally feel my fingers twitch as they caress the velvet material.

After all, my past is checkered. When you grow up poor, you do what you need to in order to survive, and as a child constantly shuttled between different foster homes, I was never above eating thrown-out leftovers or shopping at Goodwill. It gets worse though. By the time I was a teenager, I was parked in a group home, and for protection more than anything else, I got in with a posse of street-wise girls. You can guess what happened. We were all from neglectful families, and some of the girls had been fending for themselves almost from they moment they were born. As a result, we were a guild, so to say – a guild of innocent, sweet-faced thieves, to be exact.

The girls were clever and experienced. The taught me everything they knew about our craft, including how to recognize a prime target; how to distinguish between a money clip and a wallet; how to distract the victim and of course, how to “release” the victim from his possessions. Once the deed was done, we’d return to the home and share our spoils, marveling at how easy the con was. Okay, it wasn’t exactly a con; we were engaged in crime, and generally deserved to go to jail even as sixteen year olds.


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