I already had sex with Beckett.
Not because of who he was, or the company he was connected to.
It didn’t matter. At the end of the day, they were both grown-ups and she had her bottom line to worry about. “Will today work for taking him out there?”
“Of course. I haven’t had a chance to change the locks, so there’s no reason you can’t meet Beckett at the house. I’ll call him now.” She hung up.
Samara cursed one last time, but there was no heat in it. Her grand plan had been to avoid Beckett until she could look at him without thinking about his body sliding against hers. Sliding into hers.
Beckett wasn’t stupid. He’d see right through the choice to send her rather than some lowly employee with nothing better to do. That wouldn’t stop her from doing what it took to keep him distracted and talking. His barriers were already down from grief—it wouldn’t take much to nudge him in the right direction.
No matter how unsettled the plan made her.
Her phone buzzed. She pulled up the message from a number she didn’t recognize. I’ll meet you out there in an hour. Just that. Nothing more. No details. Beckett.
She rolled her eyes and typed back a response. Very cryptic. I’ll be there. After a hesitation, she sent a second one. Wait in the car. Lydia doesn’t want you wandering.
I’ll consider it.
“Damn it, Beckett.” She slipped into her heels, grabbed her purse, and practically flew out the door. Samara made the drive in forty-five minutes, breaking more than a few speed limits in the process, and Beckett still beat her there.
She pulled up next to where he straddled his motorcycle, and stared. God, he looks good. Today he wore a black T-shirt and a different pair of jeans. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes hidden by a pair of sunglasses, the set of his square jaw giving away nothing of his mood. He nudged the kickstand into place and swung off the bike, giving her an excellent view of just how well his jeans hugged his biteable ass.
Get it together, Samara.
She was incredibly grateful for her own pair of sunglasses hiding the way her gaze followed him. Business. This is just business, and you don’t even like him. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have to like the man to want him, and the glowing ember of desire that had never quite extinguished after that night six months ago chose that moment to make itself known.
There was nothing to do but shut off the car and remove the last obstacle between them. Her heels sank into the gravel, and she wobbled a little as she stepped out of the car. “You made good time.”
“Could say the same thing of you.”
She turned and surveyed the building in whose driveway they stood. Samara had heard about the legendary King estate more than a few times and she’d even seen pictures, but nothing compared to the reality of standing there, dwarfed by the mansion. It had to be twenty thousand square feet and three stories high, the faintly Victorian style making her feel like a peasant trespassing on royalty’s property. Probably intentional.
She swallowed. No matter how overwhelming, it was still just a building, and one that Lydia now owned. “Shall we?”
“After you.” He bit out the words, tension rising in waves off his body. Beckett obviously didn’t want to be there any more than she did. He moved to his saddlebags and pulled out a plain gray metal container, the sight of which stopped her cold.
Nathaniel’s ashes.
She moved on autopilot, crunching her way across the gravel and up the imposing front steps to the door. It opened easily in her hand, which might have made her wonder if Beckett’s presence at her back wasn’t driving her before him.
Samara stopped in the entranceway—foyer—looking up, up, up to the arching ceiling a good twenty feet above their heads. “Wow.”
“Built to impress.” He started past her but hesitated, obviously torn. Finally, Beckett pulled the sunglasses off. “There are a few things I want out of my old room, and then I’ll scatter the ashes.”
He obviously wasn’t asking permission, but she nodded. “That’s reasonable.”
“Reasonable.” He snorted. “God, you kill me. I wasn’t giving you a choice. I was telling you how it’s going to go.”
Irritation flared, the familiar feeling welcome after the uncertainty of their last interaction. Samara didn’t know how to deal with a grieving Beckett. But the prickly ass currently striding deeper into the house as if he had no doubt she’d trail behind him like a good little dog? That she could handle, and gladly.
She followed him at her own pace as he moved up the grand staircase and down the left hall, allowing herself to study the long line of his back muscles that the damn shirt only seemed to accent. Beckett would never be pretty. His features were a little too rough for that, too masculine. He was all man, and his body matched his face—strong.
He’d been strong when he lifted her against the door and ground against her until the need for more had her begging.
Stop it.
But there was no stopping the onslaught of memories. His big hands on her ass, squeezing as he guided her onto his cock. The way he’d made a cage of his arms when he rolled them, effortlessly changing positions without missing a beat. His rough five-o’clock shadow scraping against her inner thighs as he sucked her clit.
“Samara?”
She blinked to find Beckett less than a foot in front of her. “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”
“What were you thinking about just then?” His gaze fell to her mouth. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me. It’s written
