The Agreement

THE AGREEMENT L. STEELE CONTENTS 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 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Epilogue Christmas Romance books for you! FREE BOOKS About the Author Acknowledgments For those who love a morally gray, overprotective, touch-her-and-I’ll-unalive-you alphahole, who gives good grovel... 1 “The longer I know people, the more they puzzle me. My oldest friends are just those of whom I can say that I don’t know the first thing about them.” - W. Somerset Maugham Claim your free romance novel from L. Steele here Abby "You’ve been such a good girl." His harsh, velvety voice fills my ears, and I almost self-combust. Why are his words so appealing? I squeeze my eyes shut and listen to Shane East growl over the earbuds. Since I first heard an audiobook narrated by him, I’ve been a goner. It’s the perfect way to unwind on the tube, on the way home from my job—my incredibly stressful job at a communications agency in central London. One which was supposed to be my dream role but has turned out to be little more than me fetching coffee for my bosses, biding time by the photocopy machine, and taking care of the social media feeds of the company. The last, I don’t mind, if only there weren’t so many dos and don’ts to what I can share on social media. You’d think an agency that's supposed to be at the cutting edge of PR would take risks with their messaging strategy, but nope. They're conventional, and careful, and overly traditional in their outlook toward online marketing. They want me to share posts that read like they were drafted by someone who lived in Victorian times. Which, in a sense, they are, considering they're owned by someone who's supposedly a distant cousin to royalty. Argh! At last, I found a job without using my father’s influence. And once again, I refused my parent’s offer of renting the apartment they own in Chelsea. Instead, I’m managing with a small studio apartment in Hackney, in the East—a part of London my parents refuse to acknowledge exists. But then, anything outside the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, where my parents live and where I grew up, is of no consequence to my parents. They only make an exception for the City of Westminster, and only because that’s where Buckingham Palace is located. So, there you have it. My parents are snobs, and while I grew up surrounded by privilege, I’ve spent most of my life trying to put distance between myself and my roots. I’ve wanted to be a self-made person. Someone independent, who doesn't have to rely on anyone else for my source of income. Someone who's free to do what she wants. Not bound by tradition and history, like my parents are. Still, it's difficult to cut ties with them completely. They are my flesh and blood, after all. At least, I'm living and working in London, joining the throngs of people going to and from work daily. People hate the daily commute. I freaking love it. Especially since it's one of the few times I can hook on my earphones and indulge in my secret passion for spicy audiobooks. When I listen to smut, I’m no longer a plus-sized girl with a guitar-shaped figure. I’m just another curvy girl ready to lose every ounce of my feminism when the narrator growls: "Are you going to give me what I want, little girl?" "Yes, yes," she breathes. "Take me, please." An elbow nudges me in the side. I snap my eyes open and turn to find the girl next to me staring with a flushed face. I pull off my earphones while frowning at her. "What happe—" "I am going to turn you over my lap and—" My gaze widens. No, no, no. I can still hear Shane’s voice, which means I didn’t hook my earphones properly to my phone, which means everyone in the carriage can hear what I’m listening to. I slide my fingers over the screen of the phone, miss, hit it again, and switch off the audiobook. My breath comes in pants. My heart flutters like a butterfly caught in a net. I glance around and find every single person in the carriage is looking at me, some with smirks on their faces. Heat sears my cheeks. My arms and legs tremble. Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. I sink against the back of the seat, and draw into myself, trying to shrink and make myself as small as I can. Which is not very small, at all. The train draws into the next station, then pulls to a stop. People disembark. Others shuffle in to take their places. Saved by the tube stop. Whew. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, when: "That was hot," my neighbor comments. I shoot her a sideways glance to find her smiling at me. "So hot," I agree. "Love spicy books." Her grin widens. "Me, too." I allow my lips to curve in a tentative smile. "I’m Mira, by the way." "Abby." I hold out my hand, and she shakes it. "I prefer reading my dirty books, but you may have changed my mind after that blisteringly steamy excerpt." She fans herself. "Now, if only my boyfriend would follow in the steps of my book boyfriends." "Oh, that’s a thought." "Do you have a