The Last King Read online

  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.”

  Nathaniel King was dead.

  That reality was almost impossible to wrap her head around. For all her thirty-two years, Nathaniel had loomed large over Houston. The King family was an institution that had been around for generations, all the way back to the founding of Houston itself, and Nathaniel was its favored son. It was that favoritism that caused his father to pass over Lydia for the CEO position. The unfairness of that call had driven her to cash out her shares and start her own company—Kingdom Corp—in direct competition with her family. Thirty years later, it didn’t matter what Samara had told Beckett, because that rift was nowhere near closing. Time might heal some wounds, but it only cemented Lydia’s ill will for the family that had cut her off when she wouldn’t play by their rules.

  And now there was nothing left of that side of the family but Beckett.

  He released Samara and took a step back, and then another. “Just go. Run back to your handler.” He let her get three steps before he said, “But make no mistake—this isn’t over.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant contesting the will or them, and she didn’t stick around to ask. Samara kept her head held high and the file clutched tightly in her grip as she took the elevator down to the main floor, walked out the doors, and strode two blocks down the humid Houston streets to Kingdom Corp headquarters. The only person lingering at this time in the evening was the security guard near the front door, and he barely looked up as she strode through the doors.

  Another quick elevator ride, and she stepped out at the executive floor. Like the rest of the building, it was mostly deserted. Kingdom Corp employees worked long hours, but no one worked harder than Lydia King. She was there before the first person showed up, and she didn’t leave until long after they’d gone home. She was the reason the company had made unprecedented leaps in the last two decades. Samara admired the hell out of that fact.

  “I have it.” She shut the door behind her and moved to set the papers on the desk.

  “I appreciate you going. It’s a difficult time.” Lydia leaned forward and glanced over the paperwork. She didn’t look like she was grieving, for all that her brother had died in a terrible car accident two days ago. Her long golden hair was twisted up into a more sophisticated version of Samara’s updo and, despite a long day in the office, her white and gold color-blocked dress didn’t have a single wrinkle on it.

  Samara glanced at the clock and resigned herself to another long night. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Lydia smiled, her berry lipstick still in perfect condition. “How did my nephew look?”

  “He’s in rough shape.” It wasn’t just the fact that he’d obviously dropped everything in Beijing and come directly home upon hearing the news of his father’s death. Everyone in Houston knew that the King men could barely be in the same building for more than a few days without clashing spectacularly, but that didn’t change the fact that Nathaniel was Beckett’s father, his last remaining parent, and now he was dead. “I was under the impression that they didn’t have much of a relationship.”

  Lydia shrugged. “Family is complicated, my dear. Especially fathers.”

  Years of building her defenses ensured that she didn’t flinch at the dig. “What’s the next move?”

  But Lydia wasn’t through. She ran her hands over the papers almost reverently. “Was he upset when he found out about the villa?”

  She pictured the look in Beckett’s dark eyes, something akin to panic. “Yes. He didn’t understand why Nathaniel would leave it to you.”

  “He grew up there. We all did.” Lydia’s smile took on a softer edge. “Nathaniel and I were born there. So was Beckett. My children would have been if not for how things fell out.”

  It was just a building, albeit a beautiful one. Samara didn’t understand the reverence in Lydia’s tone, or the pain Beckett obviously felt to lose it. Who cared about an old mansion on the outskirts of Houston—especially after the King family had essentially cut Lydia off when she wouldn’t dance to their tune?

  Doesn’t matter if I get it. It’s important to Lydia, which means I have to plan on dealing with that damn house in the future.

  She realized the silence had stretched on a little too long and tried for a smile. “That’s nice.”

  “Oh, Samara.” Lydia laughed. “Don’t pretend I’m not boring you to death with my nostalgia. At least Nathaniel managed to do one thing right before he did us all the favor of dying.”

  There she is. This was the Lydia that Samara knew, not the sentimental woman she’d just been talking to. “Nathaniel was handling the upcoming bid personally. With him gone, it will leave Beckett scrambling to catch up.” Her fingers tingled, and she clenched her fists. Excitement. Not guilt. I’m beyond guilt when it comes to men who have had everything handed to them from birth. Losing this contract won’t sink Beckett’s company, but it will damage it.

  “Yes, well, don’t get cocky. This is important, Samara.”

  “I won’t drop the ball.”

  Lydia looked at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. Staring into those hazel eyes was like glimpsing a lion stalking through the tall grass. Samara was reasonably sure the danger wasn’t directed at her, but her heart still kicked in her chest. Finally, Lydia nodded. “I know you won’t let me down. Why don’t you get some rest? You need to hit the ground running tomorrow.”

  Samara paused. “I hope you’ll be able to get some rest soon, too.” When Lydia just shook her head and chuckled, Samara gave up and left before she could do or say something else ill advised.

  She hesitated on the corner. The smart move would be to go back to her little condo, have a glass of wine, and go over her proposal for the government contract yet again. She knew she had it locked down, but insidious doubt wormed through her at the thought of facing Beckett King. I have the advantage this time. It didn’t matter. He had advantages she couldn’t even see, ones that had been gifted to him just because he held the King last name.

  Samara closed her eyes. She wanted to go home. She wanted to call a Lyft and travel across town to the little house her mother had lived in since she was born. She wanted to hug her amma until the fear of losing her only parent dissipated.

  Get ahold of yourself.

  Amma would already be asleep, her alarm set for some ungodly hour so she could get to work on time. If Samara showed up now, it would mean a long conversation while her mother tried to figure out what the problem was. No matter how nice that soun
ded, Samara was stronger than this. She couldn’t lean on her amma just because seeing Beckett’s grief left her feeling strange.

  She was not weak. She refused to let a man she barely knew derail her path. Kingdom Corp needed that contract, and Samara needed to be the one to get it. It was a shame Beckett’s father had died, but ultimately she couldn’t let pity for him take root.

  He was the enemy.

  Samara couldn’t afford to forget that.

  Chapter Two

  Beckett spent a restless few hours in his condo in the city. He’d owned this place since he’d moved out after graduation, but these days he spent as many nights in hotel rooms around the world as he did in his own bed. He listened to the traffic outside his window and wished for the relative silence of Thistledown Villa. Not even the happy memories that haunted his childhood home would be enough to create a shelter in this storm. If anything, the empty, echoing halls would only make him feel worse, more alone than he already was.

  The desire to go home just proved all the accusations his father had thrown at him over the years. Too soft. Too weak. Too goddamn stubborn. That makes two of us, old man.

  But not old enough. Sixty was too young to die. There was no warning or slow decline of health. No chance for reconciliation. Despite what the rest of Houston thought, Beckett didn’t hate his father. They were just too different—or too similar, depending on who he asked. All Beckett ever wanted was some semblance of a relationship with the cold bastard, but any hint of softness had died alongside Beckett’s mother all those years ago.

  He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to focus past his exhaustion and the first stirrings of something that might be grief. Or relief. The battle was over, for better or worse. There would be no more tense dinners that inevitably ended in fights about the future of Morningstar. No more awkward holidays that spotlighted the missing piece of their family and the loss of what could have been. No more trips for Beckett that were barely concealed excuses to get him the hell out of Texas, at least long enough for them to cool off about the argument of the month.