I never imagined I'd fall head over heels for my fiancé's son at first sight, let alone that his touch would ignite a burning desire that consumed my entire body.
My dad racked up two million in gambling debts and straight-up "sold" me to his creditor—a decrepit old man thirty-eight years my senior, practically one foot in the grave. My engagement party wasn't a celebration; it was a humiliating transaction where I was treated like merchandise. That is, until his son burst through the door, his tailored suit hugging his chiseled, icy frame, his gaze raking over me with raw, devouring hunger that promised to swallow me whole.
He's my "stepson" in name only, but whenever the old creep groped my thighs or tried to rip open my blouse, he'd shatter a glass or spin some excuse to rescue me. We'd steal kisses in the dead-of-night study, his tongue invading my mouth as his hands slipped under my skirt, sparking a slick, throbbing heat I'd never felt before; in the shadowy hospital corridors, he'd pin me against the wall, his hard arousal pressing into my belly as he whispered forbidden vows. But I know we're walking a tightrope—if we're caught, his family will hunt him down, and I'll become the old man's personal plaything for good.
Can this illicit passion pull me out of this nightmare?
