by S. E. Law
About Last Night
A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance
S.E. Law
Copyright © 2019 by S.E. Law
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
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About the Book
1. Missy
2. Trevor
3. Missy
4. Trevor
5. Missy
6. Trevor
7. Missy
8. Trevor
9. Missy
10. Trevor
11. Missy
12. Trevor
13. Missy
14. Trevor
15. Trevor
16. Missy
17. Trevor
Epilogue One
Epilogue Two
About the Author
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About the Book
Missy: I hate my stepbrother. Trevor’s rude, arrogant, and conceited, not to mention the fact that he acts like he’s the hottest guy on Earth. (Okay, so maybe he is a ten out of ten, but still, he doesn’t have to act like it.) The problem? We met at a party a while back before we knew we were slated to be related. It almost sounds like a sick joke (or a bad pun), but now we know each other in a way that’s totally inappropriate.
Trevor: My stepsister Missy is new to all this. Sure, the way we met wasn’t exactly “normal,” but people meet in all different ways now, all of them legitimate. (Take Tinder, Grindr, and the billions of matchmaking services out there as an example). Why does it matter how you meet someone? All that matters is that you connect, and Missy and I definitely felt something go off like a fireball. The problem is that my stepsister also has morals (so inconvenient sometimes). She’s sweet and innocent, and doesn’t want to acknowledge that we’ve already blown through every barrier that exists before man. But Missy’s kidding herself if she thinks I’m letting her get away because I haven’t even come close to forgetting about last night.
1
Missy
I can’t stop thinking about that house in my neighborhood.
We live on a pretty quiet block here in Montague, North Carolina. Barbecues on Saturday. Church on Sunday. American flags and a friendly smile on every front porch. But that one house . . .
It caught my eye just yesterday, on my third day back from college on summer break. I almost didn’t notice it because I was so distracted. My thoughts were wandering to how I was going to make the best use of the next three months, now that I was finally free of Boston. The decision to come home was easy. I never thought of myself as a true blue Southern belle, but after four brutal semesters in a city where they serve the tea unsweetened, I decided to embrace my inner Scarlett O’Hara a little more. It’s strange because up north, people don’t even blink at snow up to your eyeballs and blasts of wind so cold you can feel your eyelashes freeze. As a result, I was looking forward to coming home.
I spent the entire train ride home dreaming about hot biscuits and honey, Carolina-style ribs with that one-of-a-kind sweet, thin, tart sauce. But now that I’m here, I remembered why I was so anxious to get away. Real southern belles can be cruel, especially when you’re not a size two. I’d be at home with a book every Saturday night, eating bon bons. Meanwhile, the pretty girls would be out drinking and racing pickup trucks in the mud with their moron boyfriends. But you’d never know it from how prim and proper they’d sit in their church clothes the next morning.
I know in my heart I’m not ugly. I may not be runway model material but I love being blessed with curly chestnut hair – even though I wish it would behave a little better on humid August nights. Buying jeans is always a little demoralizing when you’re built like an hourglass, but once I’m back home, curled up with my favorite Jane Austen novel and a glass of lemonade, suddenly being a double-digit size doesn’t matter all that much. I have to admit though, that at the age of twenty, I’ve never so much as shared a milkshake at the local burger joint with a guy, let alone be courted by a dashing, mercurial millionaire. Is it because of my size? I hope not.
It was sitting in that nook this sunset evening, my thoughts wandering to when my own Mr. Darcy was going to appear, when I noticed that house across the street. That’s funny, I thought. My mom has lived here for a while, but I never really looked at the mansion closely. Whoever bought the property did a nice job of cleaning it up. Unlike all the ranch houses that crouched on our street, it was like something out of an enchanted story. It had towers, grand round windows, and a wide inviting porch that rambled around its sides like a castle moat. It reminded me a little of a coral reef, like it’d organically grown from the environment. To think, that was what was hiding behind the thick, kudzu-coated bramble that I walked past every day.
I put my book down and started dreaming about the place. Was it a castle, with a fair maiden in the tower? Or was it more like a witch’s lair inside, with temptations and secrets around every corner? I got a funny, tickling impulse to just march up to the front door, so I could answer all these questions for myself. And just when I was imagining my finger reaching out to press that doorbell –
Ding dong.
What in the world?
My heart leapt into my throat. I caught myself a moment later, giggling at my foolishness. Silly, that’s your own doorbell. Go see who it is!
Heart still pounding, I slipped on my flip flops and peeked out the window before opening the door. I knew who it was as soon as I saw the spray of hot pink hair and the Marilyn Monroe-as-Dracula t-shirt. It was my wacky best friend Jane.
“Hey, girly girl,” said Jane. Whoever gave her that name had a knack for irony, because Jane was anything but plain. We’ve been friends since the very first day of high school, when she scared off a crowd of bullies who’d dumped my cafeteria tray on the floor. I was just about to deck them when Jane ran up with a lit book of matches clamped in her teeth, and yelled, “Gimme a kiss, loverboy!” You should have seen them scatter.
After that, we were absolutely inseparable best friends. Everyone thought we made a funny match, because I was so shy and Jane was so wild. But our personalities complemented each other. Jane was always there to remind me I was valuable, even when the world only saw my weight. Whenever Jane felt all alone because she was so unconventional, I gave her a caring shoulder to cry on. I was even there the day Jane screwed up her courage to tell her very religious parents that she was bisexual. I stood right beside her for moral support. Of course her parents thought I was her girlfriend, but it’s never been like that between us. We’re just besties, through and through.
“Look at this!” Jane said with her usual, over-the-top enthusiasm. She lifted a plate of very rugged-looking cookies. “I made snickerdoodles with this new intentional honey I got.”
I made a wry face.
“Intentional honey? What’s that?”
“It’s this new thing where beekeepers chant positive words over the beehive! They say it makes the good vibes go into the honey. Let me know what you feel when you eat one.”
Skeptical, I took a bite. “I think what I feel is a broken tooth.”
Jane shrugged. “I got bored following the recipe. Just dip them in milk if you need to soften them up.”
I turned to get two glasses for us from the kitchen, but Jane grabbed my elbow. “But not yet,” she said with a gleam in her eye.
I gave her a oh-no-you-didn’t look. “Jane?” I mock-scolded her. “What ha
ve you gotten into this time?”
“Just listen. I’ve got a story from work to tell you that you’re not going to believe.” She looked around conspiratorially. “Is your mom home?”
I shook my head. My mom’s summer has been dominated by how she’s planning a wedding – her wedding, to be specific. My stay here has been swamped by talk of florists, caterers, bridesmaid’s dresses – you name it. Nancy’s never really had a fancy wedding before. She was young when she married my dad, and they just had a little cookies-and-punch reception in the church meeting hall. They got divorced after two years, and I haven’t seen my father since.
Now that Nancy’s getting remarried, though, she’s going all out. She’s always away at the wedding planner’s, and today was no exception. I don’t want to be involved, because how can I get excited if I haven’t even met her fiancé? I do secretly wish she would bring me to the cake tasting, though. I have a lot to say about good cake.
Jane leaned in, and flashed me that conspiratorial look I always know leads to an adventure.
“Are you still a virgin?” she asked.
“Oh, god. Don’t remind me,” I sighed. My virginity, and my frustrating, futile efforts to lose it is something we’ve been talking about since high school. You’d think it would be easy! I thought guys had low standards when it came to sex. Aren’t they happy to go to bed with any girl who looks at them with promise in her eyes?
But not in my experience. Do you know how humiliating it is to make online dating profiles without a photo, just so the guy won’t reject you right away because you’re curvy? I always hope that I can win him over with sweet words and Southern sass before he asks for a picture. It’s never worked, and it hurts more every time it happens. I thought it would be easier at college because everyone says school is party central. Hookups are normal. Well, I don’t like beer, and I don’t like idiots, and the two seem to go together at every college party I’ve been to. So I don’t meet anyone that way, either.
And it’s not like I’m a prude, either. I love the sexiest passages in great literature. I dare any red-blooded female to read Mary Gaitskill, Henry Miller or D.H. Lawrence and not quiver in ways that make you glad to be a woman. I won’t lie, I’ve let my fingers find that soft engorged part of me while thinking about what I want. Sometimes I even pretend I’m the heroine as the hero ravishes my body, making me scream and squirm with delight.
I’m tired of waiting. Someday I will hold a hot, velvety cock in my hands. I imagine rolling my palms around it, lubing it with precious droplets of pre-cum. I think about how his eyes will roll back into his head while I’m doing it, driving him to the highest heights. I imagine him plunging into me, his stiff shaft making me moan with lust. I always imagine him as having blue eyes and dark hair and being tall and strong. And he always holds me afterwards and tells me how beautiful I am, and how he loves me.
“So … you want to lose your virginity today?” Jane asks with a wink.
“Um, what?” I stammered. Was she offering what I think she was? “Look, Jane, you’ve been my friend for years, and I really appreciate the offer, but I’m just not interested in you that way –”
“No, silly!” Jane smacked my shoulder. “Not me. A guy. Lots of guys, in fact.” She arched one eyebrow at me. “Whatever you want.”
Now I was at a loss for words. I shot her a skeptical look. I’ll eat cookies she says will give me good karma, but this was beyond the pale. What exactly did she have up her sleeve? And what was she getting me into? Everything in me said the sensible thing would be to say Jane, sometimes your crazy ideas are better off just staying ideas.
But something in me wondered . . .
Really, really wondered . . .
“Keep talking,” I said.
What could my best friend have up her sleeve? I was eager to find out because the possibilities were titillating.
2
Trevor
The road into Montague isn’t the track at Monte Carlo, that’s for sure. One false move on those curves will kill you. But I’d rather die in a car crash than from boredom. And right now, driving through this sleepy town on this endless country road, I was definitely bored.
After all, you don’t exactly need your A-game reflexes to cruise past a bunch of cows and trailer homes. My BMW was handling the pavement just fine, almost like it had a mind of its own. I’d decided to make this trip in my M4 rather than one of my more high-octane cars because it was more practical. But now, I almost feel sorry for the vehicle. It’s a beautiful piece of engineering, and now I’m subjecting it to a drive on this road to nowhere.
The seats are upholstered in a flawless leather I’d chosen myself, but I fiddle restlessly in the driver’s seat. I had one reason to come to Montague – a good reason, and when I make a decision, I go all in. That instinct has never served me wrong, and it’s how I manage my business as a dot-com startup financier. Frankly, the strategy has made me wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. When I took the plunge into bitcoin before it was a thing, everyone said I was crazy, but I hit paydirt many times over.
Plus, those same colleagues really thought I’d lost my mind when I decided to leave my career and pursue my passion for racing. I invested everything I had in my dream. I hired the best coaches and the best pit crew. I learned everything there is to know about the fastest cars in the world. I put in the hours at the track. And I took plenty of spills: one crash was bad enough to put me in the hospital for a month. But I never gave up. No one was going to think I was just another billionaire with an expensive hobby to indulge. They would know I was as good as the other pros. All the hard work paid off, just like it always has for me. Once the racing world saw me win race after race, they never questioned me again. I won big prizes, for sure, but no trophy can compare to earning that kind of respect.
The GPS said I was two miles away from my destination. I took my eyes off the road and looked into the rear-view mirror. I saw the same determined look in my steely blue eyes. I’m not a bully, but I know I can turn on a penetrating stare when I need to. I’ve used it to convince investors that I’m their man – and I’ve convinced women of the same thing, too.
To be honest, it’s gotten to the point where it’s almost too easy. They see my thick, dark hair and my square jaw and the ladies start getting ideas. I’m a gentleman. I show them a good time at the finest restaurants and resorts money can buy, and they love playing princess for a day. I don’t lead them on. I let them know up front that it’s only fun and games. I’ve learned how to leave a woman screaming, not to mention hot, wet, and happy. But lately I’ve realized I don’t respect the women who throw themselves at me shamelessly. And to me, respect is everything.
Doubt is different than caution. Caution is knowing the facts and taking the right action. Doubt is making up reasons, and believing them. I committed to making this trip. But just for a fleeting second, I feel an ember of doubt flare up inside me. I pride myself on my command of cold, hard logic, but if I’m honest, the decision to make this trip is different.
After all, I don’t believe in fate, but when I was asked to make this journey, I felt a certain rightness about the whole thing. This certainty wasn’t about lining up the facts and making the best choice. It was an instinctual feeling of yes, and I followed that flash of insight all the way here.
But now, I doubt myself. Did I make the right decision? Was I truly meant to be here, on this road, at this moment? And what would meet me once I came to a stop in the suburban unknown of Montague, North Carolina?
There’s only one way to find out.
I’m close to my destination now. But I’d like some time to myself before I have the important meeting I came for. A workout is just what the doctor ordered.
I stop at the nearest convenience store to refuel as soon as I cross the town line into Montague. When I step through the doors, it dawns on me that I haven’t done my own shopping in years. I’m used to assistants anticipating my needs, whether it’s a cayenne detox
juice, a paleo protein bowl, or a 20-year scotch at the end of the day. The aisles of snacks under the florescent lights are definitely different than what I’m used to.
I scan the cold drinks for anything that won’t fill me up with high fructose corn syrup. I’ve learned a lot from spending so much time in Europe in my racing career, but the one thing that shocks me the most when I come home is how few Americans care about good food. America’s got great cuisine, and I appreciate a five star restaurant in New York or LA, but food doesn’t have to be fancy to be delicious, and what I really enjoy is simple home cooking.
That’s what meals are like in France. Everyone at the race track stops in the middle of the day for a satisfying lunch, usually of a simple country recipe like cassoulet or coq au vin. There’s lots of just-baked crusty bread on the table, and everyone has a glass or two of wine. Coming back home and watching people gulp down greasy burgers in the front seat of their cars . . . I admit, I just don’t get it.
I grab a water from the fridge, a protein drink that’s miraculously free of added sugar, and an acceptable banana from the bowl near the register. The cost is shockingly low by Silicon Valley prices. As I’m pocketing my change, I feel eyes on me.
Specifically, her eyes. I see her out of the corner of my vision. She’s an attractive woman, maybe in her mid-40s. A decade older than me. Blonde. Takes care of herself, but she’s a little bony for my taste. I like sexy, plump women. In Italian, the word is grassotella. It means “beautifully plump.” This woman’s gaze is bold, and I can tell she’s crossed that threshold every woman crosses once, that line between what will my mother think? and I don’t give a shit anymore.