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Synopsis
Ultra wealthy and super powerful, the King family is like royalty in Texas. But who will keep the throne? New York Times bestselling author Katee Robert introduces a red-hot new series.
THE MAN SHE HATES TO LOVE
Beckett King just inherited his father's fortune, his company—and all his enemies. If he's going to stay on top, he needs someone he can trust beside him. And though they've been rivals for years, there's no one he trusts more than Samara Mallick.
The rebel. That's how Samara has always thought of Beckett. And he's absolutely living up to his unpredictable ways when he strides into her office and asks for help. She can't help wondering if it's a legit request or just a ploy to get her into bed. Not that she'd mind either one. After all, she likes to live on the edge too.
But soon the threats to the King empire are mounting, and the two find family secrets darker than they ever imagined and dangerous enough to get them both killed.
Release date: April 3, 2018
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 384
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The Last King
Katee Robert
Prologue
Beckett King had no good reason to be in the hotel bar. If he wanted to celebrate winning the bid for his father’s company, he should have gone out to be sure he wouldn’t run into the competition. Instead, he stood there in the entranceway, scanning the dim room for a distinctive head of dark hair.
A low laugh drew him like a magnet to a lodestone. He might not like the woman it was attached to all that much, but she never failed to make an impression. Beckett shifted, zeroing in on the sound.
There.
Samara Mallick leaned against the bar, laughing at something the bartender said. She wore the same black dress she’d had on to give her presentation, and it hugged her mouthwatering curves and left miles of her medium brown skin exposed. She’d taken her hair down since he’d seen her last, and it fell around her shoulders in wild waves of black.
She looked good enough to taste.
Beckett took a step toward her before he caught himself. Samara worked for the competition. There wasn’t a woman more off-limits. They’d gone head-to-head over bids for oil territory leases half a dozen times over the last few years, and while Beckett won the contracts more often than he lost them, he couldn’t afford to miss a step. If he did, Samara would be there, stealing the next bid out from under him before he had a chance to blink.
He couldn’t blink.
She caught sight of him and grimaced, which was enough to propel him toward her. Just need the reminder of why she’s not for me. They couldn’t be in the same room without bickering, and he needed that vicious edge to regain control of himself.
Samara raised dark brows and swept her hair off one shoulder. “The heir decides to make an appearance. Come to gloat, Beckett?” She made a show of looking at the muted beige carpet beneath her heels. “I’d get down on my knees in the presence of royalty, but…Oh wait, no I wouldn’t.”
The pull he felt didn’t dim with her words. If anything, their proximity only made it worse. This close, he could see the tempting curve of her bottom lip, a little fuller than her top, and he caught a whiff of her lavender scent. Damn it. Beckett ordered a whiskey and took the spot next to her. “Don’t play coy, Samara. You spend plenty of time on your knees for my aunt.” Samara’s boss. The CEO and owner of Kingdom Corp, the single biggest competitor Beckett came up against time and time again.
He shouldn’t have said it. The image of Samara on her knees in front of him was enough to make a man forget himself. Beckett had spent more time than he should have imagining the smirk she’d wear when she took his cock into her mouth…
Fuck.
“Why wouldn’t I? She’s superior to you in every way.”
He smiled in thanks to the bartender as the woman slid a tumbler across to him. “We just spent four days fighting for this account. Let’s not talk business.”
“Business is the only thing we have to talk about.” Three empty shot glasses sat in front of her, lined in a neat little row. As he watched, Samara took a fourth and turned the empty glass over.
“Bitter isn’t a good look for you.”
As he anticipated, she turned on him, dark eyes flaring in challenge. “You won this round. That doesn’t mean a damn thing about the next one.” She leaned forward, getting into his space, and lowered her voice. “Besides, we both know Norway’s contract is small potatoes. If you need to pat yourself on the back for winning at softball, then go right on ahead.”
“Samara, you don’t have to pretend that every time I win doesn’t needle the hell out of you.” He closed what little remained of the space between them. They were alone in the bar, and the music floating from the speakers overhead was so low there was no need to whisper. But he found himself doing it all the same. “I like your hair down. You should wear it like that more often.”
Her mouth dropped open for half a second before she recovered. “I don’t know what gave you the impression I care what you like.” She pressed her full lips together and tilted her head to the side, considering. “Though if we’re playing that game, you need a shave, Beckett. You look like you just rolled out of bed. It’s embarrassing and sloppy.”
He grinned because her body language told a different story. She leaned into him like a flower seeking the sun. They didn’t quite touch, but he could feel the heat of her body and it would take nothing more than a single deep breath to press his chest against hers. He had to fight not to take that breath, not to relish the slow drag of her breasts against him. This was why he’d taken great pains to ensure they were never alone.
They weren’t alone now, but they might as well have been.
She was off-limits.
He didn’t give a fuck.
They were in Norway, not Houston. No one here knew them or the roles they played in warring companies. His father didn’t have to know. Neither did his aunt.
What’s one night?
“You know, there’s one way to test that theory out.” Let me take you to bed.
Her brows shot up and she shook her head. “You’re unbelievable. I know you’re a King and all, but your arrogance is out of control.”
It wasn’t arrogance. If there was a sure thing, it wasn’t Samara Mallick. She was too prickly, too ambitious, too loyal to someone who hated both Beckett’s father and his company.
That didn’t stop him from wanting her.
It sure as hell didn’t stop him from leaning down and brushing his lips against her ear. “Why don’t you put me in my place?” He took her hand and slipped his hotel-room key into it. “Room 311.”
Beckett should have turned and walked out right then. It was the smart thing to do. But Samara pressed her hands against his chest, her fingers gripping his shirt in a kneading motion that rooted his feet to the spot. He felt a shudder work its way through her body as if she fought for the same control that flitted through his grip. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“All the best nights start with terrible ideas.”
Samara had all the right words ready. No. Fuck off, Beckett. Stop trying to add insult to injury. You got the contract—you don’t get this, too.
The right words weren’t what came out of her mouth when she finally managed to speak. “Yes.”
It wasn’t her fault.
Beckett King was a force of nature both in and out of the conference room. The charisma she worked so hard to exhibit seemed to come as naturally as breathing to him. Men wanted to be him—or be his best friend—and women just plain wanted him. Samara managed to keep her distance out of sheer spite, but she didn’t stand a chance with him leaning so close, his expensive cologne teasing her senses the same way his presence seemed to wrap around her even though she was the one touching him.
Just blame it on the tequila.
She tightened her grip on his shirt when he started to move back. “Two conditions.”
“I’m listening.” Damn him to hell for sounding amused.
“No one can know.” She had a reputation to protect—they both did.
He splayed his hand across her lower back, guiding her to close the last little bit of distance between them. She sucked in a breath. It was so easy to forget how big Beckett was when they stood a respectable distance apart. His expensive suits toned down his broad shoulders, gave him a more civilized air.
There was nothing civilized in the possessive way the heat of his hand seared through her thin dress and his hard cock nudged her stomach. Oh God.
“No one will know,” Beckett growled in her ear. “It’ll be our secret.”
She had no reason to trust him, but…Neither his father nor her boss would be thrilled if they found out. He might be better positioned to weather the storm of disapproval, but that didn’t mean he wanted to borrow trouble.
He exerted the slightest bit of pressure on her back, urging her to arch against him. Her body throbbed everywhere she touched him, but there were too many barriers in place. Samara tilted her head back and looked up into his face, searching his expression.
Chiseled jawline, strong brows, deep brown eyes that seemed to telegraph the ability to fulfill her darkest desires. His sinful mouth curved in a slow smile that drew a shiver from her. “What’s your second condition?”
“I’m in charge tonight.” It was her only hope of walking away with a little dignity intact. Beckett was everything she was supposed to hate: arrogant, old money, a family line leading back to the first oil struck in Texas. The only way she could look at herself in the mirror tomorrow was if she controlled this interaction.
If anything, his smile widened. “You’re in charge…for now.”
The trip up to his room was a blur. One moment Beckett was paying for their drinks, and the next Samara’s back hit his door and his mouth took hers. All her competition and desire was mirrored back at her in that kiss, his tongue sliding against hers as they both fought for dominance. Each move had a corresponding response as if they were dancing—or fighting. She dug her fingers into his dark hair and nipped his bottom lip. He slid her dress up enough to hook the backs of her thighs and hitched her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. She yanked his shirt out of his slacks so she could run her hands up his chest. He ripped her panties off.
They froze, their harsh breaths the only sound in his dim hotel room. Beckett leaned his forehead against hers. “Are we moving too fast?”
She pressed two fingers to his lips. “I’m fucking you tonight, Beckett.”
He didn’t move. “You had a lot of tequila.”
She smiled before she caught herself. Who would have thought that Beckett King had an honorable streak? He wasn’t the biggest dick in their industry, but she’d always found him to be ruthless with a single-minded intensity when it came to pursuing foreign bids. She didn’t know what drove him—and she didn’t care—but honor didn’t come into the equation. Until now.
“I’m buzzed, but not enough that I can’t consent.” When he didn’t move, she kissed his jaw and hooked her fingers into his slacks. “Touch me, Beckett. Kiss me. Fuck me.” She punctuated each word with another kiss. “Make me come enough times I forget all the reasons this is a terrible idea.” She wrapped her hand around his cock and gave him a squeeze. “Now.”
“Bossy.”
“Assertive.”
He turned and carried her deeper into the room. Beckett laid her on the bed and backed up enough to draw her dress over her head. He was on her in seconds, kissing her neck, her shoulders, her collarbones. He used his mouth to inch down her bra and before closing around her nipple, she thought she heard him mutter, “Fucking perfect.”
She was too impatient to let him tease her. Samara fought her way out of her bra. She went after Beckett’s shirt next, nearly popping the buttons off as she hauled it over his head. Seconds later, she shoved off his pants and then she was in bed with a naked Beckett King.
Her control tried to reassert itself and clamor that this was the worst idea she’d ever had, but with Beckett’s big body laid out for her, there was no going back. She straddled him and traced the muscles lining his chest down to his stomach, stopping to drag her thumbs over the dips below his hips. There were so many things she could say: You’re beautiful, too. Your body makes me crazy. I want to memorize every inch of you so I can replay this when I’m alone.
Samara kissed him before she could make a fool of herself. She needed. “Condoms.”
“In a minute.” He toppled her and pushed two fingers into her. She moaned before she could stop herself. For all that she’d claimed to want control, with him half on top of her, his mouth against her skin, and his hand working her between her thighs—it was beyond words.
Mistake.
She clasped the back of his neck and dragged him up for another deep kiss. Pleasure sparked as he pressed his thumb to her clit even as he stroked her. Not yet. She broke away. “Condom. Now, Beckett. I want you inside me.”
For a second it looked like he might keep fucking her with his fingers until she came apart on his hand, but he finally cursed. “Next time we go slow.”
“Sure.” There wasn’t going to be a next time and they both knew it, but she wasn’t about to ruin tonight by saying as much. Samara propped herself on her elbows and watched as he stalked naked to his suitcase and came back with a string of condoms. She raised her eyebrows. “Ambitious.”
Beckett hooked the back of her knees and towed her to the edge of the bed. “If we only have tonight, we’re sure as fuck going to make it count.”
A sentiment she could appreciate. Samara tore off one condom and sat up to roll it down his cock. She took her time, watching the frustrated desire play across his expression. She stroked him once. Twice. A third time.
“Samara—”
She didn’t know what he intended to say, and she didn’t care. She pulled him onto the bed and climbed on top. “Not now.”
“By not now, you mean never.”
That was exactly what she meant, but she wasn’t about to say so and risk ruining what they had going. Samara reached between them to stroke him. “Do you really want to talk right now? Or do you want me to ride you until we both forget our own names?”
Beckett’s mouth went tight, but he grabbed her hips and ground her against him. “We’ll talk another time.”
“Thought so.” There was no point in talking. Trying to turn this into something more than it was would only end in pain for both of them. Beckett had his future mapped out—heir to Morningstar Enterprise, only son to the CEO and owner. A legacy that had been his from the moment he was born.
Samara’s path led in a different direction.
She guided his cock into her and sank onto him until he was sheathed to the hilt. The fullness drew her breath from her lungs and she had to brace her hands on his chest for a few moments to get accustomed to the feeling. “You feel good, Beckett.”
His only answer was to run his hands from her thighs up over her hips and waist to cup her breasts. He teased her nipples with his fingers the same way he’d done with his mouth earlier. “You get this orgasm, Samara.” He met her gaze, his brown eyes so dark in the shadows they might as well have been as black as hers. “But as soon as you come on my cock, you’re mine for the rest of the night. I’m dying for a taste of that pretty pussy.”
“I’m in charge,” she whispered as she started to move over him.
“You can be in charge while I fuck you with my tongue.” He bent up and took her mouth, sliding his tongue against hers even as his cock slid in and out of her. She should argue on principle, but the tension of the last few days left her too tightly wound to do anything but pursue her own pleasure.
Or that was what she told herself as she came on his cock and he ate the sound.
She barely had a chance to relish the orgasm before Beckett flipped them, and then the delicious fullness of his cock was gone and he descended between her thighs. His first lick arched her back and drew a cry from her lips. By all reason, she should be sated and done with the whole experience, but as he thrust his tongue into her, Samara forgot everything but the need for more.
Tonight, she’d enjoy everything he had to give her.
Tomorrow, she’d go back to hating Beckett King.
Chapter One
Six months later
Beckett King was a monumental pain in the ass.
The man was a force of nature, and he never did what Samara expected, which made it impossible to counter his moves.
Probably shouldn’t have slept with him, then.
Shut up.
There was no point in stalling further. Samara had a job to do, and the longer she took to do it, the later her night would run. She smoothed down her pencil skirt, bolstered her defenses, and marched through his office door before she could talk herself out of it.
Beckett himself sat on a small couch rather than behind the shiny desk, his head in his hands. His dark hair was longer than she’d seen it last, and he wore a faded gray T-shirt and jeans, looking completely out of place in the sleek, pristine office. His broad shoulders rose and fell in what must have been a deep sigh.
If Samara didn’t dislike him so much, she might almost feel sorry for him.
She shifted, her heel clicking against the marble floor, and Beckett raised his head. He caught sight of her and stood, his expression guarded, his mouth tight.
“Are you here on behalf of my aunt?” he asked. “She really hates my father so much she sends someone else for the reading of his will?”
Samara considered half a dozen responses and discarded all of them. Tonight, at least, she could keep control of her tongue. “I’m sorry about your father.”
He snorted. “It was no secret there wasn’t a whole lot of love lost between us.” And yet the exhausted lines of his face showed that no matter what he said, he cared that his father was dead. It was there in the permanent frown pulling down the edges of his lips, and in the barely banked fury of his chocolate brown eyes.
He sighed again. “If Lydia doesn’t want to be here herself, fine. We might as well get this started.” He stalked to his desk and pushed a button. “Walter, Lydia’s…” He glanced up at her with smoldering eyes. “…representative is here.”
A few seconds later, a thin man opened the door she’d just walked through and shuffled his way to the desk. He wore an ill-fitting suit and looked about thirty seconds from passing out right where he stood. His pale blue gaze landed on her, his eyes too large in his narrow face. “Ms. Mallick. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but the circumstances are hardly that.”
“Mr. Trissel. It’s nice to see you again.” Empty, meaningless words. So much of her job required her to spill white lies and smooth ruffled feathers, and Samara was usually damn good at figuring out what a person needed and leveraging it to get what she wanted.
Or what her boss, Lydia King, wanted.
That skill had abandoned her the second she walked through the doors of Morningstar Enterprise. Her movements lost their normal grace, and words she had no business saying crowded her throat. Beckett always made her feel like an amateur, and they’d been going head-to-head for years, his aunt’s company against his father’s. But right now, he looked like the walking wounded and she didn’t know how to process it. Samara wasn’t a nurturer. Even if she was, she wouldn’t comfort him.
Beckett doesn’t matter. The will does.
The reminder kept her steady as Walter separated two folders from the stack and looked at each of them in turn. He passed one folder to Beckett. “It’s a lot of legalese, but the bottom line is that Mr. King left you nearly everything. Morningstar and all his shares are yours, which puts you firmly in the role as majority shareholder. As of the moment you sign this, you are acting CEO.”
No surprise showed on his face. Why would it? For all his tumultuous relationship with his father, Beckett was the only King suitable to take over once Nathaniel was gone. Of course he’d been named CEO.
Beckett leafed through the file but didn’t appear to read any of it. “You said almost everything.”
“Yes, well…” The lawyer fidgeted. “There was a change in the most recent version of the will.”
He went still. “What change?”
The lawyer passed Samara the second file. “Nathaniel King has left the residence of Thistledown Villa to Lydia King and her children.”
“The fuck he did!” Beckett slammed his hands down on the desk, making it clang hollowly. “There’s been a mistake. No way in hell my father left the family home to her.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. King, but there’s been no mistake. As I mentioned earlier, the paperwork is all in order. Your father was in his right mind when he signed this will, and I stood as his witness. While you’re welcome to contest it in court, I have to advise you that it’s a losing battle.”
Samara read through the paperwork quickly. She’d been told to expect the family home to be willed to Lydia, but she still wanted to make sure everything was in order. As Walter had said, there was a lot of legalese, but it was exactly what he said. Good. It meant she could get the hell out of there. “Thank you for your time.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
She barely made it into the hallway before a large hand closed over her upper arm, halting her forward progress. “Let me go, Beckett.”
“Samara, just hold on a damn second.” He released her but didn’t step back. “That house should have been mine and you know it. My father leaving it to Lydia makes no sense. She hasn’t set foot in the place in thirty years.”
“It’s none of my business what your father did or didn’t leave to Lydia. I’m not a King.” She forced herself to move away despite the insane urge to touch him. It was second nature to inject her tone with calm and confidence. “Nothing you can say is going to change what that will said. I know it’s your childhood home, but your father obviously had a reason for leaving it to his sister. Maybe he was finally trying to fix the hurt his father caused by passing her over for CEO and cutting her out of the family. It’s not like you were close enough for him to confide in you if he had decided to fix things with Lydia.”
Hurt flickered through Beckett’s dark eyes, and Samara battled a pang of guilt in response. The King family’s messed-up past wasn’t Beckett’s fault any more than it was hers, but that didn’t mean she had to throw it in his face.
His jaw set, hurt replaced by fury. “Stop trying to handle me. I’m not some client you’re trying to talk into an oil lease.”
She took him in, from the top of his hair that looked like he’d been raking his fingers through it for roughly twelve hours straight, over the T-shirt fitted tightly across his broad shoulders and muscled chest, down to the faded jeans that hugged his thighs lovingly, ending on the scuffed boots. “If you were a client, I would already have a contract in hand. You’re easy pickings right now, Beckett.” That’s it. Remember who you are to each other: enemies.
He reached out and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger, pulling her a little closer despite her best intentions. “Don’t try that snooty attitude with me. It doesn’t work.”
“You’re just full of orders tonight, aren’t you?”
“You like it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, sending a zing down her spine that curled her damn toes in her expensive red heels. “You like a lot of things I do when you’re not thinking so hard.”
She had to get the hell out of there right then and there, or she’d do something unforgivable like kiss Beckett King. Never should have let him get this close. I know what happens when we’re within touching distance. It had only been once, but once was more than enough to imprint itself on her memories. No amount of tequila could blur out how intoxicating it was to have his hands on her body, or the way he’d growled every filthy thing he’d wanted to do to her before following through on it. Things would be a lot easier if she’d just blacked out the entire night and moved on with her life.
He lowered his head and she blurted out the first thing she could think of to make him back off. “Beckett, your father just died.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Nathan. . .
Beckett King had no good reason to be in the hotel bar. If he wanted to celebrate winning the bid for his father’s company, he should have gone out to be sure he wouldn’t run into the competition. Instead, he stood there in the entranceway, scanning the dim room for a distinctive head of dark hair.
A low laugh drew him like a magnet to a lodestone. He might not like the woman it was attached to all that much, but she never failed to make an impression. Beckett shifted, zeroing in on the sound.
There.
Samara Mallick leaned against the bar, laughing at something the bartender said. She wore the same black dress she’d had on to give her presentation, and it hugged her mouthwatering curves and left miles of her medium brown skin exposed. She’d taken her hair down since he’d seen her last, and it fell around her shoulders in wild waves of black.
She looked good enough to taste.
Beckett took a step toward her before he caught himself. Samara worked for the competition. There wasn’t a woman more off-limits. They’d gone head-to-head over bids for oil territory leases half a dozen times over the last few years, and while Beckett won the contracts more often than he lost them, he couldn’t afford to miss a step. If he did, Samara would be there, stealing the next bid out from under him before he had a chance to blink.
He couldn’t blink.
She caught sight of him and grimaced, which was enough to propel him toward her. Just need the reminder of why she’s not for me. They couldn’t be in the same room without bickering, and he needed that vicious edge to regain control of himself.
Samara raised dark brows and swept her hair off one shoulder. “The heir decides to make an appearance. Come to gloat, Beckett?” She made a show of looking at the muted beige carpet beneath her heels. “I’d get down on my knees in the presence of royalty, but…Oh wait, no I wouldn’t.”
The pull he felt didn’t dim with her words. If anything, their proximity only made it worse. This close, he could see the tempting curve of her bottom lip, a little fuller than her top, and he caught a whiff of her lavender scent. Damn it. Beckett ordered a whiskey and took the spot next to her. “Don’t play coy, Samara. You spend plenty of time on your knees for my aunt.” Samara’s boss. The CEO and owner of Kingdom Corp, the single biggest competitor Beckett came up against time and time again.
He shouldn’t have said it. The image of Samara on her knees in front of him was enough to make a man forget himself. Beckett had spent more time than he should have imagining the smirk she’d wear when she took his cock into her mouth…
Fuck.
“Why wouldn’t I? She’s superior to you in every way.”
He smiled in thanks to the bartender as the woman slid a tumbler across to him. “We just spent four days fighting for this account. Let’s not talk business.”
“Business is the only thing we have to talk about.” Three empty shot glasses sat in front of her, lined in a neat little row. As he watched, Samara took a fourth and turned the empty glass over.
“Bitter isn’t a good look for you.”
As he anticipated, she turned on him, dark eyes flaring in challenge. “You won this round. That doesn’t mean a damn thing about the next one.” She leaned forward, getting into his space, and lowered her voice. “Besides, we both know Norway’s contract is small potatoes. If you need to pat yourself on the back for winning at softball, then go right on ahead.”
“Samara, you don’t have to pretend that every time I win doesn’t needle the hell out of you.” He closed what little remained of the space between them. They were alone in the bar, and the music floating from the speakers overhead was so low there was no need to whisper. But he found himself doing it all the same. “I like your hair down. You should wear it like that more often.”
Her mouth dropped open for half a second before she recovered. “I don’t know what gave you the impression I care what you like.” She pressed her full lips together and tilted her head to the side, considering. “Though if we’re playing that game, you need a shave, Beckett. You look like you just rolled out of bed. It’s embarrassing and sloppy.”
He grinned because her body language told a different story. She leaned into him like a flower seeking the sun. They didn’t quite touch, but he could feel the heat of her body and it would take nothing more than a single deep breath to press his chest against hers. He had to fight not to take that breath, not to relish the slow drag of her breasts against him. This was why he’d taken great pains to ensure they were never alone.
They weren’t alone now, but they might as well have been.
She was off-limits.
He didn’t give a fuck.
They were in Norway, not Houston. No one here knew them or the roles they played in warring companies. His father didn’t have to know. Neither did his aunt.
What’s one night?
“You know, there’s one way to test that theory out.” Let me take you to bed.
Her brows shot up and she shook her head. “You’re unbelievable. I know you’re a King and all, but your arrogance is out of control.”
It wasn’t arrogance. If there was a sure thing, it wasn’t Samara Mallick. She was too prickly, too ambitious, too loyal to someone who hated both Beckett’s father and his company.
That didn’t stop him from wanting her.
It sure as hell didn’t stop him from leaning down and brushing his lips against her ear. “Why don’t you put me in my place?” He took her hand and slipped his hotel-room key into it. “Room 311.”
Beckett should have turned and walked out right then. It was the smart thing to do. But Samara pressed her hands against his chest, her fingers gripping his shirt in a kneading motion that rooted his feet to the spot. He felt a shudder work its way through her body as if she fought for the same control that flitted through his grip. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“All the best nights start with terrible ideas.”
Samara had all the right words ready. No. Fuck off, Beckett. Stop trying to add insult to injury. You got the contract—you don’t get this, too.
The right words weren’t what came out of her mouth when she finally managed to speak. “Yes.”
It wasn’t her fault.
Beckett King was a force of nature both in and out of the conference room. The charisma she worked so hard to exhibit seemed to come as naturally as breathing to him. Men wanted to be him—or be his best friend—and women just plain wanted him. Samara managed to keep her distance out of sheer spite, but she didn’t stand a chance with him leaning so close, his expensive cologne teasing her senses the same way his presence seemed to wrap around her even though she was the one touching him.
Just blame it on the tequila.
She tightened her grip on his shirt when he started to move back. “Two conditions.”
“I’m listening.” Damn him to hell for sounding amused.
“No one can know.” She had a reputation to protect—they both did.
He splayed his hand across her lower back, guiding her to close the last little bit of distance between them. She sucked in a breath. It was so easy to forget how big Beckett was when they stood a respectable distance apart. His expensive suits toned down his broad shoulders, gave him a more civilized air.
There was nothing civilized in the possessive way the heat of his hand seared through her thin dress and his hard cock nudged her stomach. Oh God.
“No one will know,” Beckett growled in her ear. “It’ll be our secret.”
She had no reason to trust him, but…Neither his father nor her boss would be thrilled if they found out. He might be better positioned to weather the storm of disapproval, but that didn’t mean he wanted to borrow trouble.
He exerted the slightest bit of pressure on her back, urging her to arch against him. Her body throbbed everywhere she touched him, but there were too many barriers in place. Samara tilted her head back and looked up into his face, searching his expression.
Chiseled jawline, strong brows, deep brown eyes that seemed to telegraph the ability to fulfill her darkest desires. His sinful mouth curved in a slow smile that drew a shiver from her. “What’s your second condition?”
“I’m in charge tonight.” It was her only hope of walking away with a little dignity intact. Beckett was everything she was supposed to hate: arrogant, old money, a family line leading back to the first oil struck in Texas. The only way she could look at herself in the mirror tomorrow was if she controlled this interaction.
If anything, his smile widened. “You’re in charge…for now.”
The trip up to his room was a blur. One moment Beckett was paying for their drinks, and the next Samara’s back hit his door and his mouth took hers. All her competition and desire was mirrored back at her in that kiss, his tongue sliding against hers as they both fought for dominance. Each move had a corresponding response as if they were dancing—or fighting. She dug her fingers into his dark hair and nipped his bottom lip. He slid her dress up enough to hook the backs of her thighs and hitched her up so she could wrap her legs around his waist. She yanked his shirt out of his slacks so she could run her hands up his chest. He ripped her panties off.
They froze, their harsh breaths the only sound in his dim hotel room. Beckett leaned his forehead against hers. “Are we moving too fast?”
She pressed two fingers to his lips. “I’m fucking you tonight, Beckett.”
He didn’t move. “You had a lot of tequila.”
She smiled before she caught herself. Who would have thought that Beckett King had an honorable streak? He wasn’t the biggest dick in their industry, but she’d always found him to be ruthless with a single-minded intensity when it came to pursuing foreign bids. She didn’t know what drove him—and she didn’t care—but honor didn’t come into the equation. Until now.
“I’m buzzed, but not enough that I can’t consent.” When he didn’t move, she kissed his jaw and hooked her fingers into his slacks. “Touch me, Beckett. Kiss me. Fuck me.” She punctuated each word with another kiss. “Make me come enough times I forget all the reasons this is a terrible idea.” She wrapped her hand around his cock and gave him a squeeze. “Now.”
“Bossy.”
“Assertive.”
He turned and carried her deeper into the room. Beckett laid her on the bed and backed up enough to draw her dress over her head. He was on her in seconds, kissing her neck, her shoulders, her collarbones. He used his mouth to inch down her bra and before closing around her nipple, she thought she heard him mutter, “Fucking perfect.”
She was too impatient to let him tease her. Samara fought her way out of her bra. She went after Beckett’s shirt next, nearly popping the buttons off as she hauled it over his head. Seconds later, she shoved off his pants and then she was in bed with a naked Beckett King.
Her control tried to reassert itself and clamor that this was the worst idea she’d ever had, but with Beckett’s big body laid out for her, there was no going back. She straddled him and traced the muscles lining his chest down to his stomach, stopping to drag her thumbs over the dips below his hips. There were so many things she could say: You’re beautiful, too. Your body makes me crazy. I want to memorize every inch of you so I can replay this when I’m alone.
Samara kissed him before she could make a fool of herself. She needed. “Condoms.”
“In a minute.” He toppled her and pushed two fingers into her. She moaned before she could stop herself. For all that she’d claimed to want control, with him half on top of her, his mouth against her skin, and his hand working her between her thighs—it was beyond words.
Mistake.
She clasped the back of his neck and dragged him up for another deep kiss. Pleasure sparked as he pressed his thumb to her clit even as he stroked her. Not yet. She broke away. “Condom. Now, Beckett. I want you inside me.”
For a second it looked like he might keep fucking her with his fingers until she came apart on his hand, but he finally cursed. “Next time we go slow.”
“Sure.” There wasn’t going to be a next time and they both knew it, but she wasn’t about to ruin tonight by saying as much. Samara propped herself on her elbows and watched as he stalked naked to his suitcase and came back with a string of condoms. She raised her eyebrows. “Ambitious.”
Beckett hooked the back of her knees and towed her to the edge of the bed. “If we only have tonight, we’re sure as fuck going to make it count.”
A sentiment she could appreciate. Samara tore off one condom and sat up to roll it down his cock. She took her time, watching the frustrated desire play across his expression. She stroked him once. Twice. A third time.
“Samara—”
She didn’t know what he intended to say, and she didn’t care. She pulled him onto the bed and climbed on top. “Not now.”
“By not now, you mean never.”
That was exactly what she meant, but she wasn’t about to say so and risk ruining what they had going. Samara reached between them to stroke him. “Do you really want to talk right now? Or do you want me to ride you until we both forget our own names?”
Beckett’s mouth went tight, but he grabbed her hips and ground her against him. “We’ll talk another time.”
“Thought so.” There was no point in talking. Trying to turn this into something more than it was would only end in pain for both of them. Beckett had his future mapped out—heir to Morningstar Enterprise, only son to the CEO and owner. A legacy that had been his from the moment he was born.
Samara’s path led in a different direction.
She guided his cock into her and sank onto him until he was sheathed to the hilt. The fullness drew her breath from her lungs and she had to brace her hands on his chest for a few moments to get accustomed to the feeling. “You feel good, Beckett.”
His only answer was to run his hands from her thighs up over her hips and waist to cup her breasts. He teased her nipples with his fingers the same way he’d done with his mouth earlier. “You get this orgasm, Samara.” He met her gaze, his brown eyes so dark in the shadows they might as well have been as black as hers. “But as soon as you come on my cock, you’re mine for the rest of the night. I’m dying for a taste of that pretty pussy.”
“I’m in charge,” she whispered as she started to move over him.
“You can be in charge while I fuck you with my tongue.” He bent up and took her mouth, sliding his tongue against hers even as his cock slid in and out of her. She should argue on principle, but the tension of the last few days left her too tightly wound to do anything but pursue her own pleasure.
Or that was what she told herself as she came on his cock and he ate the sound.
She barely had a chance to relish the orgasm before Beckett flipped them, and then the delicious fullness of his cock was gone and he descended between her thighs. His first lick arched her back and drew a cry from her lips. By all reason, she should be sated and done with the whole experience, but as he thrust his tongue into her, Samara forgot everything but the need for more.
Tonight, she’d enjoy everything he had to give her.
Tomorrow, she’d go back to hating Beckett King.
Chapter One
Six months later
Beckett King was a monumental pain in the ass.
The man was a force of nature, and he never did what Samara expected, which made it impossible to counter his moves.
Probably shouldn’t have slept with him, then.
Shut up.
There was no point in stalling further. Samara had a job to do, and the longer she took to do it, the later her night would run. She smoothed down her pencil skirt, bolstered her defenses, and marched through his office door before she could talk herself out of it.
Beckett himself sat on a small couch rather than behind the shiny desk, his head in his hands. His dark hair was longer than she’d seen it last, and he wore a faded gray T-shirt and jeans, looking completely out of place in the sleek, pristine office. His broad shoulders rose and fell in what must have been a deep sigh.
If Samara didn’t dislike him so much, she might almost feel sorry for him.
She shifted, her heel clicking against the marble floor, and Beckett raised his head. He caught sight of her and stood, his expression guarded, his mouth tight.
“Are you here on behalf of my aunt?” he asked. “She really hates my father so much she sends someone else for the reading of his will?”
Samara considered half a dozen responses and discarded all of them. Tonight, at least, she could keep control of her tongue. “I’m sorry about your father.”
He snorted. “It was no secret there wasn’t a whole lot of love lost between us.” And yet the exhausted lines of his face showed that no matter what he said, he cared that his father was dead. It was there in the permanent frown pulling down the edges of his lips, and in the barely banked fury of his chocolate brown eyes.
He sighed again. “If Lydia doesn’t want to be here herself, fine. We might as well get this started.” He stalked to his desk and pushed a button. “Walter, Lydia’s…” He glanced up at her with smoldering eyes. “…representative is here.”
A few seconds later, a thin man opened the door she’d just walked through and shuffled his way to the desk. He wore an ill-fitting suit and looked about thirty seconds from passing out right where he stood. His pale blue gaze landed on her, his eyes too large in his narrow face. “Ms. Mallick. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but the circumstances are hardly that.”
“Mr. Trissel. It’s nice to see you again.” Empty, meaningless words. So much of her job required her to spill white lies and smooth ruffled feathers, and Samara was usually damn good at figuring out what a person needed and leveraging it to get what she wanted.
Or what her boss, Lydia King, wanted.
That skill had abandoned her the second she walked through the doors of Morningstar Enterprise. Her movements lost their normal grace, and words she had no business saying crowded her throat. Beckett always made her feel like an amateur, and they’d been going head-to-head for years, his aunt’s company against his father’s. But right now, he looked like the walking wounded and she didn’t know how to process it. Samara wasn’t a nurturer. Even if she was, she wouldn’t comfort him.
Beckett doesn’t matter. The will does.
The reminder kept her steady as Walter separated two folders from the stack and looked at each of them in turn. He passed one folder to Beckett. “It’s a lot of legalese, but the bottom line is that Mr. King left you nearly everything. Morningstar and all his shares are yours, which puts you firmly in the role as majority shareholder. As of the moment you sign this, you are acting CEO.”
No surprise showed on his face. Why would it? For all his tumultuous relationship with his father, Beckett was the only King suitable to take over once Nathaniel was gone. Of course he’d been named CEO.
Beckett leafed through the file but didn’t appear to read any of it. “You said almost everything.”
“Yes, well…” The lawyer fidgeted. “There was a change in the most recent version of the will.”
He went still. “What change?”
The lawyer passed Samara the second file. “Nathaniel King has left the residence of Thistledown Villa to Lydia King and her children.”
“The fuck he did!” Beckett slammed his hands down on the desk, making it clang hollowly. “There’s been a mistake. No way in hell my father left the family home to her.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. King, but there’s been no mistake. As I mentioned earlier, the paperwork is all in order. Your father was in his right mind when he signed this will, and I stood as his witness. While you’re welcome to contest it in court, I have to advise you that it’s a losing battle.”
Samara read through the paperwork quickly. She’d been told to expect the family home to be willed to Lydia, but she still wanted to make sure everything was in order. As Walter had said, there was a lot of legalese, but it was exactly what he said. Good. It meant she could get the hell out of there. “Thank you for your time.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door.
She barely made it into the hallway before a large hand closed over her upper arm, halting her forward progress. “Let me go, Beckett.”
“Samara, just hold on a damn second.” He released her but didn’t step back. “That house should have been mine and you know it. My father leaving it to Lydia makes no sense. She hasn’t set foot in the place in thirty years.”
“It’s none of my business what your father did or didn’t leave to Lydia. I’m not a King.” She forced herself to move away despite the insane urge to touch him. It was second nature to inject her tone with calm and confidence. “Nothing you can say is going to change what that will said. I know it’s your childhood home, but your father obviously had a reason for leaving it to his sister. Maybe he was finally trying to fix the hurt his father caused by passing her over for CEO and cutting her out of the family. It’s not like you were close enough for him to confide in you if he had decided to fix things with Lydia.”
Hurt flickered through Beckett’s dark eyes, and Samara battled a pang of guilt in response. The King family’s messed-up past wasn’t Beckett’s fault any more than it was hers, but that didn’t mean she had to throw it in his face.
His jaw set, hurt replaced by fury. “Stop trying to handle me. I’m not some client you’re trying to talk into an oil lease.”
She took him in, from the top of his hair that looked like he’d been raking his fingers through it for roughly twelve hours straight, over the T-shirt fitted tightly across his broad shoulders and muscled chest, down to the faded jeans that hugged his thighs lovingly, ending on the scuffed boots. “If you were a client, I would already have a contract in hand. You’re easy pickings right now, Beckett.” That’s it. Remember who you are to each other: enemies.
He reached out and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger, pulling her a little closer despite her best intentions. “Don’t try that snooty attitude with me. It doesn’t work.”
“You’re just full of orders tonight, aren’t you?”
“You like it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, sending a zing down her spine that curled her damn toes in her expensive red heels. “You like a lot of things I do when you’re not thinking so hard.”
She had to get the hell out of there right then and there, or she’d do something unforgivable like kiss Beckett King. Never should have let him get this close. I know what happens when we’re within touching distance. It had only been once, but once was more than enough to imprint itself on her memories. No amount of tequila could blur out how intoxicating it was to have his hands on her body, or the way he’d growled every filthy thing he’d wanted to do to her before following through on it. Things would be a lot easier if she’d just blacked out the entire night and moved on with her life.
He lowered his head and she blurted out the first thing she could think of to make him back off. “Beckett, your father just died.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Nathan. . .
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