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Wearing Him Down
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When Sienna’s mother remarried and hightailed it to Paris with husband de jour, she was resigned to being raised by her housekeeper. Sienna never expected her new stepbrother, Grant Foster—the coldhearted Overlord of Wall Street—to assign her a team of bodyguards, move her into his multi-million-dollar penthouse and start calling her princess. Unfortunately, while Grant spoils her rotten, he continues to keep her at arm’s length. Sienna might be young, but her body knows what it needs. And while her stepbrother might be forbidden, she can’t help but wonder what it would take to wear him down…
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My name is Sienna and I have a problem.
A gorgeous, six-foot-three-inch problem named Grant Foster.
My hormones have been doing toe touches since the moment he strode into my life, all business, no pleasure. A mean, modern overlord who can make Wall Street roll over and beg with a flick of his dark eyebrow. Only, he’s not mean to me.
Oh no. I’m his princess.
Did I mention Grant is my stepbrother?
That seems important.
Let’s start at the beginning.
Our parents met last year, married on a whim and headed for Paris within a week. They’ve been on a whirlwind tour of planet Earth ever since. Being that my wealthy mother was never around to begin with, I was resigned to being raised by the housekeeper, which had been the status quo since I could remember.
Grant, however, was not about to let that happen.
The morning after our parents split to France, Grant arrived with a team of muscle-bound bodyguards that are now permanently assigned to me. Their first order of business was to make sure I was packed and transferred to Grant’s multi-million-dollar penthouse in Tribeca. At the time, I was heartbroken over my mother leaving—and frankly a little in shock that my high-powered hedge fund owner stepbrother gave two craps about my well-being.
I would soon find out he did care. Quite a bit.
Grant loves me. Spoils me. Loses his mind if I’m even in the vicinity of danger.
But he doesn’t love me like I love him.
I sigh and close my current assigned reading, The Art of Confident Living. I thought college would be the logical next step after I graduated high school, but Grant placed me in finishing school instead, where I’m learning how to conduct myself like a proper upper crust lady. Instead of classes like trigonometry and nineteenth century poetry, we study things like social media grace, polished wardrobes and strategic first impressions.
Using my tiptoe, I spin my chair away from the clear, glass desk to face my bedroom. Even by my standards, this room is a palace. One wall is a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking New York Harbor. The other walls are covered in fine, black and white photography inside gilded frames. Polished floors peek out from beneath expensive oriental rugs, my giant four-poster bed sitting against the wall, fancy almost to a fault with its pink, puffy bedclothes. It looks like a cotton candy cloud.
That bed is where I dream of Grant. Where I wake up frustrated and achy.
It might as well be a torture table, the sheets made of broken glass instead of high thread count Egyptian cotton.
My cell phone beeps on the table, letting me know it’s six o’clock and every inch of my body comes alive, anticipation raising goosebumps on my arms. Every single night, my stepbrother gets home at the exact same time. He didn’t become the lord of finance by playing fast and loose with his schedule. No, Grant is exacting and precise. He gets what he wants.
I just wish he’d want me the way I want him.
Knowing he’ll walk through my bedroom door any moment, I stand and drag a brush through my long, blonde hair. I reach for my silk robe, where it hangs in its usual spot on my desk chair—I’m not sure what stops me from putting it on, though. Maybe since my eighteen birthday came and went a week ago, I’m growing braver. My heart skips and skids as I let my hand drop from the robe. I pad toward my bed, lying across the mattress on my stomach.
In nothing but a tank top and panties.
What am I doing? Am I crazy?
Looking back over my shoulder, I realize my butt cheeks hang out of my boy shorts and start to lunge off the bed, intending to put on my robe like a decent upstanding citizen—
But I hear the telltale creak outside my door.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” I whisper.
Coming up with no other options, I flop down on the bed and pretend to be asleep.
You know, like a totally mature, worldly eighteen-year-old.
The door opens slowly and that ticklish sensation hits between my legs. It’s his scent. Bourbon poured over ice, topped with mint. There’s no reason why that smell should appeal to me. I’ve never had an alcoholic beverage in my life. I’ve often dreamed of tasting that combination of menthol and liquor from his tongue, though. Too many times.
It’s a ridiculous dream. My gorgeous, thirty-three-year-old, millionaire, bachelor stepbrother has only moved me into his home because there’s compassion lurking deep inside him, underneath the cold exterior. Either that, or having an abandoned half-sibling running around untethered in New York City could be bad for his reputation on the off chance I land myself in trouble. Whatever the reason I’ve found myself under Grant’s care, I should be grateful and stop wishing he’d kiss me. Or touch me.