Obsessed (Hostile Takeover #1)

Hostile Takeover 1- Obsessed - A Stepbrother Billionaire Romance




Tawny Taylor



Books By Tamryn Ward

Hopelessly Broken

This Crazy Little Thing

Malevolent (The Elect)


Books by Tawny Taylor

Wild Knights

Wicked Knights

Wanton Knights

Wild, Wicked & Wanton

Dark Master

Decadent Master

Dangerous Master

Darkest Fire

Darkest Desire

Claim Me

Wicked Beast

Prince of Fire

Girl Enslaved

Dirty Little Lies

Triple Stud

Enslaved by Sin

Double Take

Behind the Mask

Plays Well with Others

Lust’s Temptation

Wrath’s Embrace

Burning Hunger

Torrid Hunger

Everlasting Hunger

Slave of Duty

Flesh to Flesh

Compromising Positions


Pleasing Him

At His Mercy

Ties That Bind

Yes, Master

Make You Mine

BEARed to You


Darkest Ecstasy

What He Wants (My Alpha Billionaire, 1)

What He Demands (My Alpha Billionaire, 2)

What He Craves (My Alpha Billionaire, 3)

What He Needs (My Alpha Billionaire, 4)

What He Desires (My Alpha Billionaire, 5)

RAW A Dark Romance

My Bad Boys, My Stepbrothers

Hostile Takeover 1

Hostile Takeover 2

Hostile Takeover 3


Hostile Takeover - A Stepbrother Billionaire Romance

For fans of
Stepbrother Dearest
Stepbrother Billionaire

I hate him and yet I want him. Desperately.

I am so effing dead.

Mom just got married, and now I have to live with my new billionaire stepbrother, Kent Payne. I should be happy, right? We aren’t surviving on noodles and rice anymore. And at first I am. But things change. Quickly. It’s
. Kent Payne. He is exactly what his name implies--a pain in the ass. Sure, he’s gorgeous, and rich, and built like a god. But he’s also a controlling, irritating, womanizing pain in the butt.

Now, thanks to our parents, we’re members of one big, happy family. Whoo-to-the-fu**ing-hoo. He’s a jerk. And nothing can happen between us anyway.

So I shouldn’t care about who he’s kissing in the kitchen...

And I definitely shouldn’t be fantasizing about him being my

Hostile Takeover is a THREE PART SERIAL. If you hate serials, you may want to wait until all three parts are available before buying.

Genres: Romance, New Adult/College, Billionaire Stepbrother



Our gazes tangled.

The air squeezed out of my lungs. I couldn’t inhale.

His gaze flicked to my mouth, and my heart did a somersault in my chest. 

Was he going to kiss me?

He couldn’t!

He Shouldn’t!

Oh God.

A breeze carried the smell of flowers and man to my nose. A lock of hair fluttered across my face. I reached up to capture it but he lifted a hand and smoothed it back, behind my ear. “You look like your mother,” he said, his voice very low.

Was that meant to be a compliment?

“You look like your father,” I told him with my heart in my throat. He was still staring at my mouth, this beautiful, mysterious man. It was wrong, so so wrong, but I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted to find out what it would be like to be kissed by a man who knew how to kiss. I wanted to be touched by a man who knew how to touch a woman.

He didn’t move, just remained fixed in place as if he was trying to decide whether he would kiss me or not.

And so I leaned in and pressed my mouth to his.

His lips were firm at first, unwelcoming. But I knew he wanted me. I didn’t back off. I arched my back so my breasts barely brushed against his chest and moved my mouth slowly, softly over his.

The smoldering kiss continued for a million racing heartbeats, maybe more. I completely lost track of time, of space, of everything. Until there was a deep rumble, like thunder.

And then lightning struck. Somewhere out there. In the distance.

And also between Kent and me.

Kent grabbed my shoulders, pulled until my torso was flush with his. His mouth claimed mine. It was the kiss I’d been waiting for my entire life. It was soft and rough, thrilling and scary. It was a question and an answer.

It was a conquering.

And I surrendered.

I was his. His to claim. His to touch. His to take.

My body molded to his. My mouth opened. His tongue swept inside, and I savored his intoxicating, sweet flavor.

Heavy need pounded between my legs. I writhed. I whimpered. I welcomed his invasion.

I felt him shifting beside me and then he was above me, and I was angling back, my shoulders supported by a strong, thick arm. My head rested on the seat and he climbed over me, breaking the kiss.

I pulled in a gasp. My head was spinning. All I saw was Kent, his face…and the desire burning in his eyes.

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he whispered as he kissed me again. His kiss was tender. It was thorough. It was oh,
good and yet not enough. The burning between my legs was becoming unbearable.

“Please,” I begged, arching my back so my breasts brushed against his chest. I knew what we were doing was wrong, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was the delicious pleasure pulsing through me. He couldn’t stop now.

“Shayne,” he murmured, cupping my cheek. His thumb traced my lower lip and I quivered from head to toe. Did he know what his touches did to me? What his kisses did? I was so hot I felt like I would combust. And the burning was the worst
down there
, between my legs. I wanted it to stop...and I didn’t. 

My hips rocked back and forth, back and forth. The friction against my center felt so good but even that wasn’t enough. I wanted to tear my clothes away, to feel his skin gliding over mine. To feel his wet, warm mouth on my nipple.

“Your mother is trusting me to protect you,” he said, voice husky. Even as he said those words, his hand slid down, fingertip tracing a line along the pounding pulse in my throat. The gentle touch made me whimper.

More, I needed more.

As if he could read my thoughts, his fingertip ventured lower, along my collarbone, lower, angling toward my ample cleavage.

Yes, oh yes. Keep going.
He had to keep going.

“But you’re so fucking beautiful. I can’t stop wanting you.”





Chapter 1

Holy shit. What was

The devil was building a snowman. In hell. Right now.

Why would I think that? Because I was standing in the entry of a freaking palace, a suitcase in one hand, a letter in the other. A letter from my mother.

Mom believes in old-fashioned ways of communicating. She loves writing letters. She says they’re more personal than texting or emailing.


This one…this message…should have been delivered in

She was getting married. My mom. The woman who told me time and time again that men weren’t worth their weight in worm poop.

She was getting married. The woman who swore she’d never be “owned by a man.”

She was getting married. The woman who’d raised me on her own and was proud of it.

That woman was on her way to some tropical island to exchange vows with her soon-to-be husband, Dirk Payne.

I should have known something was up when she sent a letter last week, telling me to come to this address for Spring Break, instead of going to her apartment in Ferndale. When I’d pulled up to the massive house, I thought for sure I’d gone to the wrong place. I mean, this place was insane.

Mom and I used to love to go to Sunday open houses in the rich neighborhoods—Grosse Point Shores, Franklin, Bloomfield Hills. We’d dress up in our Sunday best and pretend like we were house hunting. It was innocent fun. I loved seeing what those beautiful houses looked like on the inside, dreaming about living in them.

But some of those houses were shacks compared to this place.

I looked up. The entry ceiling was at least twenty feet high. And a ginormous chandelier dripped crystals from the soaring height. The floor was a smooth marble tile, the walls snow white. A stone waterfall hung on one wall, dripping water to the reservoir at the bottom, making the air smell wet.

Feeling totally out of place, I kicked off my shoes and hooked my fingers in the backs to carry them. “Hello?” I called. Somebody had let me in when I’d knocked on the front door. I’d heard the lock disengage. So where was the he or she who let me in?

The entryway opened at the rear to a glorious open-concept kitchen-slash-dining-slash-living area. The kitchen boasted polished stone counters, more cupboards than anyone would need in a lifetime, and gleaming stainless steel appliances.

Oh, and a guy dressed in a pair of shorts and nothing else.

A really good looking guy dressed in a pair of shorts and nothing else…with abs that looked like they’d been cut with a blade, they were so defined.

I swallowed a mouthful of drool and smiled at Mr. Perfect Abs, heading his way. “Hi. I’m Shayne. Terry’s daughter. I guess I’m supposed to stay here for the week.”

Mr. Perfect Abs met me in the middle, arm extended. Up close, I could see he was older than me by at least a handful of years, maybe more. I could also see his shoulder and arm muscles were just as defined as his abs.

And his face was beau-ti-ful.

I tucked my shoes under my arm to free up my hand. You bet I was going to shake Mr. Perfect’s hand.

“Kent,” Mr. Perfect introduced. His clasp was firm. His eyes were sharp as they met mine. “Welcome.” After shaking my hand he held it a little longer than necessary. I took that as a good sign. I was feeling welcome. Most definitely. “I’m Dirk’s son. I guess that makes me your big brother.”

I scowled. A big brother? At my age? No, thank you. Especially this Adonis with the scrumptious abs and broad shoulders. “How about if I just call you Kent instead?”

“Fair enough.” Kent motioned toward the kitchen. “Can I get you something to eat? Drink?”

As if I could eat or drink anything right now. My throat was so tight, from standing this close to a guy who could do underwear ads, I couldn’t swallow a thing, not even a sip of water. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, dribbling cola down my chin.

“No thanks,” I said.

“All right. I’ll show you to your room then.” Kent escorted me through one lavish space after another. Even the hallway leading to the bedrooms was gorgeous. It was ridiculous. And I could hardly believe I would be staying here. I couldn’t imagine my mother living in this place, either.

What had been our home for most of my childhood was small, cramped, yes, but also homey. Everywhere you looked you would see something personal, meaningful. The walls were decorated with framed masterpieces—all crafted by one under-appreciated artist,
. As child-art tended to be, the paintings and drawings all boasted brilliant colors. Red, blue, purple, green. Subjects ranged from abstracts to trees with oversized birds nesting in the branches, and poorly-proportioned people.

But this place had
art, art that probably cost thousands, if not more. The furniture had no ding marks that I could see, unlike ours. It was all pristine, as if no one had ever touched it.

I wasn’t sure I’d like to live in a house like this. It was more like a museum. I was afraid to touch anything.

“Your room,” Kent said.

I sucked in a shallow breath. My room was a freaking showplace.

I stepped inside, dropping my shoes and suitcase on the floor. My feet sank into plush carpet with padding that had to be a foot thick. My gaze meandered around the space, taking in the massive bed piled high with pillows, to the door open to a massive walk-in closet, to the sitting area positioned in front of a wide window. “Thanks,” I said, as I made my way to the window. Outside I saw tree limbs, bare except for buds that were bulging in preparation for spring. A knot of twigs sat in the crook of two branches, a bird’s nest. I wondered if a bird would be laying eggs in it this summer. I wondered if I would be here to see it after I graduated.

I turned to thank Kent again but learned he’d left me.

Ah, well that was probably for the better. I stashed my suitcase in the closet and texted my best friend, Ransom.

This place is insane. Come over and stay with me. It’ll be great.

I gave her the address, told her to get over here ASAP and tucked my phone back in my pocket. During school breaks, I would usually go home and let Mom fuss over me. She’d cook enough food to feed at least eight people and we’d sit in the kitchen and gorge ourselves for hours, filling each other in on the highlights of our lives while we’d been apart. Then, being wiped out from the trip home and the stress of school, I would sleep almost twenty-four hours before getting up and meeting Ransom at one of our fave hangouts.

But this time Mom wasn’t around to cook. Or to listen to my stories about frat parties and exams. The clubs and restaurants where my friends hung out were over an hour away.

Ugh. What was I going to do all week?

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