by KB Winters
“Winston,” he answered, in a squeaky voice.
“Winston. All right,” I scrawled a note to him and signed my name on the bottom of the shirt. I squatted down beside him as I handed it back. “Bud, you think you can do me a favor?”
He nodded vigorously. I glanced up at the woman with him—his mother—and she smiled. “All right, do you see that woman over there, in the front row?” I stopped and pointed at Cassie. She wasn’t looking my way, she was bent over, listening closely to something Kenzie was telling her. They laughed together and sparks went through me at her easy smile. God, I loved that smile. “I need you to take something to her. Can you do that?”
“Sure!”
“Great. Mind if I borrow this?” I asked, holding up the pen he’d brought me.
He shook his head. I reached under the bench and grabbed a football. While Winston and his mother watched, I scrawled a message across the ball’s rough surface in big black letters:
MARRY ME
Winston’s mother smiled wider as I pressed the ball into the boys outstretched arms. “All right, Winston. I’m counting on you, buddy.”
The boy glanced up at his mother and she gave him a nod. “Be careful. Don’t get in anyone’s way.”
He nodded and then bolted across the field, booking for the stairs that would take him up into the stands. I watched his toe-headed mop of hair flapping in the air as he bobbed along the front row, careful to weave in and out of traffic. He skidded to a stop before Cassie and handed her the ball.
Cassie took the ball, a look of surprise flickering over her pretty face. When she read the ball’s message, a hand flew to her mouth. Kenzie yanked the ball from her, eager to see what it was all about, and she let out a cheer that got swallowed up in the noise and chaos of the field.
Cassie’s eyes darted up and locked with mine. She nodded frantically and I broke into a run across the field. She flew over the barrier and crashed into me at the same time that I reached the stands. She landed on me and we both tumbled to the ground, clinging to one another and laughing our damn heads off.
A loud voice boomed through the stadium, “It looks like Langston Rose just got sacked!” After a pause, with the crowd going wild, he added, “Someone hurry, sign that girl up! She’s got the moves!”
Cassie laughed into my chest and I gripped her as tightly as I could without crushing her. “Is that a yes?” I asked, raising my voice above the roar of the stadium.
“Of course! Langston, of course it’s a yes!”
“Just checkin’. You have a history of being fickle, pretty girl.”
She punched me on the arm but then gave me a kiss that left no doubt as to her answer.
One thing was for sure, going into next season, I’d at least have one new shiny ring on my finger.
Super Bowl or not—I already fucking won.
****
Thank you! I hope you fell in love with Langston and Cassie (And Kenzie!) Flip the page for more from KB and also a bonus book Bring The Heat! A Bad Boy Sports Romance!
Acknowledgements
Thank you! I love you all and thank you for making my books a success!! I appreciate each and every one of you.
Thanks to all of my beta readers, street teamers, ARC readers and Facebook fans. Y’all are THE BEST!
And a huge very special thanks to my wonderful PA, Silla. Without you, I’d be a *hot mess! I’m still a hot mess, but without your keen sense of organization and skills, I’d be a burny fiery inferno of hot mess!! Thank you!
And a very special thanks to my editor, Tina Rucci (who sometimes has to work all through the night! *See HOT MESS above!) Thank you for making my words make sense.
Copyright © 2016 BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
About The Author
KB Winters has an addiction to caffeine, tattoos and hard-bodied alpha males. The men in her books are very sexy, protective and sometimes bossy, her ladies are…well…bossier!
Living in sunny Southern California, the embarrassingly hopeless romantic writes every chance she gets!
You can connect with KB on Facebook and Twitter!
Or stop by her website at KBWinters.com!
Bonus Books!
For a limited time, you also get Fate Interrupted! With a filthy talking billionaire who can melt your panties in thirty seconds or less! In fact...you should probably just leave them at the door!
The complete series! No cliffhangers!
Enjoy!
KB~
Fate Interrupted
The Complete Series
By
KB Winters
Copyright © 2015 KB Winters
Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Copyright and Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination and have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 KB Winters
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Fate Interrupted
Book 1
By
KB Winters
Copyright © 2015 KB Winters
Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Chapter One — Remy
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* * * *
I was bored as fuck and all I wanted to do was leave. But I’d only arrived twenty minutes ago, so leaving anytime soon was not an option.
No, that wouldn’t be proper.
Not that I ever gave a fuck about being proper.
The problem wasn’t mine, it was my mother’s. And, if she had a problem, it would rapidly become my problem.
Madge Devereux was not a woman who took things lightly. Everything in her life fell at the same level of importance. The crisis in the Middle East was on the same scale as keeping her manicure freshly lacquered. She didn’t have an off switch or casual bone in her body. Every word was said with the same cool indifference. She floated through life like everything meant something and yet, nothing at all.
I had only ever seen my mother come unhinged twice in my whole life. And neither of those occasions were nights I wanted to remember. The first was when my stepfather left her. The second was when she came home from some snooty function to find me and two of the cheerleaders at my high-class, prep school, fucking like animals on the Persian rug in the study. On both nights, her temper had risen so high that it shattered her self-imposed glass ceiling and she exploded in a fit of rage.
If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d deny it had ever happened.
To the world, Madge Devereux was the epitome of perfection.
I took a sip of my whiskey and cast a sidelong glance in each direction. Somehow, it seemed that all the thinking of my mother would conjure her up if I wasn’t careful. I knew that it would be unavoidable to have some sort of exchange with her. The room was full of people, but it wasn’t so packed that I could somehow manage to get lost in the crowd all evening until I found an appropriate excuse to leave. Besides, if she didn’t see me there, she might not believe I’d shown up. And it was very important she knew I was there. I’d done my part—I’d held up my end of our little bargain.
My eyes cruised over the clusters of impeccably dressed people that filled the ballroom of the Monarch Hotel. Most of the
m were old money. Families like mine.
I took another sip of whiskey, letting it linger on my tongue before swallowing it down. I liked to savor the burn. As the heat hit my stomach, I turned my attention from hunting down my mother, to seeing if there might be any women that caught my attention. It had been awhile since I’d fucked a high-society girl. It could prove to be a fun change of pace. They were usually eager to blow off some steam, and over the years, I’d become very skilled when it came to stripping off formal dresses and the often-complicated pieces hiding underneath.
Mmmm. Bingo. A blonde wearing a low-cut dress was giving me her best fuck-me stare. I knew her type. Bold, horny and fucked like a rabbit—for some cold hard cash. She more than likely wasn’t wearing anything under her dress—if she was, it was pink, lace and easy to remove. I gave her a subtle twitch of my lip to let her know she had been noticed.
Then, my eyes continued their appraisal of the rest of the women in the room. My eyes snagged on a tall, olive-toned woman in the corner. She was alone, sipping from a champagne flute. She caught me checking her out, and gave a slight smile before taking another sip. From a hundred feet away, I could tell she knew what she was doing. She tongued the rim of her glass and then, ever so slyly, looked out of the corner of her eye to make sure I was still watching her. She had long, dark hair that fell to the middle of her back in loose, wavy curls, and I knew exactly what I’d do with her.
Without even closing my eyes, I could see her bent over my bed while I grabbed a handful of her thick hair and pulled her head back as I drilled into her tight pussy. I had a feeling she’d be loud about it, too.
I looked away, not wanting to let myself get too worked up. My tuxedo was tailor-made, every inch of fabric molded perfectly to my body. Sadly, it left no room for a raging erection.
The woman had potential, though. I’d serve my time, and if she was still there when I was leaving, I’d take her home with me and live out much more than just the brief, fleeting scene in my mind.
I leaned back against the bar and watched the rest of the people. It was all so fucking fake. They all had more money than they knew what to do with, so to entertain themselves, they formed these little charity dinners to make themselves feel better. The ugly truth was that the bottles of Dom being poured out like cheap bottled water were worth far more than whatever funds would be raised.
Sure, I was rich and it had always been that way. I flaunted my wealth with expensive cars, watches, custom designer clothing and a never-ending obsession with fine food and drink. But, at least I was honest about who I was. I didn’t feel the need to parade around acting like I gave a shit about some cause, when in reality—I was just showing off for the elite. And that’s what this farce was. A mask. A pretense for these people to gather together and see who came in the most luxurious car, whose handbag cost the most, to gossip over who was fucking who, and who had had work done since the last get together.
I rolled my eyes before I checked my watch.
How long had I been here? And more importantly, when the fuck could I leave?
It had only been an hour.
Damn.
My stomach rumbled and I took that as my cue to go and check out the appetizers. Sometimes the food was interesting. Most of the time, it was not. Regardless, it would give me something to do to pass the time.
The spread was the same old standbys. Large prawns with a light oil and vinegar drizzle, prosciutto-wrapped melon, a cheese plate and, of course, caviar.
Boring.
However, I was hungry, so I picked up a tiny plate and loaded it up with just enough to get me through to the main course—if I had to stay that long. I didn’t even know what the event was for. The ballroom was set up with a stage and tables were gathered in front, loaded down with so many floral arrangements, you’d have thought a florist delivery van exploded in the room at some point during the set-up process. After the cocktail hour, there would be a dinner, during which the speaker—or speakers—would come out and say their piece, imploring for donations to their cause. Then, a band would take over and there would be dancing and more drinking to loosen up some wallets… and the thighs on that leggy blonde. All the while, random announcements would continue on the progress of the donations, and more speeches to coax the attendees into giving more.
I sighed. It was exhausting just thinking about it. I’d made a mental line in the sand with myself. I’d stay through dinner, and then snake out during the dancing part of the event. No one would even notice I was gone. By then, my mother would have seen me and I’d be free to leave.
If only I could hold out until then. I stood near one of the bistro tables to dig into my plate of food, keeping one eye on the crowd at all times.
“There you are, Remington,” a stilted voice called over my shoulder.
Fuck.
I threw back the rest of the contents of my whiskey and wiped my fingertips on my cocktail napkin. I quickly replaced the flinch on my face with a charmed smile as I turned to see my mother approaching. She floated towards me and lightly embraced me, making sure to punctuate our moment with a brief air kiss somewhere near my left temple.
“Good evening, Mother.” I greeted her, keeping my decidedly false smile firmly in place as I made eye contact with the two couples that had followed in Madge’s wake over to me.
She gave a curt nod in response before turning to her company for the introductions. “Remington, this is Charles Grant and his wife, Janice. And this is William Sterns and his wife, Melinda.”
I nodded along, pretending I knew why she had bothered to drag them over to meet me in the first place. Apparently, Charles Grant was the founder of a charity that my mother was—not so subtly—insinuating that I should take an interest in—which really meant donate money to. I was so deep in my perfect son routine that looking back—I couldn’t tell you what the cause was. Something about saving some variety of exotic mushrooms from some island off the Australian coastline.
Whatever it was, I wasn’t interested.
The two couples stayed for some small talk, most of which I ignored. They excused themselves after a few minutes of idle chit-chat and I released a silent, undetectable sigh of relief. Holding up my doting son facade for more than a few minutes was absolutely exhausting.
“Remington, dear, were you even listening to a word they said?” Madge asked me as soon as the others were out of range.
“Yes, Mother, mushrooms. Absolutely riveting.”
“At least you had the decency to cover up those God-awful tattoos,” she commented under her breath.
I was tempted to pop off my titanium cuff links and roll up my sleeves. I had a full sleeve of tattoos on my left arm, and a growing collection on the right. My mother had ignored me for nearly a month after she discovered my first tattoo. I was sixteen at the time and talked a buddy into letting me use his ID to go downtown and get my first ink. I’d gotten a snake design wrapped around my upper arm. It was a little faded now from too much sun, and I hadn’t bothered to get it fixed. Eventually, I’d design something to go over the top. The design itself meant nothing to me. It had just been a cliché act of teenage rebellion.
“It’s lovely to see you too, Mother,” I replied, keeping my voice even to match her detached tone.
“It would’ve been even more lovely if you were to have brought a date. Surely, among your following, you could have found someone suitable to dress up and bring along. You know, people talk, darling. You’re too old to have such a filthy reputation. It really isn’t becoming at all. It’s far beyond time for you to settle down.”
“I hardly think twenty-seven is too old, for anything.” I gritted my teeth, keeping them bared in a forced smile. If anyone in the room were to see us, it would look like a friendly mother-son chat. It was almost alarming how easily I slipped into this mode.
“Truly, philandering as you do is unacceptable at any age,” she purred.
I couldn’t tell what had her on edge, but whatever it
was, I knew I needed to tread carefully.
“As you well know, there are certain…expectations that are to be met if you wish to continue receiving your funding.”
There it was.
It always came back to that between us. Whenever I stepped a toe out of line, she was right there behind me, reminding me that she still controlled a good majority of the purse strings, and that if I wanted to continue to enjoy my accustomed lifestyle, I needed to keep it together.
“Well aware, Mother.” My teeth were clenched together, but I managed to keep a smile on my face.
“Excellent. Enjoy the night, Remington. And do remember to provide a donation before you leave for the evening. I suggest nothing less than twenty-five.”
I nodded and watched as she glided away, her legs barely giving the appearance of movement under her long dress.
Twenty-five grand? Is she fucking insane?
I blew out a puff of hot, frustrated air as soon as she was gone. More than ever, I just wanted to get the fuck out of this place and unwind. And the best possible way to decompress, at least in my world, was found between a gorgeous pair of legs.
I abandoned my plate of appetizers and circled back to the bar to get another finger of whiskey. I knew it would take an obscene amount of alcohol to get me through the night, and had planned ahead to have my driver on call. Besides, I had a feeling I’d be a little more than occupied on the drive home.
The woman with the long, dark hair was nowhere to be found and my heart—or was it my cock?—sank a little with disappointment. But then I saw her, and all hope quickly rebounded. She was probably half a foot shorter than me, but with my six foot two frame, that would still make her fairly tall. Her hair was dark, but pulled back into some complicated arrangement. I had no way of telling how long it was, but I found myself quickly swapping her out in my previous fantasy and imagined releasing it from whatever contraption was holding it up and tugging and pulling on it as I fucked her from behind.