Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
Insatiable Bachelor
Bachelor Tower Series
Book One
RUTH CARDELLO
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website: RuthCardello.com
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A brand-new series set in a whole new world.
Dalton: Women are a perk of my lifestyle. I work hard. I deserve to play harder. But I didn’t get on the Forbes List of Rising Entrepreneurs by getting lost in the baggage and disruption that comes with dating. I’ve seen dozens of men fail when they fall in love. Pathetic.
That’s why I chose the Bachelor Tower. It was designed by a genius, my hero: the late, Garry F. Brockton. He created an all-male haven for ambitious men who want to live like kings and play by their own rules. Casino nights, a fully equipped gym and lap pool, cigar and Scotch bar, and a media room with screens the size of the average movie theater. The list is endless. I easily network with men trying to launch their careers or those at the top who want to stay hungry. The best part: the tower attracts women, beautiful women who hang out in the lobby bar and vie for an invite upstairs. Easy, like fishing in a barrel.
Until Brockton dies and Penny Fuller moves into the apartment next to me because the new owner doesn’t share his vision.
Everyone agrees Penny can’t stay. I don’t want to get involved, but she doesn’t understand the lengths my fellow building mates will go to in order to get her out. She’s not only irresistibly sexy and painfully optimistic, she’s also in real danger.
Siding with her would be career suicide.
Betraying her was never my intention.
Copyright
Kindle Edition
An original work of Ruth Cardello, 2018.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to everyone who has ever wavered while following their heart. We are not all made the same. We are not all meant to take the same path. Whether you measure in centimeters for precision or with crayons for the joy of it—you are exactly who you were meant to be and that is beautiful.
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
Dalton
Thwack!
That sound, just the memory of it, has my half-hard cock pressing against the zipper of my pants. It’s the crack of skin hitting skin, my hand on a woman’s bare ass. I can practically feel the sting on my palm and hear a playful and surprised shriek.
Fuck, I love that sound.
I’m pulled from my thoughts and back to reality as Robert, the doorman, takes my badge and swipes it against the lock to let me in. The guy’s job must be mind-numbingly boring, but for some reason he always has a smile on his face. I don’t get it.
“Welcome back, Mr. Croft.” His giant mustache wiggles up and down as he grins at me.
“Yes,” I grunt out and figure he’s too new to the building to realize I prefer silence whenever possible. I don’t want chitchat and formalities. He’ll learn.
I walk past him with purpose. He’s broken me from my thoughts, but it was best not to enter the building with my cock at full-staff anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to put in an hour at the gym before heading to the bar. No need to fantasize about what will soon be a reality.
Fucking is a perk of my lifestyle. I work hard. I deserve to play harder. But I didn’t get on the Forbes List of Rising Entrepreneurs by getting lost in the baggage and disruption that comes with serious dating. I’ve seen dozens of men fail at the hands of a woman they think they love. Pathetic.
The Bachelor Tower is a co-op apartment building that was designed by a genius. My hero. The late Garry F. Brockton thought up every detail for an apartment building that catered to ambitious men who know better than to let the lure of a relationship get in the way of their goals. Just two blocks from the Financial District in Boston a man can live as he pleases. We are kings, and this is our castle.
Casino nights, a fully equipped gym, lap pool, cigar and Scotch bar, and a media room with screens the size of the average movie theater. The list is endless. I can network with other associates trying to launch their careers or those who are at the top and want to stay hungry. The best part, a place like this attracts women, beautiful women who hang out in the lobby bar and wait anxiously for an invite upstairs. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.
When I say these women are pros, I don’t mean I have to pay them. I mean their skills are on point. They approach their sexual talents the way an athlete trains. And it shows. Perfectly waxed, toned, and limber.
Any guy who thinks a good blow job is just open mouth, insert cock, has not lived. These women know the power of a firm swirl of a tongue and a well-timed two-handed grip. It’s all about the right rhythm and that primal moan.
I’m not even halfway through the lobby, and I’m rock-hard and throbbing again. Hell, I’m a healthy man in his prime. It has been a long week, and I’ve put business before pleasure. I don’t pursue women—they come to me. I refuse to apologize for accepting what they offer.
No one paved the way for me. Long nights and hard work got me here.
And here is pretty fucking good. Everything is mine for the taking. Power. Money. Pussy. At the Bachelor Tower I can get my rocks off, my dry cleaning done, and my steak cooked just the way I like. No judgements made if each is of equal priority to me.
This co-op is an oasis. A fortress. Very exclusive. That’s why as I enter the elevator and see a woman in dog-hair-covered yoga pants, a cute tank top, and a messy bun of hair, I stop to make sure I haven’t hit my head and ended up in the wrong building. Maybe all the blood that rushed to my cock hasn’t made it back to my brain.
“Hi,” she squeaks and waves nervously at me. Her face is pink with embarrassment, and she’s practically vibrating with nerves. Usually vibration and women go together nicely, but something is wrong here.
“You lost?”
“Ah, no,” she answers as her eyes dart away. “I’m just heading to my apartment.”
“In this building?” I chuckle, knowing now she must be lost. She certainly hadn’t been sipping martinis in the private bar downstairs and gotten an invite up. Not dressed like that. She’s hot, though. Her perky breasts are barely covered by the thin tank top and strappy sports bra. Her workout pants hug her luscious ass. She is toned and tanned with a sexy, nervous smile. Absolutely fuckable, but most definitely lost.
“I’m on the fourteenth floor,” she says, waving the key card and waiting for me to hit the button. When I don’t, she brushes by me and hits it herself.
The key is legit, and I frown. Women and pets are allowed in parts of the building, but never unattended. “Who are you here to see?”
“No one. I live here now.”
Not possible. She was either given a key or stole one. She wouldn’t be the first woman to try lying her way into the building. Maybe she hoped if she could get this far, someone would like what he saw enough to take her to his place. I scan her figure again and realize I could be swayed toward that option—even if it meant locking my shit up for a night.
“You’re either a very convincing cross-dresser, or you’re a liar.” The elevator doors open on my floor. Coincidently floor fourteen, and we both step out. “This is the Bachelor Tower. It’s a men’s-only apartment building. No women. No families. It’s been like that for fifty-six years.”
She shrugs, her flushed cheeks still raging. “You know Mr. Brockton died, right?”
“Yes.” I ignore the pang of some unnamed emotion that rises in me. Brockton was not just the owner of this place, but he strutted around like he was the mayor. He had serious swagger, even in his old age, always a woman on his arm, and likely a Viagra in his pocket.
“His niece is taking over. Apparently she has a different vision for the building.” She chews her lip as she seems to think on it. “I guess they were keeping it quiet. Change is tough, but it might be better to just rip the Band-Aid off quickly.”
Rip off quickly. I bet her shirt would. As nuts as she’s making me with this news, I’m picturing her against the wall with those sweet lips parted in anticipation. She’d tip her head back and beg me to fuck her right here in the hallway. She’s tiny, so I instantly imagine how tight she’d be as I thrust inside her while she cries out my name. If we even bother to exchange names.
God, women are a distraction—this one more than most. “That can’t be right. His niece? She wouldn’t dare. There’s a long waiting list for this place. No offense, but you don’t look like you could even afford the rent.”
“Careful,” she says, pointing at the ground and walking away from me coolly. “You’re spilling your judgmental, obnoxious arrogance all over the place. Wouldn’t want you to slip on it.”
Fuck, she has a bit of fire to her. I like that.
I stand in the now-empty hallway. The mahogany walls, rich charcoal-gray carpets, stately doorways fade away. I’m left with only the lingering image of her sea-glass-green eyes and the smell of her lavender perfume.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself as I pull my key card out from my pocket and realize she’s my neighbor. I’m only one thin wall away from that tight little ass. No way in hell I’m getting any work done now. The fortress has been compromised.
CHAPTER TWO
Penny
I’ve heard of people walking through fire. Well, in the lobby of the Bachelor Tower, I passed through a blazing field of testosterone. I couldn’t tell if all the men were judging my casual attire or undressing me with their eyes. Either way, it was harrowing and my sister owes me big-time.
“Tell me,” Kylie demands as I put the phone to my ear. No hello. No niceties. “Are you in the apartment?”
“Yes,” I sigh as I drop my purse on the gleaming hardwood floors and immediately pick it back up. It doesn’t feel like my place, because—well, because it isn’t. “Believe it or not, Kylie, I can swipe a key card. I’m not an idiot.” The thought of my elevator ride has me flushing. That guy, that arrogant snob who’d insulted me should not have any space in my head.
So full of himself. I wonder if his trousers are packing anything impressive enough to back up his inflated opinion of himself. Definitely not my taste, even if he is hot.
I’ll admit this place is a little intimidating. Hell, this place would have any woman flustered. There are so many penises I’m surprised no one has had their eye poked out accidently.
“Penny, I do not think you are an idiot,” Kylie insists, but we both know she’s lying. She’s the CFO of a Fortune 500 company. It’s hard for her not to think an occasionally employed yoga instructor is as capable—of anything. Kylie can’t imagine anyone choosing the life I have. The funny thing is I can’t imagine wanting her life either. I already know what she’s about to say as she starts to speak. “You understand why that apartment is so important to me, right?”
In our normal ritual, I pretend her tone doesn’t sting. I don’t bother pushing back and trying to get her to understand that an apartment shouldn’t be this big of a deal. That my priorities aren’t inconsequential just because they differ from hers. She never has, and probably never will, value the simplicity of having a nice meal with friends or volunteering at a food kitchen.
Just once I wish she’d see there were some things more important than furthering her career.
Being healthy.
Being kind.
Little sisters.
It’s pointless. When we were children and made crafts, she used to measure everything in centimeters because, as she said, it was more accurate. I measured with my crayons because they were more colorful and crafts were supposed to be fun. The product of our labor ended up very different, but—to me at least—equally beautiful.
I try to comfort her. “I know, and I’ve got you covered. This apartment will be perfect when you get back from China in a month. Nothing to worry about at all.”
“I’m the first woman to ever live in that building. I’ve spent months working every single angle possible to make this happen. The connections I could make there are priceless. Stick with the plan.”
I’ve barely slept in the apartment. Even if I were trying, how much could I have messed up already?
“I am.” Kylie’s plans are infamous. The problem is I’ve seen what happens when things don’t go the way she thinks they should. It’s bad, and that’s why I’m here. “I promise, everything will be fine. I’ll make sure I follow all the terms of the lease until you get back.”
“And the checklist? You’re doing the checklist?” T
he urgency in her voice reminds me how tightly wound she is. I would tell her she needs to get laid, but I’d never hear the end of it. She doesn’t need dick. According to her, she doesn’t need anyone.
Until now.
Just this once she needs me.
She might change her mind about having a sex life once she moves in. It’ll certainly be convenient. If half the guys look like the neighbor, she’ll soon be more relaxed than I am on a meditation retreat.
A memory of the neighbor’s broad chest has me wondering what it would be like to rub my hands over those muscles.
But that’s not what I’m here for.
My sister asked me for help, and she’s never needed a thing from me. I will not let her down.
“I’m going to keep up with the checklist,” I assure her. “How hard can it be?”
“Penny,” she barks. It’s easy to see why people at work call her Kylie the Killer. She has earned every opportunity in her life, and she’s done it by using that exact tone in her voice. I have a sudden image of her high school boyfriend, Evan. He carried things for her, ran her errands. Is that a boyfriend or an intern? I smile and wish I could share that thought with Kylie. She wouldn’t find the joke as funny as I do. Or funny at all, most likely. “The checklist is mandatory. Just like the two interviews and applications I filled out in order to even be considered. If the old man didn’t die and leave the co-op to his niece, I would never have gotten a shot. But there are still bylaws and community rules I can’t break or they could boot me out. And trust me, I’m sure these guys will be looking for a reason to get rid of me. You have to abide by every one.”
“Remember what Dad always says,” I sing out cheerfully. “Today’s worries are tomorrow’s wrinkles.”
“And that’s why Mom divorced him,” Kylie groans, clearly not interested in my happy-go-lucky demeanor. “She needed someone she could rely on.”
“Well, okay then.” We’ve had this discussion before as well. “You can rely on me,” I say, wishing I knew how to make her believe that.
“I’ll be home next month,” Kylie says, and I think there’s a little hint of her softening but I’m sure I’m only imagining that. “Call me if anything goes wrong. I mean anything. I have very little service out here, but leave me a message. I check mine every hour on the hour.”