2 Book(s) Related to Don't Touch

"This is insane," l mutter to myself, "What does he take me for? A predator? A pervert? God, it's sick."
Yes, she's technically an adult, but the twenty-year age gap makes my skin crawl. How does my father expect me to wake up next to someone barely out of high school and call her my wife?
He is unbelievable. No- ridiculous. That's the better word to describe him. What sane person finds a nineteen-year-old bride for their thirty-nine-year-old son?


Miles wasn't a predator, and he sure as hell wasn't about to marry someone two decades younger than him.
But his father wouldn't back down, and losing the company wasn't an option. So, he reluctantly agreed. He would marry the shy, damaged girl who had survived the worst at the hands of her step-family.
He made himself a promise: he wouldn't touch her. He would protect her, not become another perverted man she'd have to fear.
What he didn't expect was how hard that promise would be to keep. She was undeniably beautiful- soft curves in all the right places, her presence igniting desires he thought he could suppress.
Suddenly, Miles found himself fighting not just his morals, but his erection. But she was his wife. He could touch her, right?

Three years ago, Marco Ferraro stepped over the corpses of the Vancetti family to claim his throne, delivering my sentence with cold indifference: "Don't take it personally, Noelle. It's just business."
Three years later, he is the untouchable new Godfather of New York, while I am nothing but a ghost in a threadbare coat.
His classless fiancée didn’t just buy my mother’s legacy—she took that rare pink diamond and dropped it, right in front of everyone, into a glass of whiskey thick with spit.
"Thirsty, fallen princess?"
She kicked the backs of my knees hard, forcing me onto the glass-strewn floor. Her sharp stiletto heel ground into my knuckles. "Drink it, or die."
Marco stood to the side, lighting a cigar, his eyes filled with nothing but boredom.
I tightened my grip on the shard of glass hidden in my palm, ready to drag us all down to hell.
But before I could strike, the deafening roar of rotor blades tore through the dome of the auction house. A pitch-black military helicopter hovered just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the violent rotor wash instantly shattering every champagne tower in the room.
A voice that made the entire underworld tremble boomed through the speakers:
"Which one of you suicidal bastards touched my woman?"
A dozen crimson laser dots instantly painted a target on Marco’s forehead.
Rafael, "The Phantom," had arrived.
Tonight, no one makes it out of here alive—except me.