Stroke of Midnight by K Webster is now live!
From USA Today bestselling author K Webster comes a brand new forbidden romance that's going to leave you speechless.
Money can buy anything. And anyone.
As the head of the Constantine family, I'm used to people bowing to my will. Cruel, rigid, unyielding--I'm all those things.
When I discover the one woman who doesn't wither under my gaze, but instead smiles right back at me, I'm intrigued. Ash Elliott needs cash, and I make her trade in crudeness and degradation for it.
I crave her tears, her moans, her submission. I pay for each one. And every time, she comes back for more.
When she challenges me with an offer of her own, I have to decide if I'm willing to give her far more than cold hard cash. But love can have deadly consequences when it comes from a Constantine. At the stroke of midnight, that choice may be lost for both of us.
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EXCERPT
I don’t want to clean.
I want to sit behind a desk and crunch numbers. Talk shop. Plan expansions. My dad is an economic analyst, which is what I want to be too. I’d always imagined us going into business together and heading up our own firm.
Cleaning won’t get me there.
I suppose playing nice with Manda the Maneater is my only resort at this point.
For the next hour, I rush through all the offices that don’t need much more than the trash cans emptied, and then make it to the CEO’s office. One day, I’ll have an office like Winston Constantine, but I won’t be some old fuddy duddy. I’ll be a boss babe with style. My employees will love me, because I imagine I’ll be cool as hell. Rather than hire a boring interior designer like whatever robot chose the furniture and décor for Halcyon, I’ll do it all myself.
I’m once again daydreaming of my future that seems more and more murky these days as I fumble through my email on my phone to find the code to get into Big Man’s office. Of all the offices, this one is the coldest and most boring. As though whoever Winston Constantine is, he doesn’t do any sort of work, but instead gazes out the windows all day.
Finally, I locate the code and punch it in.
It’s like twelve numbers long, and I fail a few times before it grants me entry. With a sigh of frustration, I push the door open and drag my rolling cart in after me into the dark office. I hit the light switch with my elbow and leave my cart in front of the door to prop it open. I fidget with the dumb uniform skirt I have to wear and wonder if anyone would notice if I wore jeans instead.
I grab the duster and make a beeline over to the painting on the wall. It’s the best part of the office besides the cool desk that moves up and down and the windows overlooking the most picturesque parts of New York City. I touch the bottom of the frame to check for dust. As I imagined it to be, there’s not a speck.
I’m just moving to the bookshelves when I hear a creak.
“You’re supposed to clean it, not pretend,” a deep, furious voice growls, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.
“What the fuck, man?” I snap, whirling around, dropping my duster in the process. “You can’t just sneak up…” I trail off as I drink in the man sitting in the desk chair.
Holy shit.
Was he here the whole time?
Fucking creepy!
But there’s nothing creepy about his looks. He’s not a fuddy duddy either, if this is Winston Constantine. He’s fine as hell.
Older. Dressed to the nines in a three-piece navy suit that looks custom-tailored and expensive. A handsome, villainous smirk on his face. His dark blond hair is shorter on the sides and longer on top, styled perfectly, making it look as though he came from a photoshoot at Gucci or something. Just enough scruff to give him an edge despite his otherwise clean-cut appearance. It’s his eyes that are mesmerizing.
Dark blue. Intense. Penetrating.
For some reason, it makes me think about my ex-boyfriend, Tate. The exact opposite of this man. Soft and sweet and gullible. Tate and I were a high school thing, but the moment we graduated a couple of weeks ago, we amicably broke it off knowing we were headed in different directions. This guy looks anything but soft, sweet, or gullible.
He looks scary.
Scary hot.
But still scary.
I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’ll just empty your trash and be out of your way.”
“No,” he rumbles, his voice dripping in a menacing tone. “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time we chat, little girl.”
ABOUT K WEBSTER
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