His Forbidden Obsession: Tempting The Devil I Can't Have
BLURB
"Beg for it, Bella," his rasped voice whispered against my ears as his dick rubbed against my thighs.
"I want you to f**k me until my tongue knows nothing but your name. Please, Daddy," I begged shamelessly until he finally slipped into me.
-
The first time I saw him, I understood why people ruin their lives for dicks.
He was standing in the sunlight, watching me like he already knew how the story would end. I had a boyfriend. He was my best friend's father. And ninety days should have been easy to survive.
Then I opened the wrong door, and after everything burned.
Alexander Moreau doesn't touch you first. He studies you, learns you, and makes you feel like the only person in the room. And somewhere between midnight swims and locked doors, I stopped pretending I didn't want him.
I'd go through hell and come back friends with the devil if it would mean him sticking his dick inside me again.
But houses made of glass don't protect secrets, and by the time summer ended, I had lost my best friend, my relationship, my future, and the version of myself I thought I was. Because falling for Alexander Moreau wasn't the danger.
His ex-wife was.
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Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN FATE HATES YOU
ISABELLA
"You're not coming, are you?"
Camille's voice cracked through my phone speaker, equal parts accusation and disappointment. I shifted the device against my ear, staring at the suitcase on my bed. It was half-packed, like my commitment to this trip.
"Of course I'm coming. The flight's tomorrow."
"You've been saying that for three weeks. Every time I call, you're 'definitely coming,' but your suitcase looks like it's been in the same spot since Tuesday."
I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. She wasn't wrong.
"Julien thinks I shouldn't go."
"Julien." She said his name like it was a flavor she'd tried once and hated. "What does Julien think you'll miss? Another dinner where he answers emails under the table? A weekend where he 'accidentally' schedules golf with clients instead of your anniversary?"
"Camille-"
"No, listen to me." Her voice softened, losing its edge. "Izzy, when's the last time you did something just for you? Not for him, not for work, not because it was the practical choice. Something that made your chest feel light because you couldn't believe you got to be there?"
I glanced at my window. Paris stretched beyond it, gray and drizzly, beautiful in that scripted way that made you want to write sad poetry or drink expensive wine.
I'd lived here for six years, and I'd stopped noticing either.
"The Moreau beach house," she continued, "is stupidly beautiful. Like, annoyingly so. White cliffs, water so blue it looks fake, and sunsets that make you believe in God. And my father's never there, so we have the whole place to ourselves. Three months, Izzy. Just us, champagne, and absolutely no men telling us what we should want."
I almost laughed and almost said yes, then reality crept back in.
"I have deadlines. And Julien will be impossible when I get back-"
"Julien will be Julien whether you're gone for three days or three months. That man has the emotional temperature of a houseplant."
"Camille-"
"Isabella Laurent."
Okay.... She just called my full name.
"I love you. You're my person. But if you let that emotionally constipated architect talk you out of the best summer of your life, I will fly to Paris and pack your suitcase myself. And I will bring the embarrassing lingerie you hide in the back of your drawer."
"I don't have embarrassing lingerie."
"You will after I'm done shopping for you."
I pressed my palm against my forehead, but I was smiling. The part of me that wanted a new scenery was beginning to win.
"Three months is a long time."
"Three months is nothing. Three months is a blink. Three months from now, you'll be back in this apartment, staring at that same gray sky, wishing you'd said yes. Don't wish, Izzy. Just say yes."
Fuck it. I'm doing it.
"Yes," I whispered.
"What was that? I didn't catch it."
"Yes, you insufferable woman. I'll come."
She squealed like a child on Christmas morning, and I laughed... really laughed for the first time in months.
Twenty-four hours later, I regretted everything.
The flight had been fine. The car service had been fine. But standing in the doorway of the Moreau beach house, with its white stone and impossible cliffs and beautiful waters, I felt overwhelmed.
"Told you," Camille said, appearing behind me with two champagne flutes. "Stupidly beautiful."
"It's a lot."
"It's just a house." She pressed a glass into my hand. "With better views than most. I told you, my father's never here. We have the whole place to ourselves. Total freedom."
Camille had been my person since sophomore year of college. She was sharp and blonde and carried her wealth like a sweater she'd forgotten she was wearing. She didn't flaunt it, but she also didn't understand why I checked restaurant prices before ordering.
I took a long sip of champagne, letting the bubbles settle my nerves.
The terrace stretched before us, white stone bleeding into golden sand that flowed into water the color of crushed sapphires.
"See?" Camille bumped her shoulder against mine. "Worth it already."
I nodded because it was. The air smelled like peace, which made me forget Julien's disappointment.
Then we heard the sound of a car engine.
Camille's eyebrows dipped into a frown. "That's my father."
"I thought you said he was never here."
"He's not. He wasn't supposed to be." She drained her champagne in one long swallow. "Shit."
The car came to a stop near our shed, and the driver's door opened. Then he stepped out.
For a moment, he was just a silhouette against the dying light. Tall. Broad-shouldered with a kind of stillness that suggested absolute authority.
Then he removed his sunglasses, folded them once, dipped them into his jacket pockets, and looked up.
Holy. Fucking. Molly.
Camille grabbed my hand, pulling me forward before I could process what was happening. Her fingers were cold. Or maybe mine were.
"Dad, this is Isabella."
Up close, he was sinfully devastating.
Dark hair touched with silver at the temples. Eyes so pale blue they looked like a winter sky. High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, and a mouth that looked like it smiled rarely. Let's not even talk about his height.
How can he be so fucking good-looking!?
Then he looked at me, and something in my body recognized him.
"Isabella." His voice was low and accented, wrapping around my name like it belonged to him. "Camille has told me everything about you."
I opened my mouth. But nothing came out.
There was a little twitch at the side of his lips, and the sight of it got me more tongue-tied.
Say something, Isabella!!
"Welcome," he said softly, "to our home."
Behind me, Camille laughed nervously. "Dad, you said you weren't coming until August."
"Plans changed." His eyes hadn't left mine. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"No, of course not. We're just-it's fine. It's your house."
"Mmm." He tilted his head slightly, studying me like I was something he hadn't expected to find. "Isabella. How long are you staying?"
I finally found my voice. "Ninety days. If that's-if it's alright with you."
His smile deepened. Just slightly. Just enough to make my stomach drop.
"Ninety days," he repeated. "How fortunate for me."
In that moment, I knew I was cooked.
I just didn't know yet that three mornings from now, I'd open the wrong door.
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8.6
I was the untouchable Mafia Queen, but my reign ended in the blood-soaked depths of a damp dungeon.
My half-sister, Kelsey, drove a rusted, sharpened spoon into my chest, screaming about the unfairness of fate.
In my past life, my father sold me to the ruthless Don Dante Blackwell as collateral to pay off his debts.
To survive, I took a black-market fertility drug, birthed his heir, and clawed my way to the throne through sheer ruthlessness.
But in the mafia world, a pregnant woman isn't a queen; she's a walking target.
I survived countless bombings and poisonings, only to be betrayed and slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand. I had sacrificed everything to secure our survival in the empire. Why did my blood and tears only earn me a rusted spoon to the heart?
Opening my eyes again, I am seventeen, sitting in my father's drawing room.
Two black velvet boxes sit on the mahogany table.
Kelsey greedily snatches the box containing the fertility drug, her eyes gleaming with feverish triumph.
"I'll take this one, Papa."
She thinks she is stealing my golden ticket to the crown, completely unaware that she just chose a death sentence.
I lower my gaze, letting my eyelashes mask the cold, lethal amusement pooling in my eyes as I take the remaining box.
Inside is the detailed psychological profile of the Don's dead fiancée.
This time, I won't be a breeding mare fighting off assassins. I will dissect the devil himself.
7.3
e didn't come to stop my wedding to Daniel. He came to claim me for himself.
One moment I was walking toward "I do" - toward Daniel, my safe, predictable future. Next, his men stormed the church, and I was dragged from the altar in my lace dress, veil torn, dreams shattered. I became the prize of the most dangerous man in the city.
Eric Moretti. The Mafia King. Cold eyes. Sinful mouth. Hands that have ended lives... and now own mine.
"Daniel can't protect you," he growled against my ear that first night, locking me in his penthouse. "He never could. But me, Seraphina? I'll owe you. Cherish you. Destroy anyone who looks at you twice. You're mine now."
I fought him. I screamed. I clawed.
He pinned my wrists above my head and showed me exactly what resistance costs.
But somewhere between the silk sheets and the dangerous midnight confessions, hate began to blur with something far more terrifying-need. His touch sets my skin on fire. His voice commands my pulse. And when he looks at me like I'm the only light in his dark world, I forget Daniel's name. I forget I was ever meant to be someone else's bride.
"I should let you go," he admits one night, lips trailing down my throat. "Send you back to your safe little life with Daniel. But I'm a selfish bastard. And you... You've gotten under my skin, Bella."
But in his world, love is a death sentence. Enemies circle. Betrayal festers. And when they come for him, they'll have to go through me-the bride who stopped being a captive the moment I chose to stay.
They say the Mafia King has no heart. They're wrong. He gave it to me-and I'll burn this city down before I let anyone take it from him.me to add more tension between Eric and Daniel, or make Daniel a bigger threat?
9.0
"You and your baby are mine whether you want it or not."
Renata Neroni's life was shattered the moment she discovered her boyfriend and stepsister's betrayal. In a rare lapse of judgment fueled by grief and alcohol, she spent a single, anonymous night with a stranger, unaware that she had just surrendered herself to Domenico Veronesi, the most formidable figure in the global underworld.
That night left Renata with more than just a memory; she was pregnant with the heir to a mafia empire.
As her father, desperate to free himself from the debts, prepares to marry her off to a man nearly his own age, Renata finds herself trapped. Her only escape arrives in the form of Domenico himself. Asserting his claim, he interrupts the arrangement and brings Renata to his secluded estate.
Within the fortified walls of the Veronesi estate, the man known for his cold, merciless exterior reveals a singular obsession: the protection of Renata and their unborn child.
However, Domenico's readiness to provide is met with a wall of ice.
Despite his efforts to provide for her, Renata's resentment initially hardens into a wall of silence.
To her, Domenico is simply another powerful man attempting to control her fate. However, as she is forced to navigate the inner workings of his life within the mafia world, she begins to see the man behind the fearsome reputation.
Renata discovers the deeper layers of Domenico, a loyalty and a hidden vulnerability regarding their child, and the fear that once defined her begins to dissolve.
8.0
For five years, my husband kept me in a dog cage because he believed I murdered his fiancée, my stepsister Kinsley.
He stripped me of my dignity, my name, and my humanity, all to avenge a woman who wasn't even dead.
When Kinsley finally returned, alive and smiling, I thought my nightmare was over.
Instead, she framed me again.
Right in front of Courtland, she pushed my little brother down the stone steps of the estate.
I held my brother's broken body in the rain, screaming for help.
But Courtland just stood there, shielding Kinsley under his umbrella, looking at me with cold indifference.
He chose the monster over his wife.
That night, I realized love wasn't enough to save me.
So, I stood on the edge of the hospital roof and let gravity take me.
I wanted him to mourn. I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to burn.
Three years later, at a gala in New York, the Ice King dropped his champagne glass.
He stared at me—the woman in the red dress, the fiancée of his rival.
I looked him dead in the eye and smiled like a stranger.
He cornered me later, his voice trembling with rage and obsession.
"Death is the only divorce in my world, Anastasia. And you are still very much alive."
8.3
I was staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick, trembling with the terrifying joy of carrying the heir to the New York underworld’s most ruthless faction.
Then the intercom buzzed, and a voice splintered my world.
"The little art student actually thinks I'm going to marry her? It was just a game to pass the time while you were in Europe, Estella."
I froze.
My boyfriend, Holden, was in the next room, laughing with the daughter of his rival.
He explained that I was just a "clean civilian image" he needed to secure a business deal. Now that the deal was signed, he was dumping the "stray" to marry the "Queen."
I tried to run, but freedom only lasted forty-eight hours.
Holden didn't just break my heart; he turned my terror into content.
He kidnapped me, tied me to a chair at the edge of a cliff, and forced me to choose between my life and his new fiancée's.
Then, he pushed me off the edge.
As gravity snatched me, I heard him laughing.
I landed on a stunt airbag. It was just a "social experiment." A sick prank for his amusement.
"Don't be so dramatic, Kenia," he called down. "It's just a game."
He thought I was broken. He thought I was just a prop in his life.
But he forgot that I knew his secrets.
I dragged my injured body to a payphone and dialed the one number Holden told me to fear—the rival Don, Gael Simpson.
"It's Kenia," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt."
9.0
I spent a year scrubbing floors in my fiancé’s club, hiding my identity as the daughter of the Capo dei Capi.
I needed to know if Connor Bishop was a King worth merging empires with, or just a puppet.
The answer came walking in wearing a neon pink dress.
Jaden Juarez, a civilian he was infatuated with, didn't just treat me like a servant; she deliberately poured scalding espresso over my hand because I refused to be her valet.
The pain was blinding, my skin blistering instantly.
I video-called Connor, showing him the burn, expecting him to enforce the code of our world.
Instead, seeing his investors watching, he panicked.
He chose to sacrifice me to save face.
"Get on your knees," he roared through the speaker. "Beg her pardon. Show her the respect she deserves."
He wanted the daughter of the most dangerous man on the East Coast to kneel to his mistress.
He thought he was showing strength.
He didn't realize he was looking at a woman who could burn his entire world to ash with a single phone call.
I didn't cry. I didn't beg.
I simply hung up the phone and locked the kitchen doors.
Then, I dialed the one number everyone in the underworld feared.
"Dad," I said, my voice cold as steel. "Code Black. Bring the papers."
"And send the wolves."