by Nikki Sloane
It was surreal to see these two men in bloody suits, who’d been sworn adversaries in the boardroom earlier, united now. I didn’t know what the future held for any of us, but it gave me the tiniest glimmer of what could be.
TWENTY-TWO
Eighteen Months Later
Lucifer was determined to get his black hair all over my dress. It was more my fault than his. I’d finished getting ready early, and Royce was late as usual, so I’d lit a fire in the fireplace in the library and nestled into the cat’s favorite chair to read while I waited.
At least the dress was dark. It was navy chiffon, with thin straps that held the top up and crisscrossed low on my back. There was a mini lint roller in my clutch too that I could use in the limo before we made our entrance to the HBHC Christmas party.
Lucifer’s deep purr rumbled as I stroked his back, and he shifted in my lap, finding a more comfortable spot. He didn’t bother lifting his head as footsteps came down the hall and Royce moved swiftly into the room.
“Hey, sorry.” He already had his tie off and his fingers worked to undo the button at his collar. “I swear the L.A. branch loves to save their most important meetings for Friday afternoons.”
I leaned forward, set my iPad on the side table beside the mythology chess set, and smiled. “How was your day?”
“Long.” His intense gaze swept over me and heated as it lingered over my cleavage. “Better now.”
Or perhaps it wasn’t my cleavage he was staring at, but the deep emerald strands of my hair. I’d begun coloring it again a few months ago, but every time he looked at me, it was like he was seeing a long-lost love. It made breath hurry in and out of my lungs.
“How was yours?” he asked.
“It was . . . fine. I went to see him.”
Royce’s movements slowed. “Yeah? How is he?”
There wasn’t an easy answer to my husband’s simplistic question, but Macalister was tough. He was surviving.
There couldn’t be a trial. He wouldn’t allow any scandals to be aired in public, and no one needed to know how twisted and fucked up the Hales were. He took a plea deal to involuntary manslaughter and, given the circumstances of his emotional state following the contentious board meeting, the judge had been lenient in sentencing.
Two years.
It likely felt like a lifetime to Macalister. He was a man who craved control over all things, and he’d been forced to give it away. The state of Massachusetts now told him what to eat, what to wear, when to sleep. The first time I’d seen him in the shapeless khaki-colored uniform, I could barely speak.
He’d looked mortal, but even then, unbreakable. He was a man on the road to redemption, and he was determined to win.
I lifted a shoulder before answering Royce. “He’s looking forward to coming home.”
My husband nodded slowly. “What did you do?”
“We played chess and talked.”
It was the same thing we’d done every time I’d gone to visit him over the last few months. He’d carried the prison’s grimy chessboard over to our table, and we’d moved the pieces around the board, and I pretended like his life was all fine and normal.
I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. It made Royce uncomfortable, although he’d never said it outright. But Macalister had saved my life. He’d lost everything, and by giving him an hour with the illusion he had control, he told me I was saving his.
Royce picked the cat out of my lap and dropped him onto the window seat, encouraging Lucifer to find a new place to settle. “What’d you tell him?”
“I told him you were preparing for the annual shareholder meeting.” A smile curled on my lips. “He had some thoughts on that.”
Royce gave a dry chuckle. “I’m sure he did.”
“And we talked about my job a little.” I’d recently been promoted within HBHC and was on the fast track to become a benefits and compensation manager.
He leaned back against the edge of the desk. His tone was casual, as if he didn’t really care, but I heard the interest beneath it. “Who won the chess match?”
“He did.” I took in a breath as I remembered the moment Macalister had uttered checkmate and followed it up by telling me he suspected I’d let him win.
“I didn’t,” I’d lied. “I’ll just have to come back next month and try again.”
Macalister’s blue eyes had flooded with relief.
I snapped out of the memory. “Oh, and my ‘ridiculous’ hair. He had some thoughts about that too.”
Royce grinned as he straightened. He grabbed my hand, drew me to my feet, and twined his fingers in my hair, pulling firmly on the strands. “This hair isn’t ridiculous. It’s fucking perfect.”
His mouth moved in, latching on to the side of my neck, and my eyes hooded at the sensation. I wanted to melt into him, and I tilted my head to give him better access, in direct opposition to the fake protest I gave. “We’re already late.”
“Whatever. I don’t like parties.” He echoed what he’d said to me the first time we’d been together in this room. “I’d rather stay here in the library with you.”
He carved a path to my lips, and although his mouth was soft, his kiss wasn’t. It was demanding and controlling. It didn’t stay in one spot for long, though. His other hand curled into a ball on the skirt of my dress, ever-so-slowly dragging it up.
“If I put my hand up your skirt right now,” he uttered against the shell of my ear, “would my fingers come away wet?”
Excitement coursed through me as we played the game, acting out the scene from years ago. “Find out,” I challenged.
“Oh, don’t worry.” His gaze was arrogant and seductive. “I plan to.”
I was nearly crushed to death under the weight of my anticipation, but he drew it out. Once his hand was under the layers of my dress, he dragged his palm from one thigh to the other, sliding them over my legs but not touching me where I wanted him most.
A gasp punched from me as I was turned roughly and pushed against the nearby bookcase, so hard it rattled, and I had to brace my hands on a shelf. He sank his teeth into my bare back, not biting hard enough to leave a mark, only hard enough to make me weak with desire. This time he used both hands on my skirt, and it came up much faster.
“I’m going to fuck you under this dress.”
I moaned my approval and pushed back against him, rubbing my ass over the erection building inside his pants. He reached around my body and slid his hand over the damp crotch of my panties.
His tone was wicked and triumphant. “What’s this?”
He stroked again and again, provoking more moans from me, and my grip on the bookshelf was ferocious. I remembered all those desires from that night, and they swirled together with my need now. I wasn’t the virgin I’d been back then, a lifetime ago. No one was going to come through the library door and disturb us, and even if they did, they wouldn’t see Royce fooling around with nobody Marist Northcott. They’d find Royce with his wife and partner, who was Marist Hale on the outside and the fearsome Medusa inside.
Only he saw the real me, and I saw the real him, and I loved that about us.
“I want this,” he growled as his fingers massaged and teased. “Give it to me.”
“Yes,” I cried.
And then we deviated from the script. His pants were undone in a rush, my panties yanked halfway down my legs, and he pushed inside me.
“Fuck,” we groaned together.
His hand tangled in my seaweed colored hair and his other was on my hip, holding me steady as he began to thrust. It was rough and raw the way he fucked me, but it wasn’t loveless. In fact, it was so full of love, it overflowed from us.
He gasped his love for me over the hissing fire and swore he’d never get enough. We’d be together until the end of time, a love of mythic proportions, that, despite all odds, had avoided a tragic end.
Ours was the only love story in the myths that I believed h
ad a happy ending.
We were Persephone and Hades.
Thank you so much for reading the Filthy Rich Americans trilogy! Want more?
Once, the name Macalister Hale was uttered in the boardroom with respect. Now, it’s whispered in disgrace at cocktail parties hosted by Boston’s elite.
Scandal nearly destroyed me, but the one thing larger than my infamy is my bank account, and I’ve learned money can solve anything.
Well—almost anything.
Sophia Alby’s preferred currency is secrets and the way she trades information puts Wall Street to shame.
This girl charges into my life and claims a partnership can restore my reputation. My downfall was swift, but with her, my climb to redemption will be greater.
Our arrangement is professional. Appropriate. It has to be, because she’s half my age. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting . . .
To move on. To control and indulge in her. To hear the name Macalister Hale echo in her breathy moans.
But I can’t. Giving in to temptation led to my undoing before, and I won’t survive it a second time.
Grab THE REDEMPTION today!
Do you wonder what Marist and Macalister would have been like? I have a deleted scene on my website, just for fun: The Nightmare.
Want another sexy, edgy read? Start the Nashville Neighborhood series with THE DOCTOR. It has age-gap, a lot of inappropriate sex, and of course, a hot doctor!
You can also preorder the next two books in that standalone series:
The Pool Boy
The Architect
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OTHER BOOKS BY NIKKI SLOANE
THE BLINDFOLD CLUB SERIES
It Takes Two | FREE
Three Simple Rules
Three Hard Lessons
Three Little Mistakes
Three Dirty Secrets
Three Sweet Nothings
Three Guilty Pleasures
One More Rule
The Blindfold Club Collection | Books 1-3 bundle
THE SORDID SERIES
Sordid
Torrid
The Sordid Duet
Destroy
SPORTS ROMANCE
The Rivalry
THE NASHVILLE NEIGHBORHOOD
The Doctor
The Pool Boy
The Architect
FILTHY RICH AMERICANS
The Initiation
The Obsession
The Deception
The Redemption
The Temptation
THANK YOU
First and foremost, thank you to my amazing husband, who should get story credit for this book. We spent many hours brainstorming the finale while we drove back and forth from the Nashville airport while traveling. I think we crafted 80% of this going to and from Book Bonanza 2019. When we returned from RARE London, I was only twenty thousand words into the book, which I suspected it would be eighty thousand (it was), and I was two weeks from deadline.
I am not a fast writer, y’all.
He was working a fulltime job, coming home and cooking dinner for the whole family, and let me disappear into the writer’s cave for nearly three weeks to help me get it done. There is absolutely no way this book, or the series, would have been possible without him.
So, a huge THANK YOU to Nick. I love you so, so much!
Thank you to Andrea Lefkowitz, who was my story editor, beta reader, and cheerleader. Her invaluable notes and support kept me from throwing my hands up in the air and letting Macalister take over.
A big thanks to my writer support group of Nana Malone, Kennedy Ryan and Willow Winters for offering advice and laughs. (“I’m so behind on goals I offered Pacemaker a thousand words and a hand job.”)
Thank you to Veronica Larsen for her supportive chats, brainstorming, and being a great friend.
Thanks for everything to Nisha Sharma (“I need hot daddy.”), and Sierra Simone (“Hey, fuck you for the ending of THE OBSESSSION!”).
Thank you to Lori Whitwam for editing the piecemeal, Frankenstein manuscript I sent her, which was also three days late, and somehow she made it work. I love you, don’t ever leave me!
Thank you to my publicist, the priceless Nina Grinstead. She talked me out of bad titles and covers and into all the things that helped give this series the spark it needed.
THANK YOU to you, reader, for sticking with me through to the end. When I sat down to write the first book, I didn’t know if anyone was going to like what I was crafting, but I have been blown away by the responses. Writing this series was . . . magical. I don’t know another word to describe it, and it was the readers who made it happen. Your support and enthusiasm for these books has been nothing short of amazing, and I am so humbled and grateful. Thank you from the bottom of my black, twisted heart.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Nikki Sloane fell into graphic design after her careers as a waitress, a screenwriter, and a ballroom dance instructor fell through. For eight years she worked for a design firm in that extremely tall, black, and tiered building in Chicago that went through an unfortunate name change during her time there.
Now she lives in Kentucky, is married and has two sons. She is a three-time Romance Writers of America RITA© Finalist, also writes romantic suspense under the name Karyn Lawrence, and couldn't be any happier that people enjoy reading her sexy words.
Website: NikkiSloane.com
Goodreads: Nikki Sloane Author Page
Twitter: @AuthorNSloane
Facebook: Nikki Sloane
Instagram: nikkisloane
COPYRIGHT
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2019 by Nikki Sloane
Cover photography © DepositPhoto
Cover design © Shady Creek Designs
Trojan Horse illustration © Wes Harvey | Instagram: i_am_suspect_zero
Cerberus Edition