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 2
CHAPTER TWO
CRACKS
All the years I've known Camille, she has adored her father, unlike most daughters. I heard him in almost every conversation, and among the list of the people she loved, he was number one.
But I had never met him until that moment he drove into the beach house.
Twenty-four hours in this house, and Alexander Moreau existed only in fragments, annoyingly so. A closed door at the end of a hallway, a car that appeared and disappeared, and Camille's casual mentions.
Dad's in Nice today.
Dad's flying back late.
Dad's already left for his run; you just missed him.
Just missed him. Like I was keeping track when I wasn't keeping track.
Except I absolutely was.
Lying in bed at midnight, staring at the ceiling, I couldn't stop my brain from wandering.
Did he always look that sinful, or was yesterday a special occasion? Are his eyes that blue, or was he wearing contact lenses? What's the size of his palm compared to mine? What would those lips taste like?
Stop it.
I grabbed my phone, scrolled to Julien's contact, and pressed call before I could think better of it.
He answered on the fourth ring. "Isabella? It's midnight."
"I know, I couldn't sleep."
There was a pause, and I could picture him frowning at his watch, calculating lost sleep hours.
"Everything okay?"
"Just wanted to hear your voice."
A longer pause. "I have an early presentation. Can we talk tomorrow?"
My chest tightened. "Sure. Go back to sleep."
"I'll call you tomorrow." A beat. "Love you."
"Love you too."
Forty-three seconds. That's how long my boyfriend of two years had for me. I stared at my phone until the screen went dark. Then I grabbed my robe and stormed to Camille's room.
She was awake, of course she was, scrolling through her phone in the dark, and took one look at my face before patting the bed.
"You okay?" She asked, popping a grape into her mouth from the bowl on her nightstand. "You look like a train ran right through you."
"Just tired."
"Bullshit." She sat up fully, pulling her knees to her chest. "This is me, Izzy. Talk."
I wanted to. God, part of me wanted to spill everything. The way I keep replaying his voice, the way my skin prickled every time I saw him, and the fact that I'd dreamed about him and woken up feeling guilty and hungry all at once.
But what was I supposed to say? Hey, I think I'm weirdly attracted to your forty-seven-year-old father? No big deal, right?
"I think Julien's mad at me," I said instead.
It wasn't even a lie. Just not the whole truth.
Camille snorted. "He's an asshole."
"You don't even know what happened."
"Don't need to." She popped another grape into her mouth. "With Julien, it's always the same thing. You reach out, and he pulls back. You need warmth; he gives you spreadsheets. The man has the emotional temperature of a houseplant."
I laughed despite myself. "You've called him that before."
"Because it's true." She tossed a grape at me. I caught it. "What did he do this time?"
"Nothing. That's the problem. I called because I couldn't sleep, and he made me feel like an inconvenience for existing."
"Mmm." She chewed thoughtfully. "You know what your problem is?"
"Enlighten me."
"You're too loyal. You've been with him since college, so you think you have to stay. But babe-" she grabbed my hand-"staying somewhere just because you've been there a long time? That's not love. That's a lease agreement."
What the hell is she saying?
"Also," she added, grinning now, "you need to meet the guys in this town. Julien won't stand a chance."
"Are you teaching me how to cheat?" I asked with raised eyebrows.
She ticked, raising her index finger and moving it sideways. "I'm teaching you how to be free. There's a difference."
My stomach flipped. "Camille-"
"I'm just saying. Ninety days of sun, champagne, and zero emotional constipation. It's going to recalibrate your standards." She squeezed my hand. "Just go to sleep, and tomorrow we can go men-hunting."
I went back to my room and lay there, closing my eyes and trying to sleep. Closing my eyes didn't work, so I opened them and stared at the ceiling.
At 2:47 AM, I gave up. I need a drink or something.
The hallway was dark and silent. Camille's door stayed shut as I walked past it, tiptoeing not to wake her light-sleeping head. I needed to move, to shake whatever this was crawling under my skin. Maybe I could do that with a cup of coffee.
The kitchen was dark when I pushed through the door. I felt for the light switch and found it. But when I turned it on, I froze.
The man that had taken over my thoughts like it was his birthright was standing at the counter, glass in hand and backlit by the moon through the window.
Alexander Moreau was in pajama pants, barefoot, and bare-chested. Silver at his temples catching the faint glow. And his eyes-God, his eyes-were exactly as blue as I first saw. It wasn't a lens, and it was even... Bluer.
Winter sky and midnight and something else, something that locked onto me the second I walked in.
The light was on now. We both knew I couldn't pretend I hadn't seen him. He didn't move, and neither did I. The silence stretched between us like we both knew something we weren't ready to say or admit.
Then his lips curved slightly into something that looked like a smile and a smirk mixed together.
And I knew I was already in trouble.
Eighty-eight more days, and I'd just walk into his kitchen at 3 AM looking like this.
His eyes dropped to my robe, paused, and lifted back to mine.
"Isabella," he said quietly, my name rolling off his tongue like a practiced music note.
I forgot how to breathe.
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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."