Knight

Prologue

Prologue

There you are.

Sitting at that table, shaming all of those other women who only think that they’re beautiful, the ones who probably worked on themselves for hours just to achieve the type of beauty that comes so effortlessly to you. This whole dining hall is a sea of women, but not a single one can hold a candle to you in any way.

When we met you didn’t crowd me, or treat me like a rock star, or try to stroke my ego. You were just you—smart, sexy, and touched deeply by a book I’d convinced myself didn’t impact anyone except me. And more than anything, I could tell that you didn’t know how gorgeous you really are.

Just like now.

You sit back in your chair, never too concerned with anything going on around you, and never trying too hard to be anything but yourself. Others might see that as arrogance, but I know that it’s the epitome of confidence. And you have every reason to be confident in yourself. Right now your hair is down, and I’m mesmerized by those brown curls draped gently over one shoulder, falling at your breasts, and driving me absolutely insane. Even from this distance at the author’s table I can make out the emerald green in your eyes—the light reflecting off of them perfectly. When they look my direction you hold me in place, and all of the sounds around me become white noise, as if I’m in a dream that I never want to wake from.

I didn’t know what I was doing here at first, in a place where everyone looks at me like I’m on display. Grayson and Colton asked me to be here. Better to be a good friend than a bad one, right? But I’d convinced myself that being here was a favor that I was doing them, even if they thought it was the other way around. How could I have known that coming here would bring you into my life? I guess the universe has its mysteries to keep.

I’m the most reserved of us, even though I write steamy novels for a living. I’m a contradiction like that—a quiet, reserved, author who’s a romantic at heart, yet I write the kind of books that can make a tingle appear between your legs and get your heart racing in your chest. That’s me. I write the books you don’t want your family to know that you’re reading, the ones you’d hold down so that passers by couldn’t see the cover. I write the books that you enjoy in the privacy of your own room, where no one can see the beads of sweat my words make appear on your forehead.

The other guys are the loud and boisterous ones—the ones who’ll keep the crowd of our fans and readers happy and laughing all weekend. I mostly smile. I mostly sit. I mostly use my energy to look at you and think the kind of thoughts that get me in trouble. There must be three hundred readers here, each dressed to the nines, each here for us, each busy taking selfies and drinking enough wine to give the entire hotel a hangover. The music is loud enough to drown out almost anything else, but it’s powerless to stop the thoughts running though my head.

I’m used to having my thoughts dominate my life. I’m a writer, after all, and that comes with the territory. Only tonight I’m not worried about plot, or characters, or cover models, or blurbs that’ll catch a reader’s attention. No. Instead I’m wondering what your lips would feel like when they’re against mine, how much pressure I’d feel with your legs wrapped around my waist, squeezing me as I kiss you harder than you’ve ever been kissed before. I think about my body suspended over yours, promising to descend and bring you to unthinkable levels of ecstasy. Then I imagine the noises you’ll make as I slide inside of you, how your back would arch and your mouth would open to take in more air, because you’re going to need it.

I see you stand up and start to walk out. You catch my glance, and we both understand each other without a single word needing to be spoken.

I’m on my way, Everleigh, just like we arranged.

I’m about to find out the answers to all of my questions, alone with you in the darkness of your room.

Part I

The Signing

What do you do when your whole world crumbles around you?

What happens when everything you've known is suddenly taken away, leaving you with an empty home and an unshaven face?

There are only two choices that I can seem to think of.

You can collapse on the floor, bent over your own body, and marinate in your sadness. Or. . .you can fight. You can go down swinging. You can look your problems in their cold, black eyes and tell them, "Not today."

I've considered my options. I’ve weighed the pros and cons, and after careful consideration I’ve decided to go with option B.

I'm going to fight.

I'm going to go down swinging.

I'm going to write my masterpiece.