by Lana Grayson
He hadn’t stopped staring at her. I didn’t blame him. Most times I couldn’t help but watch her too. And I caught Nick studying the baby monitor at night if only because I told him she had to learn to sleep in the crib, not cradled against his chest.
“I graduate college tomorrow,” I said. “The new Bennett seed division is finally doing research. My farm is thriving. Nick posted record profits. Hannah started talking. Reed’s got this new girlfriend and—honest to God—it’s one crazy story about where he got her. Max, you have to be here for some of this. Promise me this isn’t another goodbye.”
“That’s up to you, baby.”
I herded him to the table. He walked better now, without the bad leg. I doubted he wanted to talk about the amputation. He hadn’t even told Nicholas it was done until he was healed and in the prosthetic.
“We do have to talk,” I said.
He clenched his jaw, bracing for a war I wasn’t planning to reignite.
“You have a year and a half of photo albums to get through,” I said. “You missed everything. I have thousands of pictures of Hannah you have to see.”
“I’m holding her. I see her.”
“Thousands, Max. She was a flower girl in the wedding. It was adorable. You have to see it.”
“Whatever you want.”
I touched his cheek, bending down to kiss his forehead.
“I just want her to know she has a family. That’s she’s safe and loved and wanted.”
I wanted the same for him.
“Then I’ll look at as many pictures as you want.”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
He held Hannah closer. “Yeah. Me too.”
The party lasted too long, and Hannah decided to rock out longer in the middle of the night. I cradled her to sleep, warm and fed and peaceful. She crashed without a peep, and I backed out of a nursery blended with so much pink and farm and princess decorations the kid would grow up adjusting a tiara with a pitchfork.
Nicholas waited for me in our bedroom, capturing me in a kiss worth waking up in the middle of the night to receive.
“Bumper sleeping?” he asked.
“Like a baby.”
“How convenient.”
I grinned at him, shivering in all the right ways as his hand brushed against my cheek. “She’s beautiful.”
“Just like her mother.”
“And perfect.”
“Now you’re fishing for compliments.”
I raised my eyebrows. Nicholas smirked.
“Perfect like her mother.”
“Thank you.”
He led me to the bed, teasing another kiss from my lips. “No, thank you.”
“For what?”
“Everything?” His caramel voice threaded over me. “Or do you need specifics?”
I shook my head. No one needed specifics anymore. That part of our lives, the memories and hate and nightmares, those were over. I leaned in close.
“You saved me, Sarah,” he said. “From myself. From a future that would have damned me to the same darkness as…”
“Nick, I wouldn’t change what happened. It gave me you and Bumper. Anything else was just paying our dues until we reached right now.”
“And what’s now?”
“Everyday, for the rest of our lives.”
Nicholas’s smile turned devilish. I braced for it, but the masculine possession wasn’t something I ever wanted to lose. He cupped my cheek. I melted into his grasp.
“You are everything I’ve ever wanted,” he said. “Every power I thought I deserved, and everything a family is supposed to be…”
His voice trailed off. I shrugged. “Is there a but in that statement?”
He pulled me close, tasting my lip, my chin, my neck. I rolled with a heated shiver, a prelude to our promised honeymoon.
“But, Ms. Atwood…Mrs. Bennett—”
I knew what he was after, and the tease would conquer me again and again.
“Don’t you dare, Nicholas Bennett.”
I flushed with a terrible excitement as he pushed me on the bed, his kisses tracing a path over my heating skin. Nicholas growled, a hungry, perfect baritone that promised every love, every desire, every pleasure he had yet to give me.
“I’m still owed a male heir.”
The End
Other Novels By Lana
Loved Takeover?
Also love dark and dangerous biker romances?
Check out the Anathema MC Series!
Warlord
Exiled
Knight
Three powerful men, scarred by war and desperate to save their women
Three strong women, sacrificing everything to protect the men they love.
One war no one can afford to lose.
The complete trilogy is available now!
Sneak Peek - While They Watch! A Lana Grayson/Sosie Frost Novel!
If you’re looking for another super hot read, I have a treat for you! Coming this spring…
While They Watch
an erotic romance
By: Lana Grayson and Sosie Frost
I’ve been working with my best friend, Sosie Frost, on a deliciously new BDSM novel! Sosie is a master of romantic comedy, and I thought I’d bring her to the wild side with a blending of funny and sexy romance.
While They Watch is a spicy hot novel that focuses on one of the sexiest of fetishes…Exhibitionism.
Fortunately, the BDSM Club Duchess specifically caters to this particular desire. And Anthony Delvannis—a dark, brooding, powerful attorney—just found his perfect submissive.
…Only she doesn’t know it yet.
We’ve included a sneak peek of While They Watch! Check out the first chapter, and, if you’re interested, sign up here to be emailed when our novel comes out!
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1
While They Watch - Sneak Peek
Chapter One
“You don’t belong here.”
His voice cut against the thrumming cello of the jazz quartet. The warning pulled me from the music and pinned me to my seat. What might have been an unwelcomed distraction instead syncopated my heart into a spikey, unsteady rhythm. The stranger spoke with a resonating authority and, for whatever reason, he focused on me.
I had finally worked up enough courage to order a drink, but his warning rekindled my panic. Fleeing the club was a good option. Grabbing my ID for the third time to prove my age to the security obsessed bartender was the rational thing to do. Instead, my gaze darted to the white LED decorated stairs leading to the guarded door of the infamous second floor. A threaded curtain separated the VIPs from the general public.
I didn’t belong in a lot of places. Duchess, an exclusive fetish night-club, lingered at the top of the list, followed closely by places like Aleppo and my mother’s house in Columbus. My peachtini was too light on the -tini to consider the happenings on that second floor. Even the curtain’s material looked too ritzy for my wallet. I was as out of place in Duchess as I was in Pottery Barn.
The stranger claimed the stool to my left. His shoulder grazed against mine, and I reached for my drink, teeth clamping down on the straw before I said something idiotic. Belong there? Of course I didn’t belong there. And the one who did was forty-five-freaking-minutes late. No calls. No texts. Leave it to Suzi to trap me in the one bar that served leather conditioner alongside thirty dollar mixed drinks.
His long legs stretched out under the bar—black shoes, black slacks tailor fitted to his build. He was much taller than me, but that was no surprise. I got carded at the door, and I expected a “you must be this tall to enter” speech from the bouncer. Though, in a place like Duchess, it’d be a “this tall to ride” warning.
And that did it. I blushed at the precise instant my eyes drifted over the crest of his legs. He noticed. Figured. The last thing I wanted was to look like some crazy crotch-wench in this kind of club. His shirt was a much safer place for my gaze, except the
crimson material stretched neatly over a chest harder than the rock sitting in my stomach. I thought the guys in these places were supposed to be decrepit. An early retiree in the midst of his mid-life crisis brandishing a clearance-rack leash from PetSmart. My sources were dead wrong.
“Having fun?” He said.
My heel slipped off the stool. I caught myself before my chin collided with the bar. He steadied me, grasping my elbow within his large hand.
He expected an answer. And a voice like that—a melody more appealing than anything the jazz ensemble played—deserved an answer. He hadn’t released my arm, but I wasn’t going anywhere. My bones melted and puddled on the imported floor tile the instant he spoke.
Unfortunately, my throat closed over a chunk of sticky peach lodged somewhere between my tongue and the last shred of my dignity. A sexy half-cough, half chortle might have sounded great, but I decided silence was the best recourse for the only girl in a cotton sundress in the ocean of second-skin leather skirts. A demure nod. A quick clearing of my throat. A guzzle of the peach-tini.
And there was the -tini. Great.
“Are you meeting someone?” He asked.
And now he laughed at me. A dozen responses flitted though my mind. The first was an honest no shit, and the second a recurring—I really need my arm back. I raised my eyes to his.
He was older than I thought. Maybe early to mid-thirties, but no gray touched his dark hair. He wore it long, almost chin length, pulled back into a half pony-tail framing his stubble-dusted jaw into strong edges. His complexion was darker, and his nose a sculpted angle. Mediterranean? I always wanted to take a trip to Europe. And there was my instant-vacation, leaning towards me, without even a cursory glance from the TSA.
He released my arm with a light brush over my skin. A million goose bumps followed.
My glass tinked back onto the bar. I swallowed any frilly vibrato in my voice. His eyes fixed over me. Wasn’t it rude to stare? Wasn’t it equally rude to linger in silence like a tongue-twisted invalid who enjoyed the umbrella in her drink more than the liquor?
“This isn’t your normal night out.”
“No,” I said.
His lips mocked me with a dire smile. “No, you don’t belong here. No, you aren’t meeting anyone. Or no, this isn’t your normal night out?”
“Yes.”
Oh, Christ. I sipped the last few golden drops of my drink while hiding my flushing cheeks. Might as well trip out of the bar and let my skirt fly over my head. If I found some spinach to stuff between my front teeth my every nightmare would play out in the middle of a fetish bar.
And yet, my mysterious stranger smiled. Just a hint, but infinitely more controlled than my humble freak out. Better to have him think I was playing coy than deliver the actual truth. I had no idea how to talk to a man like this. We—well, wherever Suzi and Leah happened to be—planned to come to Duchess for a laugh. He was here legitimately. He belonged here. And he was talking to me. Leaning over with biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt and shoulders that formed a barrier between me and the safety of the exit. The bartender set a drink before him. A gin and tonic. He hadn’t ordered it and he still got the drink a hell of a lot quicker than I was given mine.
“What’s your name?” His dark eyes blended with the effortless baritone of his voice.
We planned to be Polly, Dolly, and Molly, but I suffered enough.
“Morgan.”
“Good evening, Morgan.”
His eyes dipped over me again. I straightened my shoulders, but I remained a speck of blonde on the bar next to him.
He didn’t say anything else. His evening washed over me. I had nothing in my arsenal as smooth. Not even a did you know that’s not really a trumpet in the band? It’s a cornet, and I think it sounds snazzy. As if on cue, the sadistic quartet switched to a different song. Something tragically mellow that fostered the silence.
I remembered this being easier back when I was still enrolled in college. I couldn’t sit at the bar without some fraternity pledge offering to buy me Natty Lights on his parent’s semester allowance. But my stranger was no overeager kid looking for an easy score. He toyed with me—waiting for me to either run away or drown in my drink. Two could play that game.
“So.” I leaned back to get a better look at my companion. He welcomed the intrusion, meeting my stare with a raised chin. Proud and vain. He could be trouble. “Come here often, stranger?”
He chuckled. The pressure in my chest eased. I tugged the edges of my dress down, closer to my knee. He studied the movement, and my fingers dug into the material. I didn’t want him thinking I meant for the hem to creep up. Or that I panicked if I revealed a little skin. Or that I did or didn’t want him looking at my skin. I sighed as he spoke.
“My name’s Anthony.”
“Evening, Anthony.”
He cracked and smirked. Maybe I was better at the game than I thought. My cell chirped. I checked the text and groaned. Suzi was my own personal town-crier, but she only ever gave bad news.
Sorry hon. Crisis at work, and Leah’s baby has a fever. Another time?
Another time. This was our other time, making up for two almost-nights out. Suzi’s office did more work after 5:00 than seemed legal, and Leah’s baby was a crawling petri-dish.
My mother’s voice echoed in my head. Do something with your life. Go back to school. Meet a man. I let the text go unanswered. Where had the degree and wedding band landed my friends? Suzi worked every night till seven and still needed a roommate to cover the rent, and Leah’s baby had colic, croup, and teething issues. She hadn’t slept a full night in a year and fought with her husband every second she was awake.
No thanks.
Anthony waited while I twirled the straw in my empty glass into a crumpled mess.
“Would you like another?” he asked.
I looked up. The bartender awaited my order. I shook my head and jiggled the phone.
“No thanks. Something came up.”
The bartender nodded. Anthony motioned, and, before I could argue, he paid my tab.
“Let me guess,” he said. “Friends chickened out?”
I set the phone back on the bar. Traitorous thing.
“I knew they weren’t going to make it,” I said.
“But you came anyway.”
My shrug was half-hearted. “This beats half-priced soggy wings at our usual hangout.”
“No wings here.”
“Nothing’s half-priced either.”
Another smile. His lips curled over a flash of white teeth. The pale light of the bar shadowed his strong nose and hardened jaw. But his eyes layered in darkness, like a splash of ink across a canvas. For a second, I was glad my friends flaked out on me. They had responsibilities and family. I had a ridiculously attractive guy offering to buy me a drink. Maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad.
Then again...
My eyes followed the stairs to the secret second floor. The bar was normal enough. Expensive drinks and jazz music. A pair of gothic couples giggled in the corner and a few women danced in slinky dresses and avoided the men trying too hard to buy them a drink. I spotted the occasional collar around a neck, but so far the club looked as PG as anything near the college campuses.
Except Anthony. His body cornered me without even trying. I crossed my legs and hoped the straightened posture would give me more confidence. It didn’t. I probably looked smaller than ever. Examined. Pinned like a gimpy butterfly in some biology project making frantic small-talk about the differences between cool and smooth jazz. And yet, I wasn’t threatened. I had no doubt I could get up and walk away without a word and he’d let me go.
I wondered what I could say to keep him.
“If you want,” Anthony’s voice rumbled in a whisper. “I’ll call the valet for your car.”
I offered him a shy shrug. “Maybe I’ll stay a bit longer.”
This time, his iPhone beeped. He glanced at the screen and set the phone on the ba
r. His fingers rapped a slow rhythm next to it, separate from the music. Like he didn’t hear the song, or deliberately ignored the tempo. His expression shifted, the playful twitch on his lips exchanged for a practiced stoicism.
“That’s not a good idea.”
The goose bumps retreated, my bones remolded, and my smirk vanished. I couldn’t manage a snarl, but my eyebrow rose as aggressively as I could without seeming rude.
“Excuse me?”
Anthony sipped his gin and tonic. He might as well have thrown it on me. He morphed from sexy stranger to distant authority figure in a split second. Sized me up and decided I wasn’t worth his effort before he even answered the text.
“Morgan.” The gin clinked down. I stiffened. “You don’t belong here.”
I crossed my arms. “I was carded at the door.”
“You’re a young, attractive, blonde. And you’re alone.” The word hung in the air. “Do you know what happens here?”
Anthony studied the man in full leather lurking in the corner, biding his time with a scowl. His gaze swept to a second man a few seats away. I couldn’t see his hands, but, judging by his movements, I decided I didn’t want to see what they were doing.
“You should call it a night,” he said.
I ignored the staring creepers and frowned. “So what are you? A bouncer?”
“I work closely with the owner.” He tapped his cellphone. As if on cue, another message appeared. “We know the type of people who shouldn’t be here. We don’t need an incident.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“No.”
“You’ve known me for ten minutes. What makes you think I’m not into this stuff?”