"I swear to God, Beck...this is about JT," I say as tears now spring to my eyes, fill them to the brim, and with just one slight blink of my lids, go spilling over.
"Save it," he growls, and his hand shoots back out to latch on to my upper arm now. He gives me a hard jerk, and I go stumbling forward again. He grabs the doorknob, wrenches it open, and starts pushing me through. "I want you out of here now. I'll pack your shit up and have it delivered to your apartment, but you get the fuck out of my home and out of my life right this very minute and don't look backward."
"Beck," I wail, dropping my purse on the foyer floor as I reach out to him, desperately trying to get him to listen to me. "I swear I'm not trying to hurt you."
His blue eyes fill with darkness and his eyes narrow at me with something I would put akin to hatred. His hand shoots out and he catches me around the front of my neck, pulling me in slowly and up onto my tiptoes until he's almost nose to nose with me. For the first time since he caught me in his office, his tone is calm but still rippling with rage and menace. "You're no better than all the other girls, Sela. All looking to get ahead at some man's expense. What were you doing? Searching my financials? Hoping to blackmail me with something? Looking to steal from me?"
With each question he asks, his grip on my throat tightens but not enough to cut off my air. Only enough to keep my attention and so I don't forget he's in control of this situation right now. With each question, his fury seems to increase, as if my inability to answer is an admission to each accusation.
He pulls me in a fraction of an inch closer and whispers, "I don't care what the reason. I just want you fucking gone."
Beck pushes me through the door and I have no choice but to walk backward from the force of his grip on me. My hands fly out, grab on to each side of the doorjamb, and dig in hard.
"Let go, Sela," he snarls at me, releasing his hand on my throat and capturing both my wrists tightly with his hands. He peels them loose.
"No, wait," I cry out, trying to launch myself back into the doorway.
"Get the fuck out," he bellows at me with so much rage it feels like a sonic boom reverberating in my ears.
Beck pushes me hard, lets go of my wrists, and I stumble backward, falling to my butt with a jarring impact. He kicks at my purse, sending it hurtling through the door where the contents spill out all over the floor. That doesn't stop me though. I immediately lurch forward to my hands and knees, crawling toward Beck standing in the door.
"Please listen to me, Beck," I implore, my eyes begging him for just a few moments of his mercy.
He glares down at me, complete and utter disgust holding every inch of his beautiful face hostage. I crawl faster as he starts to shut the door, reaching one hand out in a pitiful attempt for a single, fucking bit of leniency from this man. He looks down at me like he wants to spit on me.
"Beck," I say with a sob.
The door is halfway closed and I take a desperate look at his face, knowing that it's the last time I'll ever see it again. I'll never know pleasure and joy like he's given me, and although I know I've betrayed him and I can't blame him for his actions right now, I throw all caution to the wind and I bare my soul to him. "JT...he raped me."
The door comes to an immediate halt and Beck's eyes go round with surprise. His mouth slackens and he pales for a moment as he looks down at me, his head tilted in confusion. I think perhaps he may even reach a hand out toward me...help me to my feet...pull me into his embrace and tell me it's all going to be okay.
I even go so far as to reach my hand upward to him.
Instead, his eyes go cold, his lips flatten out, and he shakes his head at me in disgust. "Yet another lie, Sela."
Then he slams the door in my face.
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Author's Note
I hope you enjoyed the sexy, thrilling ride of Sugar Daddy. This novel is different from anything I've written before. Find out what happens between Beck and Sela in Sugar Rush and the conclusion to their story, Sugar Free, both coming in 2016.
To Sue Grimshaw and Gina Wachtel. For believing in me.
To Lisa, Darlene, Janett, Karen, and Beth. Best beta readers in the whole damn world. I couldn't do this without you.
BY SAWYER BENNETT
Sugar Bowl Series
Sugar Daddy
Sugar Rush
Sugar Free
Cold Fury Series
Alex
Garrett
Zack
Ryker
Hawke
Max (coming soon)
Off Series
Off Sides
Off Limits
Off the Record
Off Course
Off Chance
Off Season
Off Duty
Last Call Series
On the Rocks
Make It a Double
Sugar on the Edge
With a Twist
Shaken, Not Stirred
Legal Affairs Series
The Legal Affairs Boxed Set
Confessions of a Litigation God
Clash
Grind
Yield
Friction
Wicked Horse Series
Wicked Fall
Wicked Lust
Wicked Need
Stand-Alone Titles
Uncivilized
Love: Uncivilized
If I Return
PHOTO: MARIE KILLEN
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author SAWYER BENNETT is a snarky southern woman and reformed trial lawyer who decided to finally start putting on paper all the stories that were floating in her head. Her husband works for a Fortune 100 company that lets him fly all over the world while she stays at home with their daughter and three big, furry dogs who hog the bed. Bennett would like to report that she doesn't have many weaknesses, but can be bribed with a nominal amount of milk chocolate.
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The Editor's Corner
Swing into spring this May with Loveswept! We've got something for everyone, so take your pick from these fabulous romance books.
Tracy March brings you another enchanting novel set in Colorado, with book two in her Thistle Bend series, Just Say Maybe. Brenda Rothert releases her first Loveswept book, Blown Away, a sensual, emotionally charged novel of love and loss in which a tender affair gives two daring storm chasers the strength to overcome shattered dreams and the courage to build a future together. Then we go from extreme weather to the world of extreme sports with Zoe Dawson's pulse-pounding Mavrick Allstars series debut, the steamy Ramping Up. Bestselling author HelenKay Dimon makes her Loveswept debut with Mr. and Mr. Smith. Moving on from the suspenseful to the sensual is a novel of pleasure and persuasion revolving around a high-stakes business deal in which the rules of negotiation are defined by desire in Shawntelle Madison's Bound to You. New York Times bestselling author Noelle Adams introduces a notorious tech mogul who makes a mild-mannered woman an offer she can't refuse and gets in return a battle for control--and a million-dollar affair--in Fooling Around. The Hunt Club continues with Pamela Labud's A Most Delicate Pursuit. New York Times bestselling author Erin McCarthy follows Nashville's hottest country music duo as they fight for love in a city where dreams often cost a broken heart in Heart Breaker. And New York Times bestselling author Sawyer Bennett proves that vengeance is sweet--but seduction is to die for--in Sugar Daddy.
Wait--there's more! Gina Gordon's White Lace series continues i
n book two with lots of sizzle and heat in Reason to Believe. A. M. Madden continues the True Heroes series--hot hero alert!--with Glass Ceilings. Two tortured souls share an unbreakable bond even as they break taboos, as Laura Marie Altom does it again with a fabulous stepbrother romance in Stepping Over the Line. Back in the sporting world, Stacked Up continues the Worth the Fight series from USA Today bestselling author Sidney Halston. And Interference continues the Pilot Hockey series from Sophia Henry, where a young single mom falls for a damaged coach pulling double-duty as a cop.
It's a great month for relationships, so follow us on Facebook and Twitter and let the romance begin!
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Until next month ~Happy Romance!
Gina Wachtel
Associate Publisher
Read on for an excerpt from
Alex
Cold Fury Hockey Series
by Sawyer Bennett
Available from Loveswept
Chapter 1
Alex
Flexing my jaw back and forth, it moves with a resounding pop but there's no pain. That's either because there truly is no pain or I've blocked it out. Regardless, I push back from the boards, even as that douche Talbot tries to push my face back into them again. The puck is between our legs and we scrabble to kick it loose.
There's less than forty seconds left in the game to break this tie, and I want to get it done. Although I have no desire for the spotlight that will come with making the game-winning goal, it's absolutely preferable to being stuck in overtime or a potential shootout. I'm ready for this fucking game to be over.
Giving a particularly hard push back, I'm able to free my stick from the boards and put the blade to ice. Because we're playing on home ice here in Raleigh, North Carolina, and I know its speed and consistency like the back of my hand, it takes nothing but a short tap on the puck and it shoots back between both of our legs. I juke left, and when I feel Talbot follow, I spin back right to skate around him, grabbing the puck just as it clears his blades, and take off for the goal.
One of my natural talents is to freeze-frame the entire ice in my mind, analyze my best course of action and dump the puck as quickly as possible to the guy with the best scoring chance on our team. But now with only thirty-five seconds left in the period--and yes, I saw the clock winding down in my freeze-frame--I don't want to leave it up to one of my teammates to seal the deal. I fake a pass to the nearside, then slip a quick wrist shot toward the goal, watching as it sails cleanly into the net, just between the upper post and the goalie's left shoulder.
Way too fucking easy!
The red light behind the net burns bright and the arena erupts, nineteen thousand fans rocketing to their feet to scream in rapture that Alexander Crossman has broken the tie and most likely won the game. Of course, there's still thirty-one seconds left for my team to screw the pooch.
My teammates throw their hands up in the air, skating toward me to celebrate the goal. I make a half-assed attempt to look pleased with myself, which basically means I let my teammates rub the top of my helmet or tap my legs with their sticks. But that's about as excited as I get when I score a goal.
I hate this fucking shit...the adulation, the limelight...all of it.
Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and take a seat. Some of the guys shout down a congrats, and a few nod at me; others ignore me point-blank. I'm not a well-liked guy by most.
Grabbing the water bottle, I squirt a bit in my mouth, swish it around and spit it back out. The crowd goes crazy again, their cheers rising in crescendo as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron. I glance up at it, my brow furrowing. It's a pretty sweet play and I totally smoked Talbot, but as I watch it I know without a doubt my dad will be calling tonight because he'll find something to criticize. It's physically impossible for him to do anything but.
The announcer's voice comes over the PA system, Carolina Cold Fury goal, scored by Number Sixty-Seven, Alexander Crossman, unassisted...
And the crowd erupts into more cheers, drowning out the stats as they are relayed. I do a quick glance around the arena, knowing that the fans are happy as shit I just scored the game winner but also very much aware they can't stand me. I even snicker as I see a sign across the ice proclaiming, Crossman for MVP, Most Valuable Prick.
Classic! I'm the player they love to hate, and I could give a fuck.
I come out, do my duty, score my goals and get my assists, collect my paycheck, and past that, just leave me the fuck alone.
If only life were that simple.
For the remainder of the game, I don't even watch the action on the ice. I sit on the bench and lean my head back against the glass, watching the time slowly tick down so I can be free of this shit for the night.
--
"Crossman...in my office before you leave," I hear Dan Pretore call out. He's the head coach for the Cold Fury, and while he's probably one of the best coaches I've ever played under, he's a hard-ass as well. I know, without a doubt, that even with two goals and three assists on the night, I'm going to get my ass handed to me.
Slipping on my suit jacket, I zip up my equipment bag and make my way back to the staffing area under the arena. None of my teammates say goodbye, none of them congratulate me. They know it wouldn't do any good, because I won't respond. Some of the newer guys think that's just me being reflective, but the ones who have been here awhile know it's because I'm a mean son of a bitch after a game, regardless of whether we win or lose. In fact, the better I do, the crustier I become, which I get...that's some whacked shit and I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day with me.
I rap my knuckles softly on the coach's door, and he immediately calls out for me to enter. I don't close the door behind me, only because I could care less if anyone hears my ass-reaming. Taking a seat across from his desk, I casually prop an ankle over my knee and look around his office with no real interest. It's a mess...piles of papers, binders, and fast-food wrappers litter his desk. He has several framed awards, but they're all sitting on his floor, leaning up against the wall. I've been with the Carolina Cold Fury for almost six years now, and his office looks the same now as it did when I had my first meeting with him those many years ago.
"Great game tonight," he says, looking up from the iPhone that he had been texting on when I entered. "Your plus-minus went to forty-seven. I believe that means you're leading the league right now."
I stare at him, offering no "thank you" for the praise. I don't need it or want it and statistics never meant much to me. Kind of like all those awards Coach has on his floor...don't mean shit to me. I respect his coaching skills for what they are, not what other people say about them.
He waits for me to say something...an acknowledgment, an eye flicker, an I could give a flying fuck. He gets nothing, so he sighs and continues on.
"That little stunt at the end of the game was uncalled for," he tells me.
He's referring to the fact that I was named the game's most valuable player--or most valuable prick if you go by what some fans say--which is an honor commemorated at the end of the game by having the player skate out on the ice for acknowledgment. At the time they were calling my name, I was halfway back to the locker room, refusing to come out for my stupid fucking lap around the ice. The fans' boos followed me all the way back.
"Sorry...had an upset stomach...diarrhea. Had to hit the can," I tell him, my face a study of genuine truth even though he knows I'm lying through my teeth.
Pretore leans forward across his desk, flashing his teeth at me in a snarl. "Do you think I'm fucking stupid, Crossman? You thumbed your nose at the crowd and this team because you're an asshole and no other reason. I'm fining you a thousand dollars for that stunt."
I pick an imaginary piece of lint off my slacks and look at him blandly. "Fine. Anything else?"
Leaning back in his chair, Pretore studies me for a moment. Steepling his hands in front of his face, he
regards me with interest. "You know...I don't get you. You were the best player in the Quebec Juniors by the time you were sixteen, the number one NHL draft pick six years ago, and you have the potential to win the Art Ross Trophy every fucking year if you actually decide to start caring about this game. Instead, you do the bare minimum to get by, which, lucky for you and your career, still makes you pretty fucking good. You have the talent and ability to captain this team, yet you have the emotional maturity of the arena's janitor. You're a fuckup by most standards, yet you'll continue to get your pay and bonuses because you have more talent in your pinky than most players have in their entire body. I guess what I don't understand is...how do you look at yourself in the mirror every day knowing that you're wasting your life?"
I know where the coach is coming from. I get it...his little speech is supposed to be a slap-down plus a build-up. He knows I don't respond well to ass-kissing and lofty praise, but rather I respond to the challenge of proving myself. Unfortunately, his words tonight are absolutely wasted lung capacity on me, because I've heard this speech a dozen times already from my dad.
"I look in the mirror same way you do, Coach...every day to shave or brush my teeth. I'm comfortable with the guy staring back at me."
Pretore snorts at my response and although he's pissed at me, I also know that answer amuses him somewhat, because he too is a smart-ass by nature.
"Yeah, well, you may be comfortable with that reflection but the suits upstairs aren't. They're mandating an immediate cleanup of your attitude."