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I’ve tried so very hard to be good. Papa does not tolerate disobedience and I would never go against his wishes. That’s until, Ash Thompson tracks me down and tell me all the things he is going to do for me. All the things he wants to do to me.
He’s the devil tempting me from the outside. Papa says money makes people evil, but Ash Thompson’s eyes tell me otherwise. His sinful touch has me ready to taunt the devil and lay waste to my purity.
Only, the preacher’s daughter has obligations. There is no way I could go against my upbringing.
Or could I?
Author’s Note: Take one innocent preacher’s daughter. A few secret YouTube videos. A billionaire who falls in love with a sassy food blogger. And boom. You have a recipe for an explosive encounter that will have you licking your lips and rooting for all that is sinful. Always safe, no cheating, insta-love with a happily ever after that leaves you with a sigh.
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“ARE YOU FUCKING TELLING me I spent last weekend having dinner with Marc Cuban, then sat in a meeting with—among others—Warren Buffet, but you can’t find out who one fucking girl is? Pay someone for fuck’s sake. Pay whoever needs fucking paying, as much as they need paying. It’s been four God-damn hours.” The limo hums under me, heading toward my corporate office in Midtown.
Rage and lust surge through me as I replay one of the videos on the ‘Food is my Church’ blog that came to my attention in a email this morning.
“We’re working on it.” My head attorney Larry’s voice is hard on the other end of the phone. “Calm down. This girl is a ghost. She’s got no electronic footprint besides this blog.”
I’m not usually like this, and as angry as I might be right now it’s not actually Larry’s fault. But my usual calm manner snapped after I opened the email and I’ve been struggling to get myself under control ever since. Right after I clicked on the link to that first video, something happened to me. There was this low concussion in my chest, like a boom of some kind, and I’ve been obsessing ever since.
Tapping my phone screen as the limo takes the turn onto Seventh Avenue, I move to her next video, one that I’ve watched fifty times already. But I can’t imagine not watching this particular one—easily my favorite—fifty-thousand times more.
“Yeah, well I’ll be in my office in fifteen and there better be some progress.”
I click off knowing I’m going to have some apologizing to do later. That’s fine, I may be the king of cool in the boardroom, but I’ve got a temper when I’m uber-focused on a goal. And looking at the ginger-haired cherub smiling at me from my phone screen with her flour covered hands on her cheeks leaving white dust behind, I’ve never been so focused in my life.
Focus has gotten me everywhere. I took over my family’s chain of five Mom’s & Tom’s restaurants when I was just eighteen, and within two years I’d turned it into a food and entertainment empire of which my parents could have only dreamed. Since then, I’ve landed on the Fortune 500 list ten years running.
Since our humble beginnings, I’ve branched out into home delivery meal prep, as well as publishing every hot new diet guru that pops up. There’s more money in weight loss than even I would have imagined and converting that segregated business into a national single stage empire is one of my current focuses. But in spite of all my success, I like to think I’m an ethical guy. When something goes wrong, I cop to it, remediate as best I can and apologize. I haven’t stepped on the hands, heads or feet of others to get where I am, and it lets me sleep better at night.
I press the button on the speaker to my driver. “When we get there, drop me at the front door.”
“Yes, sir,” Theodore replies in his usual polite yet emotionless voice.
He’s been my driver for going on twenty years now and is one of probably three people in the world I trust. The other two are my assistant, Olivia, who doubles as a mother figure; and Deacon, my housekeeper.
Some people raise an eyebrow at the fact that I have a man as a housekeeper but let me tell you, he keeps my world running and spit-shined like no woman I hired to do the same job before I found him. Besides, he’s one of the few people in the world that can also make me laugh—and that’s not an easy task.
Knowing I’ve got about ten minutes, I press the lock button on the privacy divider between Theodore and me and settle back into my seat. I share more with him than most, but there are some things neither of us needs to know about each other, and one of them is about to release itself from my trousers.
I lean my phone on the console in front of me and press replay on the video. She’s describing a cashew, raspberry and blueberry tart and the way her blue eyes sparkle as she talks about whipping the cream into the raspberry filling has my cock leaking and needy.
Amazing that just a few hours ago I’d never seen this girl in my life. When I logged onto my corporate email around four am, after my usual five hours of sleep, I scrolled through the expected deluge of emails. Being hands on in a business the size of some economies will do that. Managers need my advice; reports need to be analyzed: updates on new ventures need to be read.
Then one email caught my eye. I don’t know, maybe some would have ignored it as spam or a crank with an ax to grind, but I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. The subject line said: “Pretty low stealing your Sin-A-Mon Sriracha recipes from this girl.” I clicked on that email before I dealt with any of the rest—and they’re all still sitting there unopened.