 by Margot Scott.jpg)
Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77728 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I was on the hunt for a devil the night an angel fell into my lap. Before she'd even told me her name, my obsession took hold, aroused by a craving for her flavor of sweetness.
If I hadn’t been undercover, I’d have thrown her over my shoulder and carried her far from that poisoned playground. One of many gilded mansions where the scotch is aged to perfection, and the girls are young and disposable.
The devil I’m tracking is closing in. I’m determined to catch him, but until my cuffs are on his wrists, I’m keeping my angel close to me.
In my arms and in my bed where I can protect her.
Where I can be the man she craves.
And the Daddy she needs.
Brace yourself for one wild ride. Book two in the Daddy Loves You Series from Margot Scott is a standalone romantic suspense novel, bursting at the seams with filthy age-gap instalove. Absolutely NO cheating or cliffhangers, and a guaranteed HEA!
Content warning: This book contains scenes and descriptions of violence, rough Daddy play, as well as discussions of past abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter One
Holly
The minivan is twenty minutes late to pick us up from the abandoned mall’s parking lot.
“You’re sure this is where Steph said to wait?” I ask my best friend.
“I’m sure.” Kenzie checks her phone again, the light from the screen washing her heart-shaped face in blue. I may have gone a bit heavy with her eyeliner tonight, but I doubt she’ll be the only girl rocking an overly smokey eye where we’re headed. At least her hair is on point. I’ve styled it in a loose French braid that ends halfway down her scalp and cascades into loose, spun-gold curls.
“Steph said the cops don’t start patrolling here until after eleven,” Kenzie says. “The van’s got to show up sometime in the next forty minutes.”
“That soon, huh?”
The dead mall looms behind us like a void in the night sky. A vast emptiness you could fall into if you got close enough. Only a handful of the parking lot’s lamps still shine, deterrents to those who’d seek to trespass or deface this concrete memorial to a pre-online shopping era.
“Since when are you afraid of the dark, Hollywood?” I can hear the smile in my best friend’s voice.
My name is Holly, but Kenzie’s been calling me Hollywood since we were fourteen, on account of the haircut I was sporting the day we met, courtesy of our foster mom who’d managed to tame my thick ginger waves into a sleek side bob.
The first words Kenzie ever said to me were, “You look like Marilyn Monroe if her head caught fire.” She’d meant it as a compliment.
“I just want tonight to be over with,” I tell her.
She nudges me. “I promise you’re going to have at least a little bit of fun.”
“If you say so,” I mumble, though I doubt it.
Kenzie’s the life of every party she crashes, sparkling and energetic, like a mirror ball. Whereas I’m stiff as a maypole, off-putting and aloof, something other people dance around.
Really, I’m just anxious. Parties, strangers, crowds. They make me nervous. I can’t help being constantly aware of how people are perceiving and inevitably judging me. Being around people is exhausting, which is why I try to avoid it.
“Free champagne and all the fancy hors d'oeuvres we can fit in our stomachs? Yeah, I’d say tonight’s going to be fun.” She scrapes the bottom of her heel against the cracked concrete. “I know what you mean about the wait, though. I forgot how fucking creepy this place is at night.”
The only good thing about the mall being so desolate is that it’s not heavily policed, or tough to break into, making it popular with drug dealers and those in desperate need of a fix, shelter, or both.
Last time Kenzie and I were here, we slept on the floor of what used to be a popular make-up and jewelry store. That was back before we had jobs and a place to stay. Still, money was and continues to be extremely tight, hence our thirst-trap getups.
Kenzie’s peach-toned dress is practically see-through in the right lighting. And the dress she loaned me is short, black and strapless. My boobs are bigger than hers, but her ribcage is broader, resulting in a fit that’s somehow too tight and too loose on me. She’s also a good three inches shorter than I am, putting me in the position of having to decide whether I want to leave my tits or my ass uncovered.
Contrary to what our clothes might suggest, Kenzie and I aren’t prostitutes. Not in the stereotypical sense. Tonight’s the closest I’ve ever come to any type of sex work, and Kenzie’s style of commodifying affection always favored a subtler approach. She’d pretend to like a guy more than she really did if it meant he’d buy her McDonald’s or let us crash at his apartment for a few nights.
Eventually, I got an under-the-table housekeeping job at a cheap motel in exchange for reduced rent on one of the rooms, which Kenzie and I now call home. She was able to pick up a few shifts a week working as a waitress at a dive bar.
All things considered, we’re in better shape now than we’ve ever been. But all it’ll take is one small slip-up, one lousy twist of fate to toss us back onto the streets of Knoxville. Which is why we’re out here tonight, waiting for the van that will take us to a very exclusive, very hush-hush party, where we’ll supposedly be paid two hundred dollars apiece for the mere pleasure of our company.
In case it isn’t glaringly obvious, none of this was my idea.
Two nights ago—technically, early morning—Kenzie got back from her shift at the bar, immediately stripped down to her bra and underwear, and flopped down onto my bed.
“Can you do my hair and makeup Saturday?” she asked. This wasn’t an unusual request; I do Kenzie’s hair and makeup for work and for fun all the time.