Hard and Brutal – A Forbidden Romance Read Online S.E. Law

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Forbidden Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 47279 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 236(@200wpm)___ 189(@250wpm)___ 158(@300wpm)

Carlton: Ramona Monk says I used to tease her when we were kids, but honestly, I barely even remember the curvy girl. All I know is that:

(1) she’s hot;
(2) she works for me; and
(3) I want her, hard and brutal.

Of course, Ramona says that what I’m doing is illegal. She says I could go to jail for blah blah blah yada yada yada. Clearly, I don’t care because if she isn’t on her knees in about ten seconds, then she can kiss her paycheck goodbye!
Ramona:Carlton James thinks I’m going to plead? On my knees? Please, Mr. Bad Boy CEO. You’re the one who’ll be begging by the time I’m finished because hard and brutal runs two ways … and you’ll be ready to explode by the time we’re done!

Holy cow, call the cops! Who knew hard and brutal could be administered right side up, upside down, and all the ways in between? Fifty Shades this is not because we’re getting down for some rip-roaring hard-core action. (Not to mention some things that really might not be legal.) But turn on the A/C because our hero and heroine are tearing up the sheets in this steamy, over-the-top romance. This book is a follow-up to Caught By Daddy, but all of my books are standalones and do not need to be read in order. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and always a HEA for my readers.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************



Twelve years earlier.

I frown unhappily with frustration at my hair. My mom put it in pigtails again today, but the hair-ties are too tight and are pulling at my forehead. My grubby, dirt-stained hands yank at the knots, but it’s no use. The ties won’t budge.

After a few more tries, I change tactics and start tugging on the front of my hair, hoping to loosen the pigtails that way. Somehow, by pulling my curls in both directions, I manage to yank the ties slightly lower, leaving my frizzy brown hair an even frizzier mess. I stare at my reflection and stick out my tongue.

“Ramona!” my mom’s voice calls from downstairs. “It’s time to play outside.”

I shrug at my styling conundrum, accepting the fact that my ten-year-old hands aren’t capable of fixing the chaos I call curls. I grab a jacket since I know my mom will make me take one despite the fact that it’s still early September and our tiny town of Portnoy has yet to feel the effects of autumn.

I bounce down the stairs and into the kitchen. My mom is standing at the oven, arms on her waist, staring at a large pot on the stove. I walk to her and glance into the pot. It doesn’t smell bad, but I’m not sure it smells good either.

“I’ve never made this soup before,” she mutters absently, her pretty face creased as she reviews some instructions in the cookbook next to her.

I take a moment to admire my mom. Martha’s tall and thin, with a lovely smile and lush, velvety brown hair. People always tell me I look like her, but I honestly feel like a gremlin compared to my mother. I pat my frizzy pigtails again, hoping my mom doesn’t make me redo them before I go outside and play.

“It smells good, Mom,” I fib as I slowly back out of the kitchen, praying she doesn’t turn her head to look at me.

“Mmm, thanks honey,” she murmurs. “Did you grab a coat?”

“Yep,” I assure her quickly.

I nearly make it to the backdoor when Martha spins around abruptly. Her eyebrows rise as she takes in my appearance.

“Ramona Marie Monk, what on Earth have you done to your hair?” Her tone is half lament and half exasperation.

I shrug. “They were too tight.”

My mom sighs, her pretty face contorting as she looks me over from head to toe. I can only imagine how I must look through her cornflower blue eyes.

Of course, my own eyes are a deep brown. My friend Carlton called them poop shade, but I would never tell my mom that he said so. I’m tall for a ten year old girl, but I’m also lanky and uncoordinated. Carlton also told me I have buckteeth, so I decided to stop smiling for pictures. My knees are covered in scabs from my most recent tree-climbing accident, and I’m pretty much convinced that I’ll never get boobs.

“Ramona,” my mom begins to speak but stops. She sighs deeply. “Be back by six o’clock, okay? Your dad will be home then and we’re having a family dinner.”

I can’t help but grin widely, grateful that my mom decided against launching into a lecture about being ladylike, polite, and well-bred.

“I’ll be back at six!” I promise as I dart out the door. Quickly, I scamper around the house and grab my bicycle from its post next to the wall. My dad is constantly telling me that I need to remember to bring it all the way into the garage, but it’s such a pain to do that. Besides, my hometown is safe, and my neighborhood is filled with other kids who do the same thing.

After all, Portnoy, Illinois, isn’t exactly the coolest place to live, but I like being here. There are a few kids my age nearby, and some classmates from school live a few blocks away. But I’ve mostly been hanging out with one particular guy since I was a little kid: Carlton James.

My heart flutters even when thinking about him. Of course, he has no idea because when I first met him, I was nothing but a bratty six year old. So now, Carlton has no idea that I have an enormous crush on him, thank goodness. Instead, the boy treats me like a sister – he’s fiercely over-protective of me and is always willing to share his snacks. But on the other hand, I hate that he treats me like a sister because he’s equal parts bossy and harsh at times. As the leader of the local group of thirteen-year old boys, Carlton alone controls my tenuous membership into his little clique. Mostly he ignores me, but lately he’s been making me butt out of their adventures, to my chagrin.

Not today, I promise myself. I’m going where he goes, no matter what. Skillfully, I wheel my bike around the corner and onto the sidewalk toward the James’s house. As luck would have it, my crush is outside in the front yard, doing some work on his Schwinn. I walk until I’m just a couple of feet away from him, but he doesn’t look up.