It was her he loved, now and always.
“I love you, wan. God, I love you,” he croaked, then dragged her up his body, impaled her on his still-hard cock, and proved it to her all over again.
∞
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Before you go…
King is cool as ice under fire, but when his past comes back to haunt him, things heat up fast.
DENY ME
Southern Nights: Enigma 4
King Moncrief was born to a life of privilege and wealth—and walked away. From his life, and from the woman he loved. He answered the call to serve, first as a cop, then as a security specialist for JCL Securities. Protection is in his blood, but it can’t keep him warm at night. Not when dreams of what could have been, what will never be, leave him cold to the core.
Charlotte Alexander lost the two most important things in her life just out of high school: her childhood sweetheart and her only chance at having a family of her own. Now her energy is poured into the charity she founded, Creating Families, helping babies and their mothers find a better life. But something isn’t right at CF, and when Charlotte is targeted by a killer, there’s only one place she can turn.
Back to the past. To the man who walked away. The man she denied but never forgot.
* * * One-click your copy of DENY ME today! * * *
∞
Chapter One
The trailer park was definitely on the wrong side of the tracks, but Charlotte Alexander had never cared. She’d been here numerous times—to pick Becky up for appointments, drop her off afterward, to bring groceries or paperwork or supplies she’d stocked for the baby’s arrival. Three weeks. That’s how close they were to delivery. The couple planning to adopt Becky’s baby were ecstatic.
Tomorrow they’d be heartbroken.
This afternoon the dilapidated state of the white and rust trailer served to remind Charlotte of everything that was at stake, not just for the baby but for Becky. She parked her car in the patchy grass in front of the girl’s home, her gaze falling on shiny chrome and slick paint. A motorcycle gleamed in the weak sunlight filtering through the pines overhead. A very expensive motorcycle. She didn’t know enough about brands to identify it, but the sheer power in its body screamed money. Something Becky and her family didn’t have.
Or shouldn’t.
Her belly twisted as she stared at the machine, beautiful in comparison to the old pickup next to it, the neglected home beside it. Only one person in that trailer could drive a bike that size—Becky’s father, Richard Jones. Big and mean, he’d intimidated Charlotte from the get-go, but because she was helping get Becky’s baby “out of my goddamn house,” as he put it, Richard had kept his distance. Today might not go as well, but intimidated or not, Charlotte needed answers. Needed to make sure Becky and the baby were all right.
Taking a deep breath for courage, she pushed open her car door on the exhale and stepped out. Her heel sank into the red clay soil as she put her weight on it. There’d been no time to change after the late lunch she’d hosted with potential contributors earlier, and she was highly conscious of the luxury inherent in her dress clothes as she crossed the stubby grass toward rickety wooden stairs leading to the front door. Her usual daily uniform—dress slacks and button-downs—worked for the office and interacting with both less fortunate girls and couples from all walks of life, but schmoozing those in her social circle for funding was a fact of life she’d accepted long ago. And moneyed contributors preferred moneyed directors; hence, the fancy clothes.
Right now, though, the same clothes that helped draw large donations underscored the vast ravine between her life and sixteen-year-old Becky’s, something she never wanted to rub in the girl’s face. Today she had no choice.
The rail wobbled as she grabbed it on the first step up the stairs. When her foot landed on the second step, the sound of the chain lock sliding reached her ears. She paused in her climb.
The door cracked open a few inches. Becky’s features were pinched as she peered out of the narrow opening. “What are you doing here?”
The whispered words carried the rasp of fear. Anxiety was etched into the dark circles under her tired eyes, and a faint purple bruise marred her cheekbone.
“Becky, hon…” Instinctively her hand rose, needing to touch the girl, to reassure her. To yank her from the trailer and carry her far away where she’d never have to worry about being hit again. “Are you okay?”
“You shouldn’t be here, Charlotte.” Tears welled, but Becky sniffed them away. “You need to go. Now.”
“Come with me.”
The door opened a few more inches, allowing the swell of Becky’s belly to push through. Charlotte had walked beside the girl every step of the way after she’d come to Creating Families to talk about giving her child up for adoption. She’d watched that mound go from a tiny swell to a basketball. Taking a personal interest in the women who came to her organization was a point of pride with Charlotte. They didn’t only care for the babies they helped adopt—caring for the mothers, during and
