Todos los capítulos de DIRTY DADDIES: Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

CHAPTER 1: EAT YOU OR FUCK YOU EMMA’S POV The alarm clock blared at 6:30 AM, just like it did every Tuesday. I slapped the snooze button, groaning. Another day, another fucking dollar. I dragged myself through my monotonous routine: a lukewarm shower, a slightly-too-tight pencil skirt, and a blouse that always needed ironing. I was just Emma, a low-level loan processor at Northwood Trust, dreaming of a life that felt less… beige. I should have called in sick. I should have tripped on the way out the door. Anything to change the course of that day. The bank was its usual quiet self at 8:45 AM. The smell of stale coffee and lemon-scented cleaner filled the air. I was counting the minutes until my first break, already thinking about the sad salad in the fridge, when the world exploded. The front glass doors shattered. A roaring, violent implosion. Men in black ski masks stormed in, screaming, their voices distorted and monstrous. "EVERYONE ON THE FUCKING GROUND! NOW!" A

CHAPTER 1: FIRST TASTE OF A WOMANCLAIRE’S POVThe apartment smelled like burnt popcorn, a weirdly comforting mix that had been the scent of my sanctuary for the past year. My sanctuary, and Sage’s. I was curled into a ball on our worn-in couch, drowning in a fleece blanket that couldn't touch the cold emptiness inside me. My phone had finally gone dark, but the words were burned onto the back of my eyelids: "We need space. It’s not you, it’s me." A cliché that somehow made the heartbreak even more humiliating.I didn’t hear the key in the lock. I didn’t hear Sage kick off her boots. But I felt the couch dip, and then her warmth was right there. Her scentwrapped around me before her arms did.“Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice so soft it almost broke me all over again.That was all it took. A fresh wave of tears spilled hot down my cheeks. Sage didn’t ask questions. She just gathered me into her lap as if I weighed nothing, tucking my head under her chin. I was twenty-two, but

The alley was my church, and tonight, I was ready for communion. The smell of piss and rotting garbage was my incense.I kicked the dumpster, the clang drifting like a fucked-up dinner bell. Another night, another shift serving overpriced whiskey to men who thought my smile was an invitation to grab my ass. My skin still crawled from the last asshole's invasive touch.And then I saw him.Him.Leaning against that stupidly expensive black car, suit looking like it cost more than my life. Silver at his temples, eyes like a fucking shark.My favorite regular. The one who never said more than "neat" when ordering his bourbon, but whose gaze burnt through my skin all night. Every time I turned around, those cold, calculating eyes were on me, stripping me bare, seeing right through the "tough server" act to the raw, restless nerve-endings underneath.My heart did a traitorous little thump-thump. Game on.I tossed the trash bag with more force than necessary, the plastic splitting and spil

CHAPTER 2: HIS BIG BLACK COCKLENA’S POV Damon’s car was a sleek black muscle car, parked just down the street. He pressed me against it, his body pinning mine, his mouth crashing down on mine again. His hands were everywhere, gripping my ass, squeezing my tits, sliding up my dress and ripping my panties down my thighs. The sound of tearing lace was the hottest thing I’d ever heard.“You’re not wearing these home,” he snarled, stuffing them into his pocket.“I don’t need them,” I panted.He groaned, his hips grinding against mine. Even through his slacks, I could feel him—thick, hard, huge. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”I reached between us, my fingers fumbling with his belt. “Then let me make it a good death.”He didn’t stop me. His belt came undone, his zipper following. My breath caught.Holy. Fucking. Shit.His cock sprang free, and it was a monster. Thick, veiny, and so damn black, a beautiful, terrifying contrast against his hand. The head was already leaking,

SLOANE’S POVLook, I’m three glasses of champagne deep and so fucking wet I’m probably leaving a slick mark on this leather seat. I don’t even care. Let the whole first-class cabin know what my boss does to me just by existing.Brad’s been staring at me for twenty solid minutes. Good. I wore this tight black dress and no bra for one reason: to make him suffer. He's sitting across the aisle, Mr. Brad Carter, CEO, looking like a fucking GQ model in a five-thousand-dollar suit.For six months, he's been all business. Professional. Distant. "Ms. Rivera, have those reports on my desk by noon." "Ms. Rivera, reschedule the investors' meeting." Never Sloane. Always the formal bullshit, even when we'd work late and I'd catch him staring at my legs under the conference table.But tonight at the Tokyo gala, something shifted. His hand lingered on my lower back while introducing me to clients. His fingers brushed mine when passing me champagne. And when that sleazy VP from accounting tried to