Filthy Uncle To Go: A Forbidden Romance

  Filthy Uncle To Go

  A Forbidden Romance

  S.C. Adams

  Copyright © 2021 by S.C. Adams

  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.

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  For my readers.

  Also by S.C. Adams

  The To Go Series

  Daddy to Go

  Husband To Go

  3 Daddies To Go

  Babydaddy To Go

  Single Daddy To Go

  Valentine’s Daddy To Go

  Big Daddy To Go

  British Daddy To Go

  Dirty Coach To Go

  Filthy Uncle To Go

  Size Matters

  Size King

  Size Game

  Size Queen

  Irresistible Daddies

  Mister Daddy

  Contents

  About This Book

  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

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek: Dirty Coach To Go

  About the Author

  About This Book

  Jenna was raised by loving, caring adoptive parents. In fact, she has no desire to find out who her biological parents are, but at a family event, a mysterious man appears. She’s helpless under Drake’s gaze, but what happens when it turns out he’s actually her deceased aunt’s husband – and therefore her uncle by marriage?

  Drake’s been a widower for ten years now. He still attends his late wife’s family functions to honor and respect the memory of Naomi. But one Thanksgiving, a gorgeous girl catches his eye. It’s Naomi’s beautiful, innocent niece, and even worse, Jenna’s got lush curves and a saucy smile. Can the billionaire resist, or will Drake indulge in the taboo with a girl who’s strictly off limits?

  Warning: this book breaks every barrier that exists! The handsome older man meets a saucy piece of temptation at a family dinner of all places, but that’s EXACTLY the problem: they’re related by marriage! Do Drake and Jenna find love, or is their relationship doomed because it’s too taboo? No cheating, no cliffhangers, and always an HEA for my readers.

  1

  Drake

  The mouthwatering scent of oven roasted turkey permeates the air, filling my penthouse with a heavenly aroma. My kitchen hasn’t been used for what seems like ages, but that doesn’t mean that other people aren’t celebrating Thanksgiving. Opening the sliding glass door, I step out onto the balcony to get away from the scent. I like turkey, but sometimes, it just brings back bad memories.

  A cool November breeze brushes against my bare arms. I should be getting dressed right now for dinner at the Millers’ place, but every year, I need a few minutes alone to convince myself to go. The Millers are a warm, loving family, but they’re not my family. Well, technically not anymore, at least not since my late wife Naomi passed away. I appreciate the fact that my wife’s family still treats me like one of their own, but it’s been ten years since Naomi’s death, and sometimes, I feel a bit out of place.

  At first, it was hard being around the Millers knowing that my beautiful bride was gone. We were married for three wonderful years before the horrific car accident, and we always spent the holidays at her parents’ house in upstate New York. My late wife loved this time of year, and she thought it was important to be with family if possible. I would have preferred to escape from the harsh New York winters by traveling to a tropical region, but the love and warmth I received from the Millers made staying in the area worth my while.

  That’s probably part of the reason I continue to attend Thanksgiving dinner. Although our marriage was short, every day with my late wife was blissful. Dating wasn’t a priority for me immediately after I lost her, and it took a while before I could even look at other women. Once I finally did get back into that scene, however, it was pretty rough. Not because I don’t have my pick of the litter. Oh no, women throw themselves at me as if I’m the last man on Earth. It’s just that no one compares to my late wife.

  As a result, I haven’t yet encountered a woman that I can see myself with for more than one night. Most of the ladies I bed are only after my money and couldn’t care less about my heart. Sure, I’ve dated a couple socialites here and there, but for the most part, my love life hasn’t been filled with much love at all – only a slew of one-night stands.

  The wind blows again, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. The sun is slowly setting, but it’s still too early for dinner. It’s only five o’clock, and the Millers usually eat around seven. They live on the Upper West Side, and it shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get there, so I still have plenty of time to get ready. I gaze at the Manhattan sunset one last time before heading back inside.

  The glass door glides across the track with ease as I slide it shut and then walk down the hallway to my bedroom. Silence rings throughout the penthouse, as it always does. I bought this place after Naomi passed away. She hated living in the city and just before she died, we were searching for a house in upstate New York closer to her parents. But after losing her, I decided it was best for me to stay in the city. I’ve always liked bustling streets better than quiet suburban neighborhoods.

  However, despite the crowded conditions of NYC, I still find myself feeling lonely at times. I yearn for real intimacy, but in a town full of superficial women, it feels like it’s impossible to find one that gives a damn about anybody other than herself. I need a real woman with a heart made of gold and the body of a goddess, not one filled with silicone and Botox. The women I mount in the middle of the night are of no use to me when the sun rises. My heart aches for a woman who will make it skip a beat, not one who will only give me a boner.

  Stepping into my bedroom, I take my clothes off and toss them onto the floor as I walk into the master bathroom. My hand grips the shower knob, and I turn on the hot water, creating steam that fogs up the bathroom mirror. Droplets trickle down my frame as I step into the stream of liquid. I squeeze some shampoo into the palm of my hand, then massage it into my hair. The suds run down my chest as I rinse them out of the black locks. I grab a bar of soap and lather my frame as water splashes against my muscles.

  After the suds wash down the drain, I turn off the water and shake droplets out of my hair before stepping out of the shower. Grabbing the towel that’s hanging on the wall next to the shower, I wrap it around my lower body and open the bathroom door, releasing the steam. Water drips from my broad figure onto the hardwood floor as I stride into my bedroom.

  Flipping on the light switch, I step into my double walk-in closet. One side is full of my clothes, shoes, and accessories, while the other side is bare and collecting dust. My penthouse is big enough to raise a family in, but it’s just me living here, all by myself. Listlessly, I sift through a few shirts hanging on the rack, and then grab a navy blue V-neck sweater. Taking a folded-up pair of jeans off of the shelf, I walk over to the mirror and scrutinize myself.

  I should be used to going to Thanksgiving dinner at the Millers’ by now, but it still feels a little weird.
I know just about everyone who’s going be there, but occasionally, they invite new folks, and then there’s the awkward explanation that I’m Naomi’s widower. Ugh. Not looking forward to that.

  Pulling the towel from my lower body, I wipe off the remaining droplets of water and then toss it on the floor. I put on the navy blue V-neck sweater and then slide the pair of fitted jeans on before glancing over at the row of watches sitting on a shelf. They glisten beneath the closet lights, and I grab one of the less opulent ones and strap it around my wrist. I try my best to not wear anything too flashy when I visit my late wife’s family.

  After all, they’re hard-working middle class folk, and although my brother-in-law Jack is a businessman here in the city just like me, he’s intimidated by my success. He makes that clear by constantly referencing my material possessions. One Thanksgiving a few years ago, he caught his wife, Nancy, flirting with me after she drank an entire bottle of wine. I would never touch a married woman, much less my sister-in-law, but ever since then, he’s had it out for me.

  By contrast, Naomi’s younger brother Michael and his wife Leanne are the complete opposite of Jack and Nancy. They’re a warm, friendly couple, and I’ve never seen them argue. They seem to have a picture perfect family. I remember Naomi told me that they had some fertility problems when they first got married, and Leanne didn’t think she would ever be able to have kids, so they adopted a baby girl and named her Jenna. I guess that baby girl is about twenty now, so not much of a baby anymore, but I haven’t seen Jenna around much. I wonder what she’s up to? Probably doing homework or playing on Instagram.

  But Fate is perverse because after the adoption, Leanne ended up getting pregnant twice, first with a baby girl and then with a baby boy, so now, Michael and Leanne have three kids. Ironic, right? It’s strange how the universe works sometimes.

  I take a look in the mirror. Running my fingers through my hair, I reach for a bottle of cologne and lightly spray it across my chest. Leanne’s probably setting the dinner table right about now as guests continue to pour inside their home. It’s a little after six; I’ll need to leave soon. I grab a pair of socks and slip them onto my feet, then slide on a pair of shoes.

  Hopefully, I won’t get stuck sitting next to Jack or his wife at the dinner table. I think I’d rather sit with the kids than sit beside either of them. I’ll probably eat and stay long enough for one drink after dinner, and then head back home. It’s always good to see the Millers, but being around them reminds me of Naomi’s death, something I try to forget about. Sometimes it still hurts when I think about it, and the last thing I want to do is to be sad on Thanksgiving.

  I glance over at the empty side of the closet one last time. A wave of loneliness crashes over me. If only there was someone I could share my life with. I have a successful career, plenty of money, and a huge penthouse, but it means nothing if I have to spend the rest of my days alone. Sure, there are plenty of women who want me, but none of them are the one I’m searching for. I loved Naomi with all of my heart, and I’m want that feeling again.

  I want a woman I can make passionate love to in the middle of the night and then wake up to the next morning, holding her close in my arms. Someone I can shower with love and affection, and possibly even have a family with. Someone who gets me, without having to say a word. Naomi passed away too soon, so I never got the chance to be a father. As I listen to the echoing silence, I crave a family more than ever.

  I turn off the closet light and try to forget, but attending a family function always makes me morose. Maybe alcohol will help, and besides, it would be impolite to show up to dinner empty handed. I exit the bedroom and stride to the kitchen, where there’s a wine fridge. Pulling the glass door open, I wrap my hand around a chilled bottle of pinot and take it out of its slot.

  I shut the glass door, and then glance at my watch again. It’s a quarter past six – it’s more than time for me to leave. Hurriedly, I put on my coat, grab the wine, and then exit the apartment.

  The door to my cold, loveless home slams shut behind me as I walk toward the elevator. Spending Thanksgiving with the Millers is better than spending it all alone in my penthouse, to be sure, and I’m grateful they make me feel like family even though I’m technically no longer a part of theirs. But I’m ready for new beginnings, and revisiting the past is getting tiresome. Squaring my shoulders, I make a vow. Something’s going to change before the new year comes because I can’t keep going on like this.

  2

  Drake

  Carefully pushing the numbers on the intercom, I call up to Michael and Leanne’s apartment. The wind blows as I wait, causing me to shiver a bit. There’s a loud buzz, and I wait impatiently to hear a voice come through on the intercom.

  “Who is it?” a soft, angelic voice asks.

  My heart skips a beat from the gentle tone. Who could this be? Certainly not Leanne, that’s for sure. She has a middle-aged, braying tone that reminds me of a donkey. Well, with a voice this lovely, the mystery woman has to be the most beautiful woman in the world.

  “Hello?” she asks again. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Drake Morgan,” I rasp. “Michael and Leanne’s brother-in-law. I’m here for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Without another word, the woman on the other side buzzes me into the building. Placing my hand on the glass door, I push it open, my mind curious. Who was that? But I shake my head. It’s just a voice. It could have belonged to a ninety-year-old granny who happens to have kept her melodious tones.

  With the bottle of wine in my hand, I make my way to the fourteenth floor. The elevator doors close, and I watch as the numbers above them light up one by one. When I finally reach my destination, my heart skips another beat. Somehow, I can’t shake my curiosity about the mystery woman, although my fascination seems ridiculous.

  Slowly, I walk down the long hallway toward the Millers’ home. I can already smell the scent of Leanne’s freshly baked apple pie seeping from underneath their door. I stop in front of their apartment and glance down at the welcome mat beneath my feet. There’s even a festive wreath hanging on the door that gives me a warm feeling. I knock twice, and my heart rate skyrockets. Is it going to be my mystery woman?

  But instead, a freckly teenaged face greets me.

  “Hey, Uncle Drake,” Kendrick chortles, his words cracking. The boy’s voice must be changing. He’s average height for his age, but the poor kid’s face is covered in acne, although it doesn’t seem to bother him. He stands in the doorway holding a video game controller, dressed in an outfit I’m sure his mother picked out for him.

  “Hey, buddy. How’s it going?” I ask.

  “Pretty good,” he says before dashing off, leaving me standing in the hall.

  I step inside and gently close the door behind me, making sure it doesn’t slam. The scent of Leanne’s apple pie hits my nostrils, cinnamon-y and delicious, as I take a look around the apartment. This year, there are more guests than usual, and I’m surprised at the crowd. Who are these folks?

  At least the place is homey. Family photos are scattered all along the warm yellow walls, and the furniture looks comfy, as if the couches are actually meant to be sat on. Although Michael and Leanne’s apartment isn’t as lavish as my own, it’s filled with love, which is something money can’t buy.

  “Pardon me,” I mutter as I brush past two women talking. They’re definitely not the woman on the intercom, judging from their high-pitched giggles. Suddenly, a voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “Drake,” it greets. I turn around to see Leanne standing there, wearing the same warm, friendly smile she’s worn since I met her. She’s a middle-aged woman with graying hair in a short bob, dressed in a brown sweater and serviceable slacks.

  “Happy Thanksgiving, Leanne. Thanks for inviting me over,” I greet with a smile as I lean in and hug her.

  “Of course, Drake. You’re family,” she replies as she wraps her arms around me. “We would miss you if you didn’t come!”

>   She steps back and smiles brightly at me, her cheerful eyes twinkling in the light. The short, plump woman reminds me of a typical mother in her forties.

  “I hope everyone likes Pinot Noir,” I say as I hand her the bottle of wine.

  “I love Pinot,” she says, eyes wide with appreciation as she reads the label. “Our guests are going to enjoy this, definitely.”

  I grin.

  “Good. How have things been?” I ask.

  “The same as usual,” she sighs, still wearing a smile. “Michael’s at the office all the time while I try to keep the kids in line. I swear, Natalie and Kendrick fight like cats and dogs; sometimes I want to pull my hair out. I’m just glad Jenna is doing well at Marymount University. She made the dean’s list last semester!”

  Leanne sounds like a proud mother hen. From what I remember, Jenna was a shy girl, always locked in her room reading a book. She wasn’t like most teenage girls, into fashion and makeup, so for Christmas and her birthday, I’ve always sent her novels. She never complained, and always sent me a thank you card back. I think the last time I saw her for more than five minutes was three years ago when she had buck teeth, huge glasses that covered most of her face, and big, frizzy hair.

  By contrast, Leanne and Michael’s biological daughter, Natalie, was always a pretty one, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. She and Jenna never argued much when I was around, but then again, Jenna was always hiding away in her bedroom, shutting the rest of the world out. I doubt anything’s changed.