“Daddy and Brody, they almost ruined this with their feud and fighting, and I’m glad they didn’t get their way. I’m really glad Brody came around, because having us all together is better than I ever could have dreamed.”
Ah, that makes more sense, I think, catching her meaning now.
She lifts up to her elbow, staring into my eyes. “You are better than I ever dreamed. I love you, Luke Bennett.”
She lowers her mouth to meet mine in a kiss, and my breath ghosts over her lips. “I love you too, Shayanne Tannen-Bennett.”
And our future is sealed with a kiss.
Later, we’ll walk Duster back to the barn and go see our family at Hank’s. I’ll spin Shayanne around the floor until she’s dizzy and heavy in my arms. I’ll take her home and make love to her again, slowly worshipping her because we have all the time in the world.
And then we’ll make our life together, one day at a time and one state at a time.
Thank you for reading the Bennett Boys! Don’t want to say goodbye to these lovable characters just yet? Sign up to my newsletter to get an EXTENDED CHAPTER . . . from Mama Lou’s PoV! This is a little different, but it’s a must read and an absolute tear jerker!
I hope you’ve enjoyed the Bennett Boys as much as me, and while this is the end of this series, there will be more in this world! The Tannen Boys went from being the bullies next door to men who've done the best they can with what they had. There's something to be said for their resilience, grit, and strength . . . and I think they deserve their own story! Their story will be of how, in losing everything, they became part of something even bigger. And, of course they add to the crazy mix with sassy, sexy women of their own. Be on the lookout for news on it later this year!
Excerpt: Beauty and the Billionaire
Prologue
Mia
The darkness is complete, wrapping around me like an ebony velvet blanket, cool and textural on my naked skin. I can feel it on my goosebumps, the air adding to my trembling.
My body, exhausted from the last ordeal, still quivers as I try to find the strength to move. It’s so difficult, the waters of sleep still tugging at me even as instinct tells me there’s something in the darkness.
A soft shuffle of feet on the carpet, and I can sense him. He’s here, watching me, invisible, but his aura reaches out, awakening my body like a warm featherlight touch on the pleasure centers of my brain.
Arousal ripples up my thighs, fresh heat shimmering with the memories of last time. I’ve never felt anything like him before, my body used and taken, battered and driven insane . . . and completely, thoroughly pleasured in a way that I didn’t think possible.
It was so much that I don’t even remember coming down, just an explosion of ecstasy that drove me into unconsciousness . . . but now my senses have returned and I know he’s still there, measuring me, hunting me, desiring me.
How can he have strength left? How, when every muscle from my neck to my toes has already been taken past the limit?
How can he still want more?
My nostrils flare, and I can smell him. Rich, masculine . . . feral. A man’s man who could tear me apart without a second’s effort. His breath, soft but shuddering, sipping at the air, savoring the conquest to come.
Another whisper in the darkness, and the fear melts away, replaced by a heightened sense of things.
The moonlight, dim now in the post-midnight morning, when the night’s as deep as it will ever be.
The sweat on my skin and the fresh moisture gathering at the juncture between my thighs.
He steps forward, still cloaked in shadow, a shape from the depths of night, ready for a new kind of embrace.
He reaches for my calf, and at his touch, I start to tremble. I should resist, I should say I can’t take any more. He’s already had his fill. What more can he want?
He inhales, his nose taking in my scent, and the knowledge comes to me, a revelation that I’ve chosen to ignore.
He wants me to be his. Not just his bedmate, not simply a conquest to have and to discard. He wants to possess me fully, to own me, body and soul.
But can I?
Can I give myself to such a man, a being whose very presence inspires fear and dread?
Can I risk the fury that I’ve seen directed at others turned back upon me?
His tongue flicks out, touching that spot he’s discovered behind my right knee that I wasn’t even aware of before him, my left leg falling aside on its own as my hunger betrays me.
My mind is troubled, my heart races . . . but my body knows what it wants.
He chuckles, a rumble that tickles my soft inner thighs as he pauses, his breath warm over my pussy. He scoops his hands under my buttocks, and I feel him adjust himself on the mattress, preparing for his feast.
“Delicious,” he growls, and then his tongue touches me . . . and I’m gone.
Mia
The electronic drumbeats thud through the air so hard that I can actually feel my chest vibrate as I look at my screen, my head bobbing as I let the pattern come to me.
I’ve had a lot of people ask me how I can work the way I do, but this is when the magic happens. I’ve got three computer screens, each of them split into halves with data flowing in each one. I’m finishing up my evaluations, I’ve done the grind, and now I’m bringing it all together.
For that, though, I need tunes, and nothing gets my brain working on the right frequency as well as good techno does.
I can hear the door to my office vibrate in its frame, and I’m glad I’ve got my own little paradise down here in the basement of the Goldstone Building.
Sure, my methods are weird, and I’m sort of isolated considering that I’m in a corner office with two file rooms on either side of me, but that’s because I need this to make the magic happen.
Frankly, I wasn’t too sure if I’d be able to keep this job, considering the number of complaints I got my first six months working here.
Part of it, of course, is my occasional outbursts—to myself, mind you, and more often than not in gutter Russian so no one can understand me.
That, with the random singing along with my tunes, meant I was labeled as ‘distracting’ and ‘difficult to work next to.’
But the powers that be saw the value that I bring with my data analysis.
So, as an experimental last gasp, I was sent down here, where the walls are thick, the neighbors are paper, and nobody minds that my singing voice is terrible.
It works for them, but more importantly, it works for me.
And here I’ve remained for almost six years, working metadata analysis and market trends, making people with money even more money.
Not that the company’s treated me poorly. I’ve gotten a bonus for seven quarters straight, and I’ve always managed my own investments.
For a girl who still has a few years until she hits thirty, I’m doing well on the ol’ nest egg.
But I’m pigeonholed. Other than dropping off files from time to time, I almost never see anyone in my day to day work, which I guess is okay with me. I’ve never been someone who likes the social scene of an office.
On the other hand, I can wear my pink and blue streaks in my hair and not have to see people’s judging glares. And I don’t have to explain what my lyrics mean when I decide to sing along.
“Another one for the Motherland!” I exclaim as I see what I’ve been looking for. This isn’t a hard assignment, merely an optimization analysis for some of Goldstone’s transport subsidiaries. But I prefer to celebrate each victory, no matter how small or large, with glee.
I swipe all the data to my side monitors and bring up a document in the center and start typing. I’ve already included most of the boilerplate that the executives and VPs want to see, the ‘check the box’ sort of things that my father would understand with his background.
After all, he is Russian. He knows about bureaucracy.
Finally, just as the Elf Clock above my door dings noon, I sav
e my file and fire it off to my supervisor.
“In Russia . . . report finishes you.”
Okay, so it’s not my best one-liner, but it’s another quirk of mine. While I’m as American as apple pie, I pay homage to my roots, especially at work, for some reason. It seems to help, so I’m sticking to it.
Heading to the elevator, I go upstairs before punching out for lunch and jumping into my little Chevy to drive to my ‘spot’, a diner called The Gravy Train. An honest to goodness old-fashioned diner, it’s got some of the best food in town, including a fried chicken sandwich that’s to kill for.
As I drive, I look around my hometown, still surprised at how big it seems these days. The main reason, of course, is tied to the dark tower on the north side of town, Blackwell Industries.
Thirty years ago, Mr. Blackwell located his headquarters here in the sleepy town of Roseboro and proclaimed it to be the bridge between Portland and Seattle. A lot of people scoffed, but he was right, and Roseboro’s been the beneficiary of his foresight.
I’ve been lucky, watching a city literally grow with me. Roseboro is big enough now that some people even call this a Tri-Cities area, lumping us in with Portland and Seattle.
I get to The Gravy Train just in time to see the other reason that I come to this place so frequently for lunch wave from the window. Isabella “Izzy” Turner has been my best friend since first grade, and I love her like she’s my own flesh and blood.
As I enter, I see her untie the apron on her uniform and slump down into one of the booths. Her normally rich brown hair looks limp and stringy today, and the bags under her eyes are so big she could be carrying her after work clothes in them.
“Hey, babe, you look exhausted,” I say in greeting, giving her a hug from the side as I slide in next to her. “Please don’t tell me you’re still working double shifts?”
“Have to,” Izzy says as she leans into me and hugs back. “Gotta keep the bills paid, and doing double shifts gives me a chance to maybe get a little ahead. I’ll need it once classes start up again.”
“You know you don’t have to,” I tell her for the millionth time. “You can take out student loans like the rest of us.”
“I’d rather not if I don’t have to. I owe enough to other people as it is.”
She’s got a point. She’s had a tough life and has seen tragedy that left more and more debt on her tab, and student loans are tough enough without all the other stuff in her life.
And even though she always turns me down, I have to offer once again, just on the off-chance she’ll say yes this time. “Still, if you need anything . . . I mean, I’ve said it before, but you can always come live with me. I’ve got room at my place.”
Izzy snorts, finally cracking a smile. “You mean you want someone to stay up with you until two in the morning on weekends playing video games.”
Before I can elbow her in the side, the bell above the door rings and in walks the third member of our little party patrol, Charlotte Dunn. A stunning girl who turns heads everywhere she goes with her long, naturally bright and beautiful red hair, she slides into the booth opposite Izzy and me, looking exhausted herself.
She settles in, sighing heavily, and Izzy looks over at her. “Tough morning for you too?”
“I think walking in the back and sticking my head in a vat of hot oil might just be preferable to working reception on the ground floor of Satan’s Skyscraper,” she jokes. “It’s not like anything bad happened either.”
“So what’s the deal?” I ask, and Charlotte shakes her head. “What?”
“I guess it’s just that everyone there walks like they’ve got a hundred-pound albatross on their back as they come in. No smiles, no greetings, even though I try. It’s just depressing,” she replies. “You got lucky, landing in the shining palace.”
“Girl, please. I work all by my lonesome in the deep, dark dungeon of a basement,” I point out.
Charlotte snorts. “But that’s how you like it!”
She’s not wrong, so I don’t bother arguing, instead teasingly gloating, “And I get to wear whatever and work however the hell I please.”
Our waitress, one of Izzy’s co-workers, comes over with her order pad. “So, what can I get you ladies?”
“Something with no onions or spice,” Izzy replies, groaning. “Maybe Henry can whip up a grilled cheese for me?”
“Deal. And for you ladies?”
We place our orders, and the three of us lean back, relaxing. Charlotte looks me over enviously again, shaking her head. “Seriously, Mia, can’t get over the outfit today. You trying to show off the curves?”
“What curves?” I ask, looking down at today’s band T-shirt. It’s just a BTS logo, twin columns rising on a black shirt.
“Hey, you’re rockin’ it.” Charlotte laughs. “It fits the girls just right.”
I roll my eyes. Charlotte always seems to see something in me that I don’t. Men don’t seem to find me interesting. Or at least, the men I find interesting don’t find me interesting.
Deflecting back to her, I ask, “How’re things looking for you? That guy in Accounting ever come back downstairs to get your number?”
Charlotte snorts. “Nope. I saw him the other day, but it’s okay. It’s his loss.”
She does a little hair flip and I can’t help but smile. She hasn’t always had the best luck with guys, but she never gives up and always keeps a positive attitude about the whole dating game. Her motto is ‘No Mr. Wrongs, only Mr. Rights and Mr. Right-Nows.’ Maybe not the classiest, but a girl’s got needs, and sometimes it’s nice to have an orgasm from a guy not named B.O.B.
We eat our lunches, chatting and gossiping and bullshitting as always. It’s never a big to-do since we share lunch together at least once a week, if not more, but it’s still nice to catch up. Izzy and I have been friends for so long, and Charlotte and I met in college. They’re important to me.
“So, when do classes start up again, Izz?” Charlotte asks. “So you can, I don’t know, get some sleep and not have fallen arches?”
Izzy snorts. “Too soon, I think. But if I can string together another two semesters—”
“Wait, two?” I ask in shock. “Honey, you’re like the super-duper-ooper senior at this point. Seriously, some of the professors are probably younger than you by now.”
“Hey, we’re the same age!” Izzy protests, but shrugs. “You know, I had a freshman ask me if I was a TA the other day?”
“Ouch, that had to hurt,” Charlotte says. “What did you say?”
“I pointed him in the direction of the student union and turned him down when he asked for my number. Seriously, I’m not sure if he even needed to shave yet. I don’t have time to teach eighteen-year-old man-boys what and where a clit is!”
Charlotte and I laugh, and I punch her in the shoulder. “You’ll get there in your own time, girl. But still, why the wait?”
“Mostly the internship,” Izzy admits. “I can juggle classes and work, or internship and work, but I can’t do classes, internship, and work. There’s just not enough hours in the day.”
I nod, understanding that Izzy has plans and dreams. But unlike most, she’s willing to sacrifice and work hard to reach hers.
We shift topics, like we always do, until we’ve covered all the usual topics and my tummy feels pleasantly happy without risk of an afternoon food coma.
Wiping our mouths with our napkins, I glance at my phone, checking the time. “So, Char . . . rock, paper, scissors?”
“Nope, this one’s mine!” Charlotte says, giggling as I lean into Izzy, preventing her from moving as Charlotte grabs the check and runs up to the counter.
“Hey! Hey, dammit!” Izzy protests. “I—”
“Should be quiet and let your friends pay for lunch for once,” I whisper. “Or else I’ll use my secret Russian pressure point skills on you!”
“Oh, fine, since you put it that way!”
Charlotte comes back, and she smiles at Izzy. “Chill
, Izz. You bust your ass, and you’ve snuck us an extra pickle more than once. You’re allowed to let me buy you lunch every now and then.”
“We could all use some more pickle.” Izzy chuckles. “Seriously, at this point, I’d settle for a one-nighter. No commitment, no issues, just a good old-fashioned hookup. As long he’s well into his twenties, at least,” she says with an eye roll.
“Mr. Right Now?” Charlotte asks, and Izzy nods. “Hmph. You find him, send him my way. I keep finding good guys . . . two months after they’ve met the girl of their dreams. Only single men I find are dogs.”
“You’ve just gotta make sure you give them a fake number and a flea dip, and enjoy the weekend,” I tease, though she knows I would never do anything of the sort.
“I’m lonely, but I’ve got rechargeable batteries.”
We all laugh, and my phone rings. I pull it out, checking the screen. “Shit, girls, it’s my boss. Says he’s got a rush job for me to complete.”
“How’s he working out, anyway?” Charlotte asks as I finish my drink quickly. “And have you started working for The Golden Child yet?”
“Nope, I’ve never seen him except for the publicity stuff,” I reply honestly. “He’s the penthouse. I’m the basement. Twenty-four floors in between us. Anyway, I gotta jet, so I’ll talk to you girls soon, okay?”
“Yup . . . I’m going to relax for this next ten minutes before I need to clock back in myself,” Izzy says, stretching out. “Gimme a call later?”
I nod, blowing them a kiss, and head back to work.
Thomas
Looking out over Roseboro, I feel like I’m looking over my empire.
Of course, I’m joking . . . but maybe not so much.
Twenty-five years ago, this town was just a suburb of a suburb of Portland. Though it was already up and coming, I’d like to think that over the past six years I’ve added my fair share to this place.
I’d finished my MBA at Stanford and set up shop in the growing town, watching the landscape change and cultivating the business interests that serve me best. Because I haven’t just watched. I’ve worked my ass off to get Goldstone where it is today.
Racing Hearts: Bennett Boys Ranch Page 34