Falling For Dad's Enemy: An Instalove Possessive Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 189) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Falling for Dad's Enemy

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  About the Author

  FALLING FOR DAD'S ENEMY

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 189

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2020 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  FALLING FOR DAD'S ENEMY

  This bad boy biker ticks all the wrong boxes. My dad hates him. I can’t get involved in a relationship because I’m going to college soon. Oh, and he leads one of the most feared biker clubs in the state.

  But when this older possessive silver fox tells me that I’m his, I feel my body reacting in sinful ways it never has before. Kane Knight is a man who knows what he wants – me – and nothing is going to stop him from going after it. Never mind that I’m just a shy virgin with my face buried in a book.

  I had a bad experience and it’s made it all but impossible for me to be intimate with a man. Even if we can get over all our other problems, is Kane willing to wait until I’m ready to give myself to him, or will this handsome dominant alpha find his pleasure elsewhere?

  I have aspirations to become an English professor one day, but there’s so much more poetry in the savage and primal way he claims me. But am I just a fling, a convenient naive eighteen year old to be picked up and used, or is there more here?

  Even if there was more, I just know Dad would absolutely freak if he found out. And since Dad is also the leader of a biker club, that might result in all-out war. Can I be responsible for that?

  There’s so much that could go wrong, so much in our way, so why can’t I stop thinking about my dad’s worst enemy, this six foot seven ripped-as-hell biker badass?

  *Falling for Dad's Enemy is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Kane

  I rev the engine and feel my bike growl beneath me, a beast that tries to surge out onto the tarmac with a mind of its damn own.

  I tame it and duck my head, feeling the hot Cali wind smoothing against my face, trying its best to fix this grimace that’s stuck to my lips.

  But nothing’s fixing that, not today, not with the Cartel and the drugs pumping into Aslado, my fucking town, hanging over the head of The Bloody Chariots.

  I guide my bike off to the side of the brown, dusty road and toward the old chemical plant, a place that’s been used as a palaver point between the Chariots and The Eagle’s Talons for as long as I can remember.

  It sits sun beaten and washed out, a husk of a building gutted for everything imaginable apart from its outer walls and a creaking metal door that’s the color of iron and, if you look closely, used to be green.

  Stepping from the bike, I kick the stand and nod at my VP, Garrote. He’s a tallish man with wide shoulders, his jacket fitting baggy despite that, his jeans faded and his eyes narrowed. He runs a hand through his brown hair and glances around at the sun-stroked desert.

  “They’re late,” he grumbles.

  “Power play,” I growl. “That was always Jason’s way.”

  Ever since we were kids.

  But I keep those words to myself, not wanting to remind my men that Jason Yeager, president of our rival club, was my best friend for more years than I care to remember.

  We were inseparable, two brothers in everything but blood, running riot through Aslado and the neighboring towns, sometimes riding up to LA to cause some mayhem there. At sixteen years old, without licenses, we made this town our own.

  But then everything changed.

  And now we’re enemies, plain and simple.

  I roll my arms and pace up and down like a caged lion, my six foot seven frame feeling primed and ready to go. Folks say that men get weaker the older they get, but at forty-two, I feel as fresh and violent as I did at eighteen, my body honed by hours and hours in the gym.

  I turn to find Lance squinting at the horizon, the young man thinner then a beanpole and with the sharp nose and jawline to match, an almost emaciated look about him. His bald head is covered in colorful, clashing tattoos and his lips turn downward sourly.

  “Hotter than a motherfucker out here,” he complains.

  The young enforcer has proved himself on more than one occasion, but when he whines like that, I have to resist the urge to reach out and smack him across the jaw to teach him some manners.

  “Relax,” Garrote mutters, his nickname coming from the tattoo across his throat, a bleeding thread of barbed wire. Nobody calls him Ryan Thompson anymore. “Won’t win any prizes whining like a bitch.”

  “Hey,” Lance snaps. “Don’t start flinging insults around, man.”

  Garrote grins wolf-like. “Calm down, kid. Just fucking with you.”

  “Quiet,” I mutter, bringing a hand up to shield my face from the sun so I can see the bikers approaching, three of them kicking up a storm of dust in their wake. “They’re here.”

  Jason stops just shy of our collection of bikes, climbing off with his men at his back.

  My old friend – now enemy – is about five eight with a receding hairline and three chins sagging down to his jacket. Sweat beads on his red face and I see the flicker of resentment in his dark green eyes, as though it’s my fault he’s let his body go to shit over the years, and I should feel guilty for being six seven and three hundred pounds of muscle.

  “Kane,” he mutters.

  “Jason,” I say, inclining my head.

  “Hotter than a motherfucker out here.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ve heard,” I smirk. “Let’s not waste time with small talk. Somebody’s working with the Cartel to funnel drugs into Aslado. Nothing gets into this town without one of us giving the okay, and I damn sure know I haven’t—”

  “So what?” he blusters. “You think I’m funneling heroin into my own goddamn town?”

  “I’m telling you now,” I say calmly. “If you are, you need to stop. End what
ever deal you’ve made. I won’t have Aslado become a fucking pit for the Cartel, Jason. End it. Now.”

  His whole face trembles and his eyes flit around, and I feel Garrote bristling beside me, hand itching to go for his gun. Lance does the same but I wave a hand, calming them, and then try to lower my voice to something respectful like.

  “Listen, Jase,” I say, using the name I did when we were kids. “This doesn’t have to end badly—”

  “Are we done?” he growls, already turning for his bike, his men doing the same.

  I sigh, clenching my fists and warring with the desire to leap at him and hammer some sense into him.

  “Sure,” I say, letting my clenched fists unfurl with an effort. “We’re done.”

  “For the record,” he snaps. “It’s not us. I’d never work with the Cartel.”

  “Oh, no,” I say, flashing him a smirk. “You’d never do anything underhanded, would you, Jase?”

  Panic flickers across his features as he starts his engine, his mind going back to when we were kids, to the betrayal, and then his tires kick up red dust and he spins around, surging back toward the road.

  “Long drive for that,” Lance mutters.

  Garrote snorts. “That went well, kid,” he says. “Could’ve been a shootout.”

  “Maybe I would’ve preferred that.”

  “Maybe,” Garrote says. “But probably not. Not with a bullet in your head. Are we going, boss?”

  “Yeah,” I sigh, popping my neck from side to side as I walk toward my bike. The beast sags under my weight, but holds firm. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  I start the engine and the three of us head back to the road, my head surging with thoughts of the Cartel, of my town, as rubber gallops across tarmac and the town of Aslado, population fifty thousand, rises up out of the dusty yellow-red.

  Its buildings are red brick and its roads wide and grey, our MC owned bar – The Harpy – sitting just opposite an electronics store that we also own and, next to that, a park that’s filled with dog walkers and couples hand-in-hand on this blazing Friday afternoon.

  I go into the bar, the place smelling of leather and rubber and beer and whiskey, and get myself a soda and then go and sit outside, on my own, my jacket thrown across the back of my seat as I let my mind turn to the Cartel problem.

  “Need some company?” a woman says, off to my side.

  I glance up and take in the sight of her, maybe mid-twenties with both arms covered in tattoos, pieces of metal sticking out of her lips and ears and tongue and nose, the wide-eyed look of a junkie about her, and wearing so little that it takes no imagination at all to envision what she’d look like naked.

  Not that I would.

  Because she’s not her.

  Whoever her turns out to be.

  I’ve always thought I’d just know when I saw the woman I wanted to be with, truly be with, for the rest of my life, the queen of my MC empire, a woman I could share my hard earned millions with and build a family with.

  And yet it’s been forty-two years and I’ve never met a woman that inspires anything close like that inside of me, and this one definitely doesn’t.

  “No,” I say, as politely as I can muster. “I don’t.”

  Her upper lips curls and I see the offended look in her eyes, but it passes quickly as she drifts over to a table of Chariots, because of course that’s what she does.

  That’s what women like that do.

  I sigh and take a sip of my cool drink, my eyes roaming over the park.

  I have to put my glass down when I see her.

  Otherwise I’ll squeeze too hard and it’ll shatter into pieces in my hand, cutting me, cutting me even harder and deeper than the sight of this woman already does.

  Savage instincts rise in me as she turns the page of her book, biting her lower lip and folding her legs, her concentration intense.

  Her blonde hair is wavy down to her shoulders and she wears shorts and a baggy summer top with printed flowers on it, her legs pale and not thin, but not large as she sits there, an All-American look about her, a girl-next-door-look about her.

  But there’s something in the way she bites her lip, a uniqueness of character, a – dammit – a just-her look that triggers something primal and long dormant inside of me.

  I can imagine squeezing onto those womanly hips – hips so unlike the too-skinny boniness of some of the club girls – and pumping my seed inside of her, grinding my hot wet manhood until my offspring makes a home in her womb.

  I can hardly believe it.

  It’s her.

  The woman I’ve been waiting my whole damn life for.

  Forty-two years.

  And she’s finally here.

  I stand up, leaving my drink behind, and head across the sun-scorched street toward the park, preparing to introduce myself to the woman of my dreams.

  She looks up when my shadow falls across her, and I see that her eyes are a startling leaf green, light and open, the eyes of a woman who’d make an amazing mother.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Kelly

  The textbook is about the structure of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and as I read I try not to let my mind run away from me, galloping into the future and showing me tempting vignettes of me teaching a post-grad class one day.

  Or maybe even publishing a popular book on poetry, a side-gig to my main employment as an English literature professor.

  I try not to think about Berkley, my first choice submission, or the letter that could come any day in the mail now to shatter my dreams.

  But of course all of this cycles through my mind at about a million miles a minute, my overactive imagination not doing me any favors.

  As the sun shines brightly onto the pages of my book, I remember how Dad raged this morning, stomping around the house with cries of the Chariots and of Kane, his arch-nemesis, something I only believed existed in movies before I saw how badly Dad hates Kane.

  Mom says they used to be friends, but that’s so incredibly difficult to believe when Dad’s using Kane’s name as a verbal punching bag.

  I might only be eighteen, but Dad’s rants age me sometimes, make me feel like I’m a world-weary pensioner ready to turn down my hearing aid.

  Kane has morphed into a mythical figure in our house, a grizzled ancient bear with countless kills and legends to his name, countless reasons to revile him, countless excuses to wish he was dead.

  I’ve never grasped all the ins-and-outs, but when the six foot seven shadow passes across the pages of my book and I look up to see Kane Knight himself standing there, something twists painfully in my belly.

  He was my naughty crush, the man I never should’ve crushed on, the giant striding around town with his salt and pepper hair and confident smirk, his Chariots jacket fitting like a second leather skin and barely containing his bulging arms.

  He was the man I definitely should not have been attracted to, and yet I couldn’t help it, my shy high school mind spiraling out of control every time I saw him speeding through town on his bike.

  I look up at him, his clean shaved jaw, his silver hair slightly wet with beads of sweat, slicked to the side. His eyes are a pale, ghostly, captivating blue and pierce me harshly, doing funny things to my insides, flips and somersaults that make me ache.

  Why is he here? What does he want with me?

  “Uh, hello,” I mutter, when he just stares down at me, his hands crossed in front of him.

  He wears no tattoos, an anomaly in the world of bikers, but this somehow shrouds him in even more intensity and toughness, as though tattoos are for other men, more regular men.

  And there’s nothing regular about Kane Knight.

  Is this about Dad? Does he want to use me to get to Dad?

  “Can I … help you?”

  My words come out shaky and lacking the confidence I wish I could imbue them with. I feel my grip slackening on my textbook as his fire-blues sear into me, as vicious as a bunsen flame.

  “I wa
s just watching you from the bar,” he smirks. “And I was wondering what you were reading.”

  Coming from anybody else, that sentence would be imbued with the sort of freaky weirdness that would make me a run a mile, a stalker alert blaring in my mind.

  But Kane says it with the casual confidence of an alpha lion who’s used to being in charge.

  “It’s just a book on poetry,” I mutter. “On Shakespeare’s sonnets, actually. I, uh, I want to be an English literature professor. I’m hoping to study at Berkeley in the fall. I want to …”

  I trail off, my words running out, no clue why I’ve sputtered out so much of my inner life to begin with.

  “I’m Kane,” he says, sitting next to me with the scent of leather and subtle woodsy cologne.

  A beat passes and I realize I’m supposed to give my name, even though he must know it … surely?

  Or, is it possible he doesn’t actually know who I am, whose daughter I am?

  “I’m Kelly,” I say, turning to him, feeling a flame of shyness burn through me when I see the look in his eyes.

  For a brief flicker of a moment, the idea it’s lust in his fjord-blues strikes me with the force of a lightning bolt, that Kane Knight wants me in that way, a way I’ve never had much experience in, being the Plain Jane in school, the not-ugly-not-appealing girl, the shadow of a girl who just drifted through the hallways like I wasn’t even there.

  I shake the thought away, knowing it can’t be true, knowing that a man as muscular and handsome and rich and powerful as Kane Knight must have a dozen women a week throwing themselves at his feet.

  And even if none of that was true, he’s my dad’s worst enemy, a man I shouldn’t even be thinking of, let alone sitting next to.

  “So, what about it?” he asks.

  “What about what?” I counter.

  “These sonnets,” he says. “What’d you think about them?”

  A giggle escapes me before I can stop it.

  “Um, I’m not really sure it’d be your thing.”

  His lips twitch into a smirk, but settle almost immediately. “Oh?” he says. “And why’s that? Because I’m just a savage biker without a brain in his head?”