All For You, Daddy

Warning: 18+ only. Featuring hardcore taboo and age-gap erotica.

This is an erotic boxset containing yet another twelve stories of irresistible steam, steam, fun, and naughty stories. If you're not up to eighteen, this book is not for you.

Get ready to be intrigued. To feel. To...burn.

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"You think I'm a softie?" My voice is deceptively gentle when the rest of me is so hard. "Do you know why I pulled over?"

"Why?" she says, seeming to hold her breath.

"I pulled over because I know tight pussy when I see it." I frame her jaw with my right hand, tilting her blushing face up toward mine. "I'd like to fuck you on all fours, right here in the middle of the road, little girl. Rough as you can stand. Still think I'm a softie?"

"No," she gasps, the green of her eyes deepening to a forest shade. "I don't."

"Good."

Book One: All For You, Daddy.

William Jones is known as the Lord of the Manor.

He's in his forties, but he looks twenty-five. Has been our landlord for years now, and my family haven't been able to foster a stable relationship with him. Would you blame him? His position is at the top, and we're below.

When he serves us an eviction notice after days of Papa playing him, we're helpless. We have nothing to offer in exchange for ridiculous amount of rent we owe.

Nothing but me.

Passion is a very funny business, and neither of us expected the surge of adrenaline that engulfs us from the very first touch. But William harbors demons far stronger than my angelic light. Will I truly teach the Lord how to love again? Or will I be defeated in this cold battle?

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1: Grace.

The Lord comes to collect today.

That's what my parents call our landlord, anyway. They've called him that for so long that it stuck. Now everyone in the neighborhood calls him that, crossing themselves behind his back. Or running and hiding in their apartments.

I don't run.

I'd never miss my chance to watch him move in that sleek, panther-like way, the master of everything he sees. When he climbs from the back of his limousine and buttons his suit coat with precise twists of his long fingers, I grow short of breath. Even his mean expression makes my hand wrap tightly around the branch of the tree where I'm perched across the street, sweat gathering between my breasts.

William Jones.

He owns every tenement building in this neighborhood and many, many high rises in others. On the first of every month, he swoops in to collect checks from the building manager's office where we send our rent. If the check for that month is short—and in this economy, it often is—someone usually ends up getting evicted. Thrown out on the street without a second thought.

That's why they call him the Lord. He has no conscience. No compassion.

My mother claims he has