Desired by the Billionaire Playboy
A marriage of half a decade that Emily Winchester had poured her heart and soul into crumbled in a night after catching her sister and husband lustfully entangled. Her soon-to-be ex releases her nudes to the world, framing her with infidelity. She leaves the marriage with a little more than the clothes on her back, and desperately trying to pay for her grandmother's hospital bills, is aligned with New York's notorious playboy billionaire, Sean Woods, as he's looking for a contract wife.
What happens when a single night encounter is all that is needed for the most eligible bachelor in the country to have his sights set on her? Will she just turn into one of his many conquests or be the one woman who claims his heart alone?
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Chapter 3
Emily's pov
Becky was truly the golden child.
I'd get straight A's, but that was 'expected.' Becky would manage to avoid straight 'F's, and my parents would shake the house down to its foundation, congratulating her like she just solved world hunger.
After I left that house, I thought I'd left all that behind.
But nope!
It wasn't bad enough that she already had everything; she had to take the little I had as well.
"I want to go back home," I told Wendy quietly. I thought she'd argue and nag, but she agreed easily. When we passed the sliding doors of the hotel, I was still thinking of Brad; he had never once kissed me like that, leaning in with his whole body while he craved with need.
That was my wake-up call.
I held Wendy tighter.
"You know what?" I said, a rush of determination entering me, "Fuck Brad, the night is young and I deserve to have fun. Who cares about him?"
Wendy looked at me worriedly at first, then squeezed my hand with support, smiling back in approval.
We went to the hotel bar just like we had been planning at first. My heart was pounding with every step, expecting to catch Brad and Becky again from the corner of my eye.
To think that he still went ahead with his plans for her tonight propelled me forward.
That night, for the first time in years, I got lit, chugging bottle after bottle until I was wasted. My mind was so blurred with the alcohol that I could hardly process the ache in my heart. The most romantic thing that Brad had ever done for me was taking me to that two-star restaurant that ended up closing down a few days later because of how poor their service was.
Yet, he brought my sister to this lovely hotel that reeked of luxury and opulence. I guess all the money troubles that he was having in his business were yet another lie meant to deceive me.
I pressed another glass to my lips again, remembering that damn kiss.
Then I got up to dance.
With a pull that felt stronger than gravity, I found myself shifting closer to a man on the dancefloor, each clumsy step wobbling me closer to him until I collapsed in his arms. I know it was wrong, but for some reason, it felt so right. I looked up at him, sparks flew, and then, we kissed.
••••••••
I woke up the next morning on the floor of my best friend's apartment, spread out next to the coffee table in the living room. She was snoring on her couch when I woke her up, both of us groggy and stumbling over each other, trying to find the hangover pills. After that, a shower and a strong cup of coffee, I could feel some semblance of life flowing back to us.
I spent the entire morning with my best friend just chatting and pretending like my whole life had not collapsed.
It was nice, the escape from reality, but those stolen moments ended after I got a text from Brad.
I looked at the text and then at Wendy.
"He asked me when I'm coming home," I said, my voice breaking into a strange laugh as I put my phone and the coffee mug aside. "He asked when I'm coming home, Wendy! What home? The audacity of this man!"
That was no longer my home. In fact, I don't think it has ever really been my home. I just deluded myself into believing it. I felt like such an idiot for not realizing it, the smell of women's perfume he always had on him, working overtime even though there was never enough money to show it, getting irritated over every little thing.
It was screaming affair in every way, but I chose to turn a blind eye to it.
I especially didn't want to believe that of all the women he chose to be with, it had to be my sister.
There was no way to salvage this.
"I'm going to see him, Wendy," I said, covering my face, and I could already guess that she was worried even without saying her expression. "Don't worry, nothing he says will make me get back with him, but I just need to know why he did it. Maybe I'll get closure, maybe not... Then we'll talk about the divorce."
I broke down again, and Wendy hugged me.
Half an hour later, I was dressed in her clothes and parked in front of the house I'd soon have to split.
"Do you need me to come in there with you?"
I chuckled, grateful for my friend's support.
"Thanks, but I have a feeling that there won't be much talking if you come along with me."
Her shoulders slumped, unable to deny it.
"All right, I'll be waiting here. Don't listen to anything he says, no matter what. This is his fault. He ruined your marriage, okay?"
I nodded, stepping out of the car and taking reluctant steps until I was inside the house.
Brad was waiting.
But he wasn't alone.
Next to him, pressed to his side like a kitten, was my younger sister Becky. She saw me and gasped dramatically.
"Emily, you look like a ghost." I could always trust my younger sister for a compliment, but right now was not the time to deal with her. Still standing, I looked at Brad.
"I came to discuss with you, not your mistress."
Brad's face clenched with anger.
"How can you call your sister something so vile?"
I almost broke into that odd laughter again, my entire face twitched, and this indescribable urge to clinch my face and swing it at either one of their faces overwhelmed me.
He still had the audacity to get angry, to fume at me for being just fully upset after they both betrayed me. Wasn't he worried that he had shattered my heart? He was still concerned about how I addressed my sister. I thought I was going to throw up. This was beyond sickening.
If there was any hesitation before, it's immediately dissolved as I said; "Brad, I want a divorce."
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9.5
"Do you know what marriage is?" Evelyn asked with a raised brow.
"Marriage is 'I do' and 'you do', then boom, children come in anytime they want," Drake replied with a cute smile.
"How do children come in?" She asked knowingly.
"Man and a woman call them," he replied foolishly.
"How do they call them?" She probed.
"Just like this..." He placed his phone to his ear.
"I already forgot that it's useless talking to you," Evelyn got annoyed and walked away
***
Twenty years old Evelyn Brown was forced to marry the son of the richest man in the country, Drake Valentino.
She thought her life was perfect, not until she was forced to get married to a man she barely knows because of money.
Evelyn had thought the arranged marriage wasn't bad as her groom was a handsome young man from a rich family, just like hers until she entered the marriage.
She was shocked into disbelief when she realized her husband wasn't as normal as she thought he was, he was a complete... Moron!
9.7
For seven years, I was Grant Charles’s shadow—his top executive assistant by day and the woman in his bed by night. I managed his billion-dollar empire and handled his every crisis, believing our bond was the one thing his money couldn't buy.
Everything shattered when I walked into his penthouse and found Aimee Austin sitting on his lap, wearing nothing but his favorite white dress shirt. Grant didn't even look guilty; he just stared at me with cold, arrogant eyes and told me I was dripping rain on his expensive Persian rug.
When I tried to resign, he showed me exactly how cruel he could be. He knew I had drained my life savings to pay for my mother’s specialized care for her dementia. "Without my salary and the foundation subsidy, she’ll be on the street in a month," he whispered, his voice dripping with malice. "Is your pride really worth her life?"
He didn't stop there. He tried to break my spirit by publicly humiliating me at a high-end restaurant, orchestrating a "setup" to show me that without his protection, I was nothing more than a common servant. He wanted me to realize that without him, I was a nobody with no future.
I couldn't believe the man I had protected for nearly a decade was weaponizing my dying mother to keep me as his subordinate. He thought he owned every inch of me, and he was waiting for me to come crawling back on my knees to beg for my old life.
But Grant made one fatal mistake: he assumed I was a charity case. He had no idea I was the secret heir to the billion-dollar Klein Trust, currently frozen behind a single marriage clause. I didn't need his money; I just needed a husband.
Instead of begging for my job, I walked straight into the office of the only man Grant feared—the ruthless litigator Julian Vance. I threw a marriage contract on his desk and gave him an offer he couldn't refuse. It was time to stop being a shadow and start a war.
9.2
"Rip my ass apart, Daddy! Fuck the shit out of me! God, yes!"
"So fucking tight, Jenny. No matter how many times I fuck your ass, it's always like the first time... Are you being good for daddy? Keeping other dicks out of this perfect ass?"
"Yes, Daddy. Only yours," she moaned...
###
Plunge into a filthy taboo erotica collection where daddies (step daddies, daddies-in-law, and other forbidden fruit) crave and claim their teasing little girls in raw, boundary shattering steamy shorts.
Loaded with intense dirty talk, dubious consent edges, high risk exposure thrills, possessive breeding kinks, degradation and humiliation, and scorching incest.
Please take care of your mental health. It gets dark and twisted in here...
###
A conflicted step daddy wrecks his stepdaughter's holes on his marital bed while his wife lurks nearby.
A blind step daughter is tricked into fucking daddy.
A daddy fucks his step daughter on her wedding day... to his son.
Billionaire daddies. Don daddies. A daddy that fucks his son's girlfriend... in front of his son.
###
Indulge in these and other dark fantasies with twist endings that will stay with you.
She begs for daddy's brutal cock. He can't stop stretching his filthy little girl.
***All characters are over 18. Explicit content ahead. 18+ only. Reader discretion is advised.
8.6
I spent three years being the perfect wife to tech mogul Cash Ferguson, a forensic accountant playing the role of a low-risk asset to stabilize his public image. My world shattered when I saw a live CNBC broadcast from Sundance showing Cash tenderly hoisting a two-year-old boy onto his hip—a secret son born to a socialite mistress while he was supposedly at a business roadshow.
When I confronted him with divorce papers, Cash didn't apologize; he laughed, calling me a "liability" and weaponizing my mother’s history of mental illness to claim I was genetically unfit to carry his heir. He didn't just reject the split; he locked the penthouse elevator and froze every one of my accounts, reclassifying me from a wife to a piece of disputed company property.
"You came from nothing, Isidora," he sneered, tossing a credit card at me like a leash. "Stop being dramatic. I can afford a pet, but don't think you can survive a day in the real world without my name."
The betrayal turned lethal when I discovered Cash had tracked down my mother’s stolen emerald brooch—my only connection to my past—and bought it as a gift for his mistress. He was using my trauma and my heritage to decorate the woman who had replaced me in his secret life.
I realized then that Cash had made a fatal accounting error: he forgot that I was the one who built his shadow accounts and knew exactly where the fraud was buried. He wanted to treat our marriage like a hostile takeover, so I decided to give him a market correction he would never forget.
I escaped down forty flights of stairs with nothing but a burner laptop and a plan to burn his empire to the ground. If he wanted to play dirty, I’d show him what happens when a forensic accountant initiates a liquidation protocol. I’m not just leaving; I’m going to make him crawl.
8.0
I spent two years as the perfect, dutiful wife to Foster Baird. I was his unpaid PR consultant and his emotional punching bag, enduring his mother’s snide comments about my orphan background all for the sake of a "marriage" I thought was real.
But when I went to the City Clerk’s office to replace a damaged document, the clerk looked at me with genuine pity.
"There is no record of a marriage license for you and Foster Baird. Legally? You aren't married."
The betrayal went even deeper. I returned to our penthouse to find Foster’s mistress on our sofa, alongside a five-year-old boy who shared Foster’s exact features. Foster hadn't just cheated; he had a secret family that predated our entire relationship. He had even bribed a doctor to lie to me about being infertile just to keep me docile and focused on his business. When the mistress moved into my guest wing the next day, Foster demanded I act as their hostess and serve them dinner.
I watched them play happy family in the home I built, realizing I was never a wife—I was just "cheap labor" he intended to discard once his company stock stabilized. He thought I was a barren charity case with nowhere to go.
He was wrong. That same afternoon, I received a call from the executor of the Arthur Kensington estate. I wasn't a nobody; I was the long-lost biological daughter and sole heir to a five-billion-dollar fortune.
While Foster was busy planning my replacement, I was accessing the Kensington Trust. I didn't scream, and I didn't cry. I simply bought a fifty-million-dollar mansion and hired a team of forensic accountants to dismantle the Baird Group from the inside out. I crushed my old phone under my designer heel and looked at my new security detail.
"Let's get to work," I said.
7.2
Five years ago, I was sentenced to prison for a car accident that left Blaire Lowe fighting for her life in the ICU.
The day I was finally released, I thought the nightmare was over, but it had only just begun.
Carson Long, the man who once loved me, was waiting. He didn't see a victim of a tragic accident; he saw a monster who deserved to rot.
He made sure I knew that freedom was a lie. He turned my life into a living hell, dragging me through the halls of the hospital to witness the ruin I had caused, forcing me to watch as those who once knew me spat on my name and treated me like filth.
When he demanded I pay for my sins by destroying my own face, I didn't hesitate. I carved a jagged scar into my cheek just to satisfy his cold, relentless hatred, hoping it would finally be enough to earn his mercy.
But he wasn't satisfied. He dragged me to his estate, stripped me of my dignity, and turned me into the house's lowest servant, forcing me to scrub cobblestones until my knees bled and my body gave out.
Why did he hate me so much that he wanted me to suffer every second of my existence? Why was he so determined to see my soul crushed into dust, even when I had nothing left to give?
I looked at the trash I was forced to eat, and in that moment, I realized that as long as Carson held the leash, I would never be free.
I picked up a piece of moldy bread, my eyes hollow, and decided that if living meant becoming his dog, I would find a way to end the game on my own terms.