The Last King Page 7

  “I’ll be back in a few,” Samara murmured and moved away from the bar. She met Beckett as he exited the dance floor and grabbed his arm when he opened his mouth to speak. “Not here.” She didn’t give him a chance to argue, towing him down the hallway to where the bathrooms and private meeting rooms were. She briefly debated shoving Beckett into a storage closet, but the only story that would be more scandalous than their co-opting a meeting room was them disappearing into a mop closet. “In here.”

  The room was blessedly empty, and she shut the door behind them. The manager would probably be pissed, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. She could just shell out the money to rent the damn room for an hour—with a little extra to ensure that the manager kept his mouth shut. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  He strode three steps deeper into the room and spun to face her. “What was I thinking? You have a lot of nerve acting like the injured party right now.”

  That brought Samara up short. There was real anger written across his features. She’d registered it before, of course, but she hadn’t really expected it to be aimed at her. Aside from their ongoing rivalry, she hadn’t done anything that should piss him off more than normal. She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted her chin. “Want to enlighten me about the bug that’s crawled up your ass?”

  “Did you know?” He didn’t move, but he seemed to loom over her all the same. “Did you know Lydia met with my father the night he died?”

  She froze. “What are you talking about? Lydia had her monthly pamper session that night. I know because I booked the appointments myself.”

  He searched her face as if trying to dig inside her head and read her thoughts. “You didn’t know.”

  “I’m not sure where you got your information, but you’re wrong. Lydia despised Nathaniel. She went out of her way to avoid him. Samara shook her head. “There’s no way she would have met him.”

  If she had…No. Samara didn’t believe that for a second. She knew her boss. Lydia would rather set herself on fire than spend a single second in the same room as Nathaniel King. She didn’t know where Beckett came up with the idea that she had, but he was wrong.

  Dead wrong.

  Journey could feel him watching her. It was a hot itch at the nape of her neck, and no matter how shamelessly she flirted with the bartender, there was no distracting from Frank Evans’s gaze drilling a hole into her back. If it were any other circumstances, she’d say to hell with it and stalk out—but not before she ordered him a shot with an absurd name. Blowjob. Sex in the bathtub. Slippery nipples.

  Actually…

  “Hey, cutie, I’m going to need another shot. Something special this time.” She was being petty, but she didn’t care. After the weeks of frustration and dealing with Frank’s barely concealed contempt, she was due for some petty revenge. If ever there was a man who needed a sense of humor, it’s this one.

  Shot in hand, she wiggled and shimmied her way around the edges of the dance floor to the VIP lounge. Journey didn’t need to look over to know he was still watching her. She put a little extra swing into her step, working it for all she was worth. If he was going to stare, she might as well give him a show.

  She recognized the woman manning the velvet rope and gave a cheery wave with her free hand. “Hey, girl! How did things go with that blind date?”

  “That douche doubled up his dates and the girl before me was still there when I showed up. He tried to pretend like it was totally reasonable for all three of us to sit down for a drink.” The redhead shook her head, her lip curling.

  She watched Frank out of the corner of her eye. “I hope you told him to get lost.”

  “Oh, I did.” The hostess grinned. “Right after I drank my weight in top-label gin.”

  “Good girl.” She smiled. “You have a nice night.” She hesitated, but at this point all she was doing was putting off the inevitable. Journey sauntered over to the couch where Frank had taken up residence. It was like everything in Cocoa’s—a little overdone, a little cheeky. The damn thing looked a bit like an oversized throne made for five people instead of one. Probably for the orgies.

  An image plastered itself into her brain. Frank’s dark skin bare and glistening in the low light. His muscles flexing as he thrust. His cock…

  Danger! Under no circumstances are you to think about Frank Evans’s cock.

  She stopped in front of him, suddenly not sure if she should take a seat on the orgy couch-throne or keep the advantage of standing. Though standing puts his face right about even with my…Journey sat, keeping a full cushion between them. She leaned over and offered the shot. “With my compliments.”

  Frank took it deliberately, his steady dark gaze seeming to categorize everything about her appearance—and then dismiss her entirely. It stung. Every. Single. Time. Journey might not go out of her way to grab the spotlight, but a woman liked to think she wasn’t considered a total waste of space. That’s exactly how Frank made her feel—like a waste of space. She’d heard the nasty comments enough to know how it went, even if he never said them aloud. Party-girl heiress. Not brilliant like either of her brothers. Not a model like her younger sister. A Lydia King knockoff. Damaged goods.

  He sniffed. “Jägermeister and Red Bull.”

  Anger as his dismissal made her words sharp enough to cut. “It’s called Liquid Viagra. Seems to me that you could use some.”

  Instead of looking pissed, the corner of his lips twitched up. Coming from Frank Evans, he might as well have boomed out a laugh that deafened the entire room. It’s a wonder his face doesn’t shatter from breaking its dour mold.

  Frank leaned forward and she was too proud to retreat. Not after she’d thrown down the gauntlet. Damn it, he wouldn’t win this interaction. His gaze dragged over her in another perusal, but there was intent behind it this time. He lingered at her sky-high heels, the hem of her jumper that just hit the tops of her thighs, at her breasts pressing against the deep V-neck, before finally settling on her mouth. “Point to you, Duchess.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She cursed herself for reacting, but she hated that nickname. The media had coined her Duchess after her failed engagement when she was nineteen. It didn’t matter that her fiancé had been a baron, or that it was an empty title in the first place. He’d promised to take her away from Houston and to help heal the poison deep within that she never seemed to be able to escape. The media reported snidely on a King finally becoming legitimate royalty until it all fell apart.

  And then their meanness had turned into gleeful cruelty at her expense.

  That was a long time ago.

  It didn’t feel like ten years with Frank looking at her like he knew every single one of her secrets and would exploit them in his own time. She belatedly realized that she wasn’t coming out on top of this interaction any more than she had on their previous ones. “Just give me the damn building, Frank. You aren’t using it and we’re willing to pay an absurd amount for it.” The apartment building wasn’t in a prime location, but Lydia had plans to convert it into high-end condos for out-of-town teams that Kingdom Corp contracted from time to time to help with specific jobs.

  When Frank didn’t respond, she gritted her teeth. “You have absolutely no reason to hold out…unless you’re getting off on being the biggest dick in the room?” Journey lowered her voice, forcing him closer. “Because, for real, only one of us has a cock, so it’s not exactly a contest at this point. You’re just being ridiculous.”

  Frank took his shot slowly, maintaining eye contact in a way that should have been awkward but instead sent a bolt of need right through her. He was so focused. She’d seen him dismissive and distracted and uninterested, but she’d never had Frank Evans’s full attention directed at her.

  Until now.

  He took her hand and pressed the empty shot glass into it. Their skin barely touched, but she felt the contact all the way to her core. He leaned closer yet, not touching her anywhere else, but she swore she fel
t his lips move against her neck. “You seem tense, Journey. Distracted.” He shifted, the phantom touch moving up to the spot below her ear. “Have I done something to piss you off?”

  She licked her lips before she could remind herself why it was a bad idea to react. “That would require me to care about you one way or another.”

  “You do.” He inhaled deeply. “You’re sitting here, wearing that cocktease of an outfit, and all but begging me to slip my hand up your jumper. We both know I’ll find you wet and wanting, and we both know you’re wet and wanting for me and me alone.”

  She shoved him back, fury and something like fear taking the reins. “Oh, fuck right off, Frank. You’re delusional if you think I want you.”

  “I know you want me.” His slow grin had her fighting not to clench her thighs together. “Just like I know you’re going to go home alone tonight and touch yourself while pretending it’s me.”

  “I loathe you.”

  “That’s one way to put it.” He snagged the glass out of her hand, which was just as well, because all she wanted to do in that moment was throw it at his perfect face. “Have a nice night, Duchess.”

  Beckett stared at Samara. There wasn’t a single damn reason to believe the shock in her dark eyes. She was on Lydia’s payroll, and his aunt would use every advantage she could come up with to undermine him. Lydia wasn’t stupid, and if her connections were half as good as Frank’s, she already knew about him and Samara. She knew that Samara could be a dangerous distraction to him.

  Every time he’d seen Samara up to this point, she was…toned down. He didn’t know how else to put it. She owned her sexuality, but it was blunted with a professional edge. It didn’t make her less beautiful, but tonight it was like whatever normally banked her fire had been removed.

  She took his fucking breath away.

  Her brilliant red dress set off her dark skin and hair, a flame in the shadows. It barely touched the tops of her thighs, and the fabric clung to her breasts and hips, the texture seemingly soft to the touch, a temptation to do exactly that.

  She leaned against the closed door, watching him as if he was the dangerous one in the room. As if she didn’t fray his control with every breath she took. He started for her, not exactly sure what he’d do when he finally closed the distance between them.

  “Beckett.” She licked her lips, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “We need to talk. Really talk.”

  He knew that, but desire hijacked his reasoning capabilities and he couldn’t focus on anything but Samara and that tiny fucking dress. “You look good in red.” He stopped in front of her and reached up to sift his fingers through her hair. So fucking soft. “Every time I dreamed of you over the last six months, you were wearing those tiny red panties that you had on that night. If I hadn’t needed to get on a plane that next morning, I would have booked us a flight to anywhere you wanted to go and spent the next week fucking you senseless.”

  Her dark eyes went wide. “That…You can’t…”

  He kissed her. She tasted of cinnamon. Beckett brushed his lips against hers, a soft question he didn’t have to put into words. She went tense for half a breath, and he stilled, waiting to see what she’d do.

  Samara grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him against her. It was all the invitation he needed. He gave in to the need to touch her, a demand he didn’t know how to put into words. Touch me. See me. The dress was soft and slick and brought to mind all the things he wanted to do to her—with her.

  She moaned, arching closer. Beckett coasted his hands up her sides, liking the feel of the dress sliding over her skin. It was softer than he expected, but then Samara was as well. She kissed him like she needed his air to breathe. He let go of her hips and slid his hands along her jawline, tilting her head back to give him better access to her mouth, and into the heaven that was her hair. She could put on her power suits and professional dresses and act like a younger version of his aunt, but her hair gave lie to the image. She was wild down to her core.

  He tore away from her. Each breath was a razor through his chest, and every muscle in his body clenched with the need to have her against him again, but he embraced the agony. “Turn around, Samara.”

  “This is a mistake.” Her breath was as harsh as his, and he almost groaned at the sight of her nipples through the dress.

  “Maybe.” He reached around her to flip the lock on the door. They’d walk out of this room when they were damn well good and ready, and he refused to allow an interruption to fuck it up. Beckett traced his thumb over her bottom lip. “Let me see you.”

  This was the moment when she’d either tell him to go to hell—something he rightly deserved—or she’d obey and prove that they had more than a few things unfinished between them.

  Samara dug her fingers into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m going to regret this.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  She shook her head. “Yes, I will.” But she turned and braced her hands flat on the door.

  God. She was fire in his arms, the quiver in her body belying her hesitance. He shifted her hair off her neck and kissed her there, taking his time. Her dress dipped low in the back, the entire thing held in place with two tiny straps over her shoulders, and he took full advantage of all that exposed skin. Beckett dragged his mouth down her spine and licked the twin dimples on either side of the small of her back. She was all defined muscles beneath smooth skin. Her ass…Fuck. He palmed her there, letting his thumbs dip beneath the hem of her short dress. “Fuck, Samara.”

  She spread her legs, the tiniest bit, and arched her back in a clear invitation. Even with those signs giving him the green light, he wanted this out there in the open between them. He slipped his hands beneath her dress and growled. “I’m going to taste you now.”

  Silence for a beat. Two. “Do it.”

  He hadn’t had a plan when he’d started this, but there was no going back now. He might tear this fucking room apart if he didn’t taste her in the next breath. He drew a single finger through her wetness, spreading it up and over her clit. It wasn’t nearly enough.

  Beckett bracketed her thigh with one hand and guided her legs even wider, opening her for him completely. He tilted his head and closed his mouth over her pussy from behind. Her startled gasp turned into a moan almost immediately. He should feel victorious that he’d managed to shut her smart-ass comments up, but all Beckett felt was totally and completely out of fucking control.

  One taste wasn’t enough.

  It would never be enough.

  He sucked on her clit once, twice, a third time, until her legs shook on either side of his head and she was trying to move against him to guide his rhythm. He tightened his grip on her thighs, forcing her to hold still.

  Too much. Not enough. He couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to.

  He spread her legs wider and fucked her with his tongue. She tasted…

  She tasted like coming home.

  Samara couldn’t breathe. She twisted to try to see Beckett, but their positions meant she was well and truly at his mercy. What the hell am I doing?

  He pushed two fingers into her and her brain shorted out. All the very specific reasons she had not to let this get out of control went up in smoke. She ached for him. Samara pushed back against his hold. “Beckett, please.”

  “Tell me what you need.” She felt each word against her clit.

  “I need to see you.” The words were barely voiced when his mouth was gone. He lifted her and half tossed her into the chair next to the small conference table. Beckett went back to his knees in the same move, as if he couldn’t stand more separation than strictly necessary.

  “You taste so fucking good.” He guided her legs up and over the arms of the chair. All the while, his gaze never left her pussy. “Can’t get enough of you.”

  But what happens tomorrow when we go back to normal?

  It was just as well that Beckett speared his fingers back into her before she could forget herself enough to
actually say the words aloud. Samara arched her back, giving herself a few seconds just to enjoy the sensations.

  If you don’t do something, you’re going to be begging for his cock and then everything you’ve worked so hard for will be gone for good. Regain control.

  She inhaled, trying to think through the pleasure. “Your mouth. My clit. Now.”

  Beckett grinned at her, more wolf than man. “You keep talking, I’ll give you anything you want.” He flicked her clit with his tongue and then got down to business. Beckett went at her like she was his favorite flavor of ice cream and he couldn’t let a single inch of her remain untasted.

  She had no intention of touching him, but her hands were in his hair, holding him in place even though he was obviously exactly where he wanted to be.

  For now.

  “The dress. Let me see you.”

  She didn’t need to ask what he meant. Samara shimmied enough to get the tiny straps of her dress off her shoulders and push the fabric down so her breasts were free. Public sex wasn’t really her thing, but knowing that she was totally and completely exposed, even with a locked door between them and the rest of the club…

  Her orgasm rolled over her without warning, bowing her back, and it was only sheer stubbornness that kept Beckett’s name from her lips.

  He gentled his kisses until she was only barely shaking. “Damn, Samara. If you ever want to leave my aunt’s company, I’d hire you in a hot second.”

  It was a bucket of cold water in the face of her post-orgasm bliss. It was one thing to fuck around. A stupid thing, to be sure, but it was a strictly physical response to an attractive man who she knew could make her feel good. His throwing around words like daggers was something else altogether. Leave the company you’ve been at for years because I like the way you fuck, and when I get tired of you—and I will—then you’ll be left just as high and dry as your mother was when your father left.