Theirs to Pleasure: a Reverse Harem Romance

by Stasia Black

  ***

  Drea and Eric’s book will be coming in Fall 2018

  Want to See How It All Began?

  Continue reading to enjoy two dark romances

  included in their entirety

  after the acknowledgements

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  Other Novels by Stasia Black

  MARRIAGE LOTTERY SERIES

  Theirs to Protect: a Reverse Harem Romance

  BAD BOYS AND BILLIONAIRS BOX SET

  Crush Me: a Dark Billionaire Office Romance (Crush Me Duet #1)

  Please Me: a Dark Billionaire Office Romance (Crush Me Duet #2)

  Burn Me: a Bad Boy Revenge Romance

  STUD RANCH STANDALONE SERIES

  The Virgin and the Beast: a Beauty and the Beast Tale (prequel)

  Hunter: a Snow White Romance

  The Virgin Next Door: a Ménage Romance

  STANDALONES

  Daddy’s Sweet Girl: A Dark Stepfamily Romance

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Aimee Bowyer, my most fabulous beta! You were the very first person to read this book and I anxiously awaited for feedback. It meant SO much to me that you got it and felt these characters as much as I did. Thank you!!!

  Bobby! Holy shit!!!! Thank you for everything!

  Zara Zenia – wow, I cannot thank you enough for helping me figure out how figure out some marketing stuff I was being way dumb about. You provided a SERIOUSLY needed wake-up call and now I’m like, wtf was I thinking??? Lol, thank you so much!

  Melissa Lee – zomg, thank you for keeping my calendar straight and keeping me on time with all my responsibilities because lol, on my own, I’m an epic mess!

  Melissa Pascoe— Thank you for helping me stay on top of All The Things!

  Christine Jalili – so excited to have you on the team, we’re gonna do some epic shit :)

  Riley Edwards – omg, thank you for spending that hour tutoring me on Photoshop and helping me realize I’ve been doing things the Hardest Way Possible for YEARS now without even realizing it, and schooling my ass, lmfao! And thank you for your general encouragement and being an awesome voice in our group. Hugs!

  Thank you to Alana Albertson and Sara Fields and Harloe Rae Lee Savino and Sara Fields for your general awesomeness and chatting at all times of the day and night and super support! And I’m sure I’m forgetting someone here or several someones but it’s only because my brain is pan-fried after this week, I love you all, I promise!

  And thanks as always to super hubby. Love you forever.

  ABOUT STASIA

  Stasia Black is an author who’s drawn to romantic stories that don’t take the easy way out. She wants to see beneath people’s veneer and into their dark places, their twisted motives, and their deepest desires. She likes to toss her characters into the tempest and watch them hurt, fight, bleed, and then find out what, if anything, comes out the other side. Come along for the journey because it’s one helluva ride.

  DADDY’S SWEET GIRL:

  A DARK STEPFAMILY LOVE STORY

  By Stasia Black

  Copyright © 2017 Stasia Black

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  (Please do be aware this is a DARK romance, with the associated trigger warnings the term often implies.)

  Chapter 1

  Mom’s getting married today. Again. This will be husband number three. The rehearsal dinner last night was the second time I’d met the husband-to-be, Paul, and his son.

  And let me just say: I don’t get it. The man is beautiful. I mean, we’re talking godlike gorgeous. He’s blond, has a chiseled-jaw, straight nose, and is Viking kind of handsome. He keeps his hair short and there’s some gray at the edges of his temple, but he’s the kind of mid-forties that women complain about—how it’s not fair that men get better looking as they age.

  His son is a mini-me version of him, but I barely even looked at the guy. Frankly, he’s just gotta be a douchebag who screws everything that moves being that good looking at twenty-four years old, right? Plus he’s a doctor. Well, a doctor in training, anyway. On his dad, the gorgeousness has had a chance to age and settle into some fabulous grooves like a fine wine. Much more attractive.

  And the man is marrying my mother.

  Um. What?

  My mother is also in her forties. But where Mr. Winters wears his age like an aforementioned god, Mom wears it like… hmm, how shall we put this? Let’s just say that my Mom’s an aging beauty queen who’s three plastic surgery attempts did little more than twist and pull her leathery, tanning-bed-worshipping ass into a simulacrum of a slightly melted Barbie-doll on meth?

  Okay, so she doesn’t do meth.

  Coke is her drug of choice.

  She’s never been able to hold down an actual job because of it.

  See what I’m talking about?

  She’s a real winner.

  Mr. Winters is the head of an oncology department of a prestigious Boston hospital. So again, what on earth is he doing with Mommy dearest?

  “What did you do to that dress?” Mom asks, coming into my dressing room at the church. I know, a church. And she’s wearing white. The ironies of this day will never cease.

  I look her up and down. She’s managed to squeeze herself into a lovely Vera Wang dress—she mentioned that it was actual Vera Wang about ten thousand times last night. Completely ignoring the fact that she managed to get an actual Vera Wang because of Mr. Winter’s wealth or maybe Grandpa’s influence. It had nothing to do with anything she did. Being one of the oldest families in Boston does still come with some privileges, even if we’re almost broke.

  Well, not anymore that Mom’s marrying Mr. Winters. He’s handsome and wealthy.

  Again. What is he doing with Mom?

  “I just had it altered a little so it fits better.” I look at Mom in the mirror.

  Mom’s eyes narrow. “It fit just the way it was supposed to.”

  My brows furrow. “But it was baggy and sagged in the stomach.” Not to mention the high collar that almost choked me.

  Mom looks at me like, and?

  “So I went and got it tailored to fit.”

  She lets out a huff of frustration. “The point of a bridesmaid dress is to be ugly so you don’t upstage the bride. God, don’t you know anything? That’s it,” she declares, throwing her hands up in the air. “There’s no way you can be my maid of honor looking like that. It’s bad enough that I have a nineteen-year-old daughter.” She shakes her head. “I still say you should have been the fucking flower girl. Anyway. Marla will have to take your place and you can stand at the end of the line.”

  I look down at the dress. “It’s still not exactly…” I pause, momentarily at a loss for words, “flattering.”

  She chose the most unattractive shade of orange I’ve ever seen, sure to clash with any person’s skin tone, no matter your ethnicity. I’ve gone as natural as possible with my makeup and worn my dark brown hair in an updo, but you just can’t ignore the ugly ass frock covering my body.

  Mom clucks her tongue at me. “This is my special day, Sarah Elizabeth, so don’t even start with me.”

  I sigh and back down. “Of course, Mom. Whatever you want.” The path of least resistance. I know from long experience it’s the easiest way to approach conflict with Mom.

  “Now, go get all the other girls together and tell Marla she’s my new maid of honor. Exchange your flowers for hers and make everyo
ne get in their places.”

  I head out.

  Within twenty minutes, me and twelve—yes twelve—other bridesmaids, along with corresponding groomsmen are all corralled in the foyer of the church. Or do you call them brides-matrons at this point, considering they’re all Mom’s friends and most of them have been divorced at least once, some several times like Mom?

  Only a couple others had the same idea I did and got the gowns altered. I mean, we all look ridiculous, but the rest of them look absolutely atrocious in the shiny orange sherbet fabric covering their bodies.

  “Ready for this?” asks Dominick, my soon to be brother-in-law. He holds out his arm and flashes a brilliant smile at me, golden hair gleaming in the light pouring in from the high, stained glass window. He wears his hair longer than his dad, in a shaggy Cali surfer dude style that sweeps down over his forehead.

  Man, this guy is just too slick. I smile back at him, but you know that overused saying, a person smiles but it doesn’t reach their eyes? Yeah, my smile is one of those kinds. Patented, pasted on, and perfectly perfunctory. The kind I always use at these kinds of engagements that I get dragged to occasionally. Mostly because of Grandpa’s ‘old money’ name or Mom’s desperation to still be included in important circles. Having a daughter that she’s ostensibly chaperoning and introducing to Boston society helps cover up some of the stink of being a desperate thrice used-up trophy wife.

  But here Mom is, getting to live out her glory days once again. Wife once more, even if her husband is more the trophy than her now. Especially since Mr. Winters actually has a job in addition to being so dang pretty.

  The organ music starts up.

  “Sorry, I’m not the maid of honor anymore.” I ignore Dominick’s proffered arm and point to Marla, a loud woman with hair dyed a brassy red who I suspect Mom keeps around as a best friend because she makes Mom look comparatively prettier and thinner. “That’s the woman you’re escorting now. Have fun.” My smile gets a touch more genuine at the flash of dismay that crosses Dominick’s face as the groomsmen line up. I head toward an older gentleman at the end of the queue.

  The procession starts as soon as Mom makes an appearance a few minutes later. I walk down the aisle, surprised at how packed the church is on both sides. It’s easy to think that Mom’s alienated everyone who she’s ever met. But when I get to the front pew and see Grandpa smiling not at Mom, but me, I remember who all these people are really here for.

  Grandpa might not have the fortune he once had, but he’s still a wealthy man. The fact that he cut off his daughter is a well-kept secret, though apparently Mom’s husband-to-be is aware.

  How do I know that little tid-bit?

  Well, I miiiiiight have taken him aside last night after he sat right beside Mom as she drank flute after flute of champagne all through dinner, his gaze nothing but benevolent as he looked fondly at her.

  He excused himself to the bathroom and I followed a few minutes later.

  “You know she doesn’t have money?” I asked right after he came out of the bathroom. The hallway was narrow and dark, off the kitchens and not well traveled.

  “Excuse me?” he asked, eyebrows arching in surprise. He stood his ground, though, and didn’t brush me off.

  I immediately felt like a small child despite my three-inch heels. “Um. My Mom. She doesn’t— I mean…” I gulped, looking down at the floor before gathering my courage to gaze back up at the towering blond Viking god-man. He is the handsomest man I’ve ever. “There’s no money. If that’s why you’re marrying her. Grandpa isn’t even that rich anymore. And he cut us off anyway. So if that’s why you’re doing it.” My whole body was trembling at this point. Oh God, I just needed to get this out and then I could go hide in the coat closet for the rest of the night. “…you shouldn’t. Because you know. There’s none. No m-money.” And with that last stumble of words I turned on my pointy little heels and fled.

  And now, here I was at the front of the church. I couldn’t put it off any longer. I finally lift my eyes and there he is.

  The Viking god in all his spectacular glory. His barrel chest looks barely constrained in his tuxedo.

  I expect his gaze to be focused past me and on my mother. His blushing bride who’s ostensibly standing at the back of the church, about to come walking down the aisle toward him.

  But no. His eyes are zeroed in directly on me.

  It’s just for a few seconds. A moment where our gazes lock. And hold.

  I’m walking down the center aisle of a church, holding flowers.

  A man stands there awaiting me. A glint in his eye just for me. Or so it feels.

  And then the groomsman holding my arm directs me away to the side and the connection is lost.

  It takes everything in me but I don’t look over my shoulder. It would be too desperate.

  And wrong.

  God, what am I doing? This is my mother’s wedding! And I’m hoping that the groom is making eyes at me? A man twice my age. A man that my mother is marrying?

  I squeeze my eyes shut and give my head a little shake right after I take my position at the end of the bridesmaid line. Oh my gosh, is it finally happening? I’ve always been terrified that I was doomed to be screwed up after my upbringing with an unstable, drunk and occasional (when she could afford it) cokehead for a mom. Not to mention an absentee dad who took off when I was five because of my aforementioned batshit Mom.

  I was the one trying to balance the budget at ten years old. You know, back when we had money before Mom blew straight through it on blowout bashes for her and her friends in the Caribbean.

  Grandpa cut us off when I was fourteen, but he made sure I was in the room for the discussion because he wasn’t an idiot. And he didn’t cut us off completely. He continued paying via a grocery app to deliver groceries—stuff that Mom couldn’t return in order to get money for blow. I could come to him if I needed clothes. He paid for Mom to go to rehab a few times. It might stick for a month or two.

  But he always stopped short of letting me come live with him. I think he was always conscious of how it would look.

  Did that hurt? Sure.

  But whatever.

  I’m not screwed up by it all.

  I’m surviving just fine. I’m going to a great college.

  Okay, so I have to live at home and I’m in debt up to my eyeballs in school loans, but I’m not going to get mired down by all my childhood crap.

  I’m rising above.

  I sneak another look at my mom’s new husband.

  God, why does he have to be that good looking?

  That thick corded neck leading to his wide jaw. I’m sure he must’ve shaved this morning, but there’s just the barest hint of stubble there. His beard must come in darker than the hair on his head to make such a shadow. Come to think of it, every time I’ve seen him, he always has that shadow on his face. A little shudder works its way down my body at the thought. It just screams such masculinity and…virility.

  My cheeks heat at the thought and all sorts of flashing images that accompany it. His broad chest and the dusting of hair that no doubt coats it. I can’t help imagining him crouched over a woman, lowering his body over her. Thrusting—

  I jerk my eyes away from Mr. Winters. Only for them to snag on the man standing right beside him.

  Dominick.

  Maybe my eyes are caught because he’s looking right at me. He’s just blatantly out and out staring.

  The easy-going smile he had in the lobby of the church is gone. There’s a different quality or…intensity, if that’s the right word, to the way his lips curl up as he watches me watch him. His eyes drop down ever so slightly.

  Wait, is he—

  He so is. He’s ogling my cleavage. I mean, there’s not a lot of it with this dress. Or any dress, to be honest. I was flat as a board forever and only just in the last couple years finally developed small little B-cup breasts. But I was aware that the gown was for my mother’s wedding, so I didn’t bother wearing t
he push-up bra I often wear to enhance my small assets.

  But Dominick just stares at my dipping neckline like it can reveal all the mysteries of the universe. Even though he’s about to be my stepbrother for god’s sake.

  Like you weren’t just eyeing your stepfather like a hungry ham shank?

  Dominick’s mouth curls up even higher.

  Oh my God, what is going on? A month ago, I was doing so good at the being-a-normal-girl thing and not getting sucked into Mom’s vortex of crazy. I jerk my gaze away from both Dominick and his father and stare at the floor. There. That’s nice and safe.

  I examine the fascinating world of carpet fibers for the rest of the wedding ceremony. And I do not, do not listen to my mother’s cringeworthy ooey gooey vows that she wrote herself about how Mr. Winters is her true, true soulmate and she can’t live without him.

  Is that as opposed to Henry, her last husband who was only her true soulmate—with just a single ‘true,’ aka, not her real as in for realsies for realsies soul mate. In fact, I bet if I play back the video of that ceremony that’s on the shelf somewhere, these vows Mom supposedly wrote for today will sound strikingly similar to the ones she did for that wedding. And all of it she probably copied from some wedding ceremony she saw after googling vows online.

  My mom does the appearance of sincerity so well.

  Gah, I do not need all of this negativity in my brain or my life. Mom is a fake. I know this. Me stewing in her hypocrisy and grossness does nothing but make me feel gross and steeped in bad juju.

  But there was no way I could skip the wedding. My participation was required by all involved. I get to live rent free in Boston.