"Well, if it isn't the man, the myth, the legend—the shark," a voice says. I feel a meaty hand clap me across my back.

I look over my shoulder at a familiar face—a round, bald, middle-aged man who smells of false pretenses and feigned confidence. I play the game and return his smile.

"How are you, Tom," I say, not as a question, but as a bland statement. I honestly don't give a fuck about him. I know this guy. He's like so many on Wall Street. He's a mediocre broker, in a mediocre suit, at best.

"Apparently not as good as you, buddy," he smiles. It's an over-the-top smile that I'd like to wipe off his face. "I've heard all about your latest acquisition. That was one hell of a move."

"Indeed it was," I reply, expressionless, and motion to the bartender for a drink. We're two seconds in and I'm already bored with this conversation.

"What can I get for you, sir?" the bartender asks. He has a waxed handlebar mustache and I can't help but focus on its perfectly curved tips, sharp as teeth.

"Blood and sand," I reply, with the emphasis on the word 'blood.' They don't call me the shark for nothing.

The bartender nods and smiles, "One of my favorites," and he moves deftly behind the bar, grabbing a top-shelf bottle of rye. There's a miniature pig with wings on the bottle's stopper. Yes, this is the good shit. WhistlePig Rye. The kind of bourbon that instead of scorching your throat, lights a warm fire. I watch as he pours two fingers of the amber liquid.

"You've never been a man to shy away from making bold moves," Tom continues, trying to reel me back into the conversation. He's beginning to detect my disinterest.

"No, you can say I'm anything but shy," I smirk, and he laughs a big-bellied laugh like I've just said the funniest fucking thing on the planet.

The bartender places my drink on the bar, and I grab it in one fist.

"Good talking to you Tom," I say, getting up from my stool and giving him a nod. This conversation was over before it began.

"Let's do this again sometime—" he begins to say, but I'm already walking away and I lose his voice in the ambient noise of the 21 Club.

Maybe you've never heard of me, but on Wall Street, I'm revered—feared. I'm Drake 'The Shark' Carlton. More often than not, I don't have time for small talk. If you open up the latest issue of Wall Street Journal, I'm sure you'll find my name on the front page, and the page after that, and the fucking page after that. I was recently profiled in Forbes' 40 under 40 column as one of the most influential men on Wall Street.

Most people end up on Wall Street for the money, not because they love finance, or the work, or anything else. But I'm here because I fucking love it all. The power, and the grind. During the course of my career, I've made firms boatloads of money—I'm aggressive. I didn't shy away from thin margins or risking a lot of capital. As a kid, my father taught me two things: Fear is the enemy, and loose lips sink ships.

You can say I've repeated those mantras like prayers.

I fucking love Wall Street because I can feel the entire planet pulsing beneath my feet. You better believe that the planet has a heartbeat, and it's money. I can feel countries swelling with power and others losing it. It's like standing above a swollen river, billions of dollars raging beneath you. If you can navigate it, you win. If not, you drown.

And do you want to know what money sounds like? It's the sound of phones ringing and traders shouting and emails pinging and fists pounding on desks. And it has a smell—sex and leather and green wads and a metallic cold and cigars smoldering in dark rooms. It also has a face—lines, some straight and some jagged, but all moving up and down on a Bloomberg screen, and sweat, lots of fucking sweat.

And you want to know what makes my cock hard?

All of it.

Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.

I look around the 21 Club—at the New York elite—men in suits and women in designer dresses, their legs drunk and slightly spread beneath their tables. The place is filled with dark woods and deep reds. It's an old institution that knows old school cocktails—there's history, but best of all, there's secrets. That's why I decided to celebrate my latest acquisitions here. I couldn't think of a better place, to be fucking honest.

I walk back to our table and notice one of my senior managers, Eric, trying to schmooze it up with a lovely young woman. I'm guessing she's in her early 20s, legs that go on for miles, and a wide white grin that's more expansive and full of life than the Serengeti. Not bad. The man's got taste. For a moment, I look at her tits and her legs and wonder what it'd be like to fuck her.

By the way Eric's leaning in, and brushing his hand against her thigh, I can tell he's thinking the same thing, and he's laying his charm on thick too.

I smile and hang back, wondering if he's going to botch things, but the woman's holding a Manhattan in one hand and tilting her head back in full, open-mouthed laughs. Eric's in his early 30s, and if I had to guess, he probably hasn't been laid in years. Maybe tonight will be his lucky fucking night.

"Like what you see?" a voice asks.

I turn my gaze and come face-to-face with a woman like no other, wearing a tight black dress and shoulder-length blonde hair that cascades down the sides of her face like a river of fucking gold.

The woman who Eric's flirting with doesn't even compare to the one standing in front of me. This one would fucking stop traffic on the Lincoln Tunnel, or even on the Long Island Expressway.

She prods me further before I have a chance to speak. "You don't recognize me, do you?" A smile spreads across her lips, and I can tell she's having some fun with this.

How do I know her?

There's something vaguely familiar about her face. I'm searching my brain and hoping this isn't going to be a repeat of the incident at the bank. Yesterday, I went in to make a withdraw and a woman says the same fucking thing, that I don't recognize her, but of course she poses it as a question, and when I shake my head no she says, "You should, because you fucked me."

She said it loud enough, and let me tell you, it turned some fucking heads at the bank.

Now here I am, looking at this new woman standing in front of me. I'm eyeing her up and down. She's young. I'm guessing early 20s. Her face has delicate features … wait, this can't be. "Natalie?"

"Bingo."

"What brings you here?"

Now my head's really fucking spinning. I haven't seen her since ...

"I heard about your new acquisition, and wanted to say congratulations. It's all over the news."

"You came all the way over here just to say that? Isn't it easier to send an email?" I grin.

Not that I'm complaining that she's here, but it's a legitimate question.

"Email is so … yesterday," she smiles. Seems like she's full of secrets too. God, she looks just like her mother. "Besides, it's been a few years," she continues.

That's a conservative estimate. It feels like a lifetime ago. Almost another life completely.

"How have you been, and your stepbrother, Sloane?"

"You can drop the forced niceties. You and Sloane were never close … none of us were. Even Mom divorced you quicker than any of us predicted. We were never much of a family."

"That's harsh."

"It's the truth and you know it. But if you must know, Sloane hasn't changed, scandalous as always."

I laugh and ask, "How old are you now … 24?" I can't help but notice how much more mature she looks now. She's not the kid—braces and unruly hair—that I remember. She's a woman, a young, beautiful woman. Holy fuck.

"Close," she replies. "25. A stepdad should know these things."

"You look good," I say, ignoring the dig.

"Not as good as Ms. Legs over there, right?" she laughs, changing the subject and pointing back to Eric and the girl he's trying fuck tonight.

I start to shake my head, but she continues, "Oh come on. Don't be shy. I saw you staring."

"I'm many things, but shy isn't one of them," I say, for what I realize is the second time tonight. I bring my drink to my lips and take a sip, letting the warmth simmer in my throat. My eyes lock on hers.

She holds my gaze, changing the atmosphere around us. "Is that so?" she asks.

Her words are posed as a question, but they tumble from her lips like a dare. I'm instantly made aware of the shape of her slender neck, and her pulse fluttering there. I'm aware of her intoxicating smell—like a ripe garden on the edge of a salty ocean. I'm aware of her lips, plump and moist, and slightly parted.

I clear my throat.

"Ms. Legs has nothing on you," I say, daring her back, my eyes traveling from her bare shoulders down to the mounds of her tits, and I think about sliding my cock between that dark and secret crevice of hers. I shouldn't be thinking about her like this, but I can't help it. There's electricity in the air—something that makes me feel protective and possessive at the same time. My cock is throbbing. It has its own fucking pulse at this point.

Can she guess what I'm thinking? She takes a step closer, an instant magnetism drawing us together. I try to change the subject. She's my fucking stepdaughter, I try to reason with myself.

"So, what do you do these days?" I ask.

"I make sex toys."

I nearly choke on my drink. What did she just say? So much for changing the subject.

"Don't look so surprised," she coos. "I've always liked … sex," she says this with a slow emphasis, staring directly into my eyes, "and these toys take it to a whole new level."

"And what level is that?" I ask. Her eyes are like the deepest part of the ocean, and I feel myself sinking into them.

She smiles. "Let's just say that by embracing technology, no woman is walking away … dry."

Now she really has my undivided attention, and she knows it. She steps closer, placing her delicate hand on my arm and she leans into my ear.

She parts her lips and whispers, "It simulates like no other," and when she drags the 's' out of the word 'simulates' an electric current travels down my fucking spine.

"That sounds … interesting." My eyes flash at hers.

"It's even more interesting in action," she smiles, dragging one finger across one of my legs. My cock pulses at the thrill of her closeness.

"How much more?" I ask, a grin forming on my lips.

"Would you like to find out?"

As she asks this, I picture her hips in my hands, and my mouth on her neck. I picture a nipple pinched between my teeth. I have an entire movie scene playing out in my head … one directed by my throbbing fucking cock.

"I'd like to learn more about your … business," I say. "Let's meet for dinner tomorrow. I'll have a driver pick you up."

"I'm sure you will."

"What does that mean?"

She steps closer again and delicately hooks one finger in the pocket of my pants. She asks, "Is he going to …" and then she pauses, looking down at my belt buckle, "GPS me … right here?"

I know exactly where her eyes land.